Opperman looked down and gave a hearty laugh. “Yes, Inspector, the Price Control Commissioner such a nice man, he tell so many amusing things. He tell me you are his very good friend.”
Opperman suddenly looked up, and the two men exchanged a quick glance.
“We could talk of so many things,” said Opperman. “Shall we talk, shall we keep quiet? Eh, Inspector, shall we keep quiet?”
The inspector looked at his watch and whistled softly: “Oh! I’ve a lot to do, Opperman. But now … as for that poor fool Ivar Berghammer, you know well enough that I personally don’t wish to harm anyone … !”
“Oh,” said Opperman, rubbing his hands in ardent encouragement: “It pay you well, Hansen! People say: That man Hansen, he has good warm heart, he means well by everybody.”
“I haven’t promised anything yet,” said the inspector. “I can’t promise anything.”
Opperman totally ignored the remark. “And we always get round Bergthor,” he said with a smile. “We just give him little support for National Youth Association.”
The two men shook hands once more and exchanged a few indifferent remarks about this and that without quite looking each other in the eye.
But now there was another knock on the door. It was the old headmaster, Verlandsen. He was bare-headed and his eyes were flashing eagerly behind his thick lenses: “Aye, that was quite a to-do with Ivar last night, eh … ? What are you going to do about it, Joab Hansen?”
The inspector glanced at his watch and murmured something about assault and bodily harm.
Verlandsen bared his huge brown teeth amidst his white beard. “Are you going to have him punished, Joab? Well, I suppose it doesn’t concern me, really, but … you’ve both been my pupils, haven’t you, and I know Ivar well. He’s a good lad at heart; it’s that confounded drink that’s responsible for all this. And then all these dangerous trips through the war zone. And I know you, too, Joab, and know that you …”
“Aye, yes, I had quite a mauling myself,” said the inspector. “But of course, far be it from me to want personal revenge. Though what I can officially condone is quite another matter.”
Verlandsen inclined his huge ram’s head: “Ivar went too far and acted like an ass – that’s quite clear. I’m not defending his actions, Joab Hansen. But if he’s punished now, it will be a disgrace not only to him but to the rest of us, too, and most of all to his old father and his sisters. He’s Elias’s only son. And just look how he’s managed to get the whole family on its feet, Joab. They’re doing well up there at Angelica Cottage now; they’re well off, thanks to that brave lad. Aren’t I right, Joab? Just think back on how poor they used to be, even suffering hardship at times, and yet it wasn’t their fault, for they’ve always been hard workers. And if all that’s going to be ruined just because …”
A sarcastic smile flickered on the policeman’s lips as he chewed on the idea. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Joab Hansen,” said the old teacher earnestly, touching the neckline of Joab Hansen’s waistcoat with his index finger. “Consider what’s at risk. And remember that you yourself are a prosperous man with no financial worries, for your business is doing well, and that’s a good and happy thing. But think of those people up at Angelica Cottage and take pity on them, Joab, if there is any way you can.”
“Yes, all right, all right, Mr. Verlandsen,” said the policeman, shuffling a little. “It’s very nice of you to plead for him. But that shop you’re talking about isn’t mine, it’s my sister Masa’s. No, but I don’t want to harm anybody, of course I don’t, and you know that as well as I do. But I can’t promise anything definite. However, since you’re so concerned with the matter, you could see about getting hold of Bergthor Ørnberg yourself and getting him to agree. I’m sure he’s got a great respect for you. Do that, and you’ll be doing a good deed.”
Verlandsen grasped the inspector’s hand and shook it violently. The old man was moved, he swallowed hard as he left, nodding, but without opening his mouth. The inspector was inclined to feel a certain emotion himself. “I certainly don’t want to harm anybody,” he murmured to himself, and he fingered the bump on his forehead.
