The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel

by Jussi Adler-Olsen

  In these final moments of life he felt for the first time that he had never really meant anything to anyone. And thus he lay, consumed by sorrow and loneliness, as the blinding headlight beams appeared over the ridge and descended toward him with alarming speed.

  At that moment, a dog began to bark at the bottom of the hill.

  Marco was in no doubt: it was Zola’s hound.

  Instinctively he opened his eyes, realizing at once, as the headlights lit up the night, that the figure had reacted to the barking and turned toward the sound.

  As though by reflex he sprang to his feet as the truck and its driver, whose attention was on the mobile phone at his ear, bore down on him without noticing his presence.

  He leaped for his life with an eruption of sudden strength. The edge of the front bumper grazed his back, the blast wave sending him flying into the ditch.

  Pain seared through his body, and yet as he lay half submerged in drainage water with his lungs wheezing and the adrenaline pumping, his abdomen cramped up with suppressed laughter. Maybe in a minute or two the dog would pick up his scent, the hunt thereby coming to an end. But right now the moment was his.

  He had crossed the road in one piece.

  And as he skulked through the landscape like a fox, his head down and his body bent, he continued to laugh as the shouts behind him grew fainter and fainter.

  —

  The door of the woodshed on the outer edge of the yard was fastened only by a stick through the hasp. It was an open invitation, a gift in the cold, black night that warned of approaching winter.

  Marco looked up at the house, his teeth chattering. The windows were dark and only the wind made a sound. He sighed with relief. He would bed down here for the night, and in the smell of cat piss, woodchips, and pine resin he settled with his legs drawn up to his chest and a pair of old sacks covering his feet and lower body. Now it was just a matter of waiting until morning and then hoping the family inside the house had errands to run during the course of the day.

  Even before the sun rose he was woken by laughter and voices from within. People at ease, seeking each other’s company. So different from the harsh commands to which he had become accustomed in his life. He felt the sorrow and yearning of the night return to him. For a moment it was superseded by hatred and anger, though he couldn’t say toward whom it was directed. Was the family here at fault for loving each other? And could he be certain that his father, or even Zola, had not at some point loved him?

  How will I ever know? he wondered, again feeling overcome by solitude. What use were such thoughts, anyway?

  He dried his eyes. He promised himself that one day he would make a family of his own and he would be certain what they felt for him.

  With this solace he waited four more hours until the family drove away. Perhaps to do the weekend’s shopping or to take the children to some leisure activity. The kind of thing of which he had only ever dreamed.

  He crept up to the house and made sure no one was inside before picking up a stone that seemed heavy enough.

  It took only a single blow against the pane of the back door and he was inside, a comforting landscape of material wealth of the kind all Danes took completely for granted. He stood for a while, taking in the blending of smells he’d had to do without for so long. The sweet variety of scents of the bathroom, a mother’s perfume, yesterday’s cooking, and the sharp aromas of new purchases. Furniture, wood, cleaning agents.

  He had watched the father, mother, daughter, and son through a gap in the boards of the shed as they got into the car. An aura of security surrounded them that made them appear loving and kind. For that reason, perhaps, he stole only what he needed: clothes and food.

  As well as a book that lay on the living-room table.

  He found the garbage can to the right of the shed, lifted the uppermost bags of rubbish and tossed his ruined pajamas and underclothes onto the pile underneath, ridding himself of all that might remind him of his past.

  An old bike in the outhouse tempted him sorely, and yet he hesitated. More than ever, he knew he had to keep away from public places: main roads, bus stations, railways—anywhere that might provide a swift escape route from those who would be looking for him. It was in such places they would search for him first, and for that reason he left the bike behind.

  He stole away wearing a thick sweater and shoes that were a size too big, with the book placed in the waistband of his trousers and pockets bulging with cured meat and bread.

  During the next four days small towns and villages appeared on his way with names he’d never hear