Mr. Verlandsen immediately hurried across to Solomon Olsen’s office to find young Ørnberg. Bergthor was another of his former pupils. He had always been a stubborn lad, quite a difficult character, but he was sure he would be able to persuade him. In any case, there was no time to be lost. Mr. Verlandsen looked at his watch as he turned the corner near Masa Hansen’s shop. He failed to notice a new grey car driving fast down the main road, and was almost run down. He had to grab the bumper on the car as it braked hard, and was carried a few yards along the road. He dropped his glasses in the process. The car stopped, and a tall man jumped out and embraced him. Without his glasses, the old teacher could not see who it was, but by his voice and the fact that he spoke Danish, he could hear it must be Erik Tarnowius.
“Oh, it’s all right, it doesn’t matter,” said Verlandsen. “No damage done. No, of course it wasn’t your fault, it was me, clumsy old fool that I am. I wasn’t looking where I was going, for I’ll never get used to all this modern traffic.”
The Consul had meanwhile found Verlandsen’s glasses. They were undamaged. He forced the old man into his car and drove him to his destination on the other side of the inlet, once more shaking the old teacher’s hand with a thousand and one apologies. Then he settled back at the steering wheel with a sigh of relief.
“Good Lord, that could have been an absolutely dreadful accident,” he thought. “It would have been far, far worse than the other thing. Properly speaking, the other thing could hardly be called an accident.”
But it was not exactly anything to rejoice over, either. Never mind, perhaps matters were going to sort themselves out now. He was the son of a factory owner, according to Captain Gilgud.
The Consul drove to the edge of the road down by the water, where he stopped for a moment while he lit a cigar. He opened the window and let the fresh breeze from the bay blow in.
Ah yes, it looked very much as though some arrangement could be made, thanks to that incomparable Captain Gilgud. It could be arranged. It could be arranged. He had made up his mind. He would keep his wife in the dark, at least until everything was cut and dried. And as for Borghild herself, there should be no great problem now she had been worn down. He would talk to her in private. It would be all right.
The Consul reached out for the starter, but changed his mind and lapsed into reflection again for a moment. He needed a little time to gain his breath.
He had not yet recovered from the shock he received when Maria, in despair, confided to him that their sixteen-year-old daughter had got herself pregnant, and that she didn’t even know who the seducer was. It looked hopeless at first. An absolutely dreadful scandal. But once the first sense of paralysis had passed he had taken the bull by the horns; he had gone to his good friend, Captain Gilgud, and had confided in him. It was first and foremost a matter of getting the father identified. Tarnowius had cherished a last secret hope that the young man might after all be found and perhaps even turn out to be a suitable match. Merely to get the girl married would in any case be an enormous relief.
It had been a humiliating task. But Gilgud, that incomparable man, had naturally shown the greatest understanding and revealed himself to be a true friend. But unfortunately, the thorough and discreet enquiries he had instigated had not led to any result. Borghild had been unable to give any information about her seducer other than that he was a young soldier whom she had been together with only on one single occasion and not seen since, and that his name was Charles. That was a slender basis indeed for identification. There were naturally dozens of young soldiers with this quite everyday name, and to have the girl confronted with them all so that she could point out the right one, would be an embarrassing and in all probability fruitless way of going about things. The right Charles might have left, or he could simply deny any knowledge of the matter
; or even if he confessed, he might turn out to be married already; or perhaps he was a scoundrel who would only bring misfortune to the girl if she were to marry him.
But then, as though by a miracle, Gilgud had found a young man from the Medical Corps who was willing to marry the girl. He was only a private soldier, but not simply any Tom, Dick or Harry, for the young man was the son of a factory owner, and the Captain knew him personally and could give his word of honour that he was highly respectable in every way.
It also carried some weight that the young man boasted the almost unbelievably magnificent name of Charles Gordon.
So there was, properly speaking, no risk entailed. At the very worst the couple could have a divorce later if it should turn out not to work. Moreover, this Gordon was due to leave soon, and heaven alone knew whether they would ever see him again.
Such was the state of affairs after the confidential discussion Consul Tarnowius had had that morning with Captain Gilgud. “It’s as exciting as in a film,” Gilgud had remarked as they left each other, and there was indeed something in that. It was merely a pity that it was a film in which Tarnowius was playing a leading role. But thank God for that miracle-man Gilgud! Tarnowius would go home now and take his daughter out for a spin and let her know what he had decided.
Charles Gordon was not the son of a factory-owner, but of a modest nurseryman who occasionally also produced a little marmalade. All that about a factory-owner was something that Captain Gilgud had made up for some reason or other. But it was not actually the Captain who had suggested to him that he should marry the seduced girl; it was his own idea, and he had had a good deal of trouble persuading the Captain that he meant what he said.
Afterwards, he had also had some difficulty in explaining to himself how it had happened. He knew nothing of this girl except that the Captain had, in all discretion, shown him her photograph. There were no ulterior motives, for Gilgud had told him nothing of the girl’s family background. Neither was it because he was too soft, as the Captain seemed to believe. A kind of desire for adventure? But you could have erotic adventures in different and better ways than by accepting the paternity of other people’s children.
No, the fact is that despite your twenty-four years you have never yet dared to approach a girl in the usual way, he acknowledged cynically, as he bounced along beside Captain Gilgud in the little army car. Besides, you’ve never had time, he went on. You’ve been too busy with your piano playing and your music. And you’ve had neither the time nor the courage as a soldier, either. You’ve always preferred to play the piano for that music fiend Gilgud, or to listen to gramophone records and discuss music with Harrington and Horace Young, the two musicians. So this is just a caprice, an adventure, perhaps happiness, perhaps a witches’ sabbath. Capriccio, he could hear Harrington’s eager voice ringing in his ears. Presto. Capriccio furioso. And suddenly he could not help laughing. He saw, too, that Captain Gilgud was fighting with the help of his cigar to suppress a smile. They turned away from each other until it was past, and the Captain said: “It’s a serious matter, Gordon. It is fate.”
The car stopped in front of a big new house of gritty cement, quite a little mansion, built in a sort of home-spun Moorish style, pale pink in colour like a baby’s bottom, with a balcony overlooking the water and a veranda or bathing jetty, or whatever it was supposed to be. And there was a garden full of sweet-smelling autumn flowers in well-tended beds among flagged paths. A large, well-trained alsatian approached them warily. Charles Gordon felt a little uncomfortable, but at the same time as though transported to some Eastern adventure. There was a throbbing in his temples as he followed the Captain up the broad flight of steps laid with imitation marble tiles. The Califf was off on an adventure.
Borghild Tarnowius, standing on a stool, was keeping an apprehensive eye on him from the little Gothic bathroom window. No, it was definitely not him, but of course she knew that beforehand. The real Charles was an entirely different type. This man was dark and slim, almost delicate. He looked so distinguished, far more distinguished than that thick-set, rubicund Captain Gilgud.
The other Charles was nowhere near as cultivated, he looked more like a curly-haired boy scout. It was Rebecca, the maid, who had brought them together. She had had one of his mates, a red-haired lad. They had all four been out in the fields and lain there smoking cigarettes, and she had seen how Rebecca had surrendered herself to her boy, and she had followed suit; it had all happened so quickly because she was afraid of being late home. Afterwards, Rebecca had grumbled at her and told her she was a fool for not taking more care. Since then she hadn’t seen anything of Charles, but Rebecca had discovered that he had been sent to Italy, and that in any case he was married and had two children. So that was the end of that. Since then Borghild had secretly met other soldiers and been out in the fields with them, too, but she had been more careful and not given herself to them as she had to Charles. That was something she had regretted once it turned out that things had gone wrong first time after all.
Borghild jumped down from the stool; she felt a little bewildered; she could hardly understand anything of what was going on. She went downstairs and tidied her hair in front of the mirror. Good heavens above, how strange everything had turned out. So now she was to be sold. She felt delicious waves of excitement coursing through her body, and was on the verge of tears, but she kept a grip on herself. Rather be sold than put under the control of the principal of the Christian Fellowship and be forced to listen to the hypocritical admonishments issuing from her and her parents.
Charles Gordon had been introduced to Consul Tarnowius and, to his own surprise, heard himself reel off a solemn apology. The words came as of their own accord and arranged themselves in an exquisite posy: he profoundly regretted the lapse of which he was guilty; it was inconsiderate and unforgivable, but he would never so much as think of fleeing from his responsibilities. And so on and so forth. The Consul had been confused, but at the same time actually moved, and Captain Gilgud had stood in amazement, until he had suddenly bounced up and said in a stern voice: “What is all this nonsense, Gordon? Are you out of your mind?”
Charles fell into a confused silence and looked down like a repentant sinner. He had a tingling feeling of unreality … it was like standing masked on a stage, acting the part of someone else, only suddenly to hear your own real name bawled at you from the auditorium.
“I thought we should let the young people have the opportunity to talk to each other in private,” the Consul said to the Captain. “And then my wife will be along shortly.”
He took Gordon by the arm and led him into the adjoining room. “Just wait here a moment,” he said. “My daughter will be coming.”
Charles felt taken aback at suddenly finding himself left on his own. The tension was almost intolerable. He heard the Consul opening bottles of lemonade in the next room. He cast an anguished look around the big room. It was full of valuable old-fashioned furniture, and no expense had been spared. A huge ebony grand piano was standing in the corner. He was overcome by the urge to sit down and play something or other, some turbulent piece like Chopin’s Study Opus 25 No 10 in B flat minor. But now his wife-to-be appeared from between the door curtains. Good heavens, how young she was. She was very much on edge and glanced around excitedly, but without looking him in the eye. Her hair was chestnut, and she wore a dress that looked almost as though it were made of lilac-grey mother-of-pearl. She was biting her lower lip and breathing nervously through trembling nostrils. Suddenly, her lower jaw dropped, and she gasped for breath.
Charles felt totally at her mercy. He was not in command of the situation, he was trembling and felt a nervous toothache in his back teeth. … That confounded old shyness when confronted with a woman overwhelmed him in tempestuous waves of remorse and blushes of shame; he couldn’t go through with this idiotic comedy, he felt completely worn out. Like a disconsolate schoolboy realising he is about to fail an examination, he moved as in a trance and held out
a hand to the young woman.
“I well understand you are angry,” he managed to stammer. “I beg your forgiveness.”
Borghild shook hands with him helplessly, still without looking at him. He felt the warmth of her body and smelt the scent of her hair, and suddenly she looked up at him with her dark blue eyes and awoke an immense desire in him. He wanted to embrace her, but she took him aside, led him to a shaded corner of the room, and there took both his hands and looked into his eyes. Her mouth was open; she shook her head in silent wonderment while she tightly clasped his hands.
9
Frederik stood smoking outside Joab Hansen’s house while he waited for Ivar to return. Ivar was in the office for questioning, or whatever it was. Bergthor Ørnberg was in there, too, and so were Marselius and a couple of other men. Frederik was very concerned to know what they would do with Ivar. Now Marselius came out on the steps, red-faced and fumbling meditatively with his goatee beard. Before long Bergthor’s smooth bespectacled face appeared; he swept back his sleeve, looked at his wrist watch, and hurried off.
At last Ivar came. He stopped half way down the steps and lit a cigarette, flicking the match away with a sullen gesture and slowly inhaling the smoke. He looked worn out and unconcerned.
“Well?” asked Frederik.
Ivar took his time.
“I got a fine,” he said. “And then they wanted me to apologise and promise to behave better in future. But that I refused. Bergthor hadn’t lost any teeth as far as I could see. But I offered to pay him 500 kroner for pain and suffering, and they went along with that. Marselius wanted 1000 kroner, but Hansen got him down to 200. He said that the whole of Marselius’s set-up was illegal in any case, and then Marselius replied that so were a lot of other things. And the inspector shut up at that.”
The Black Cauldron Page 7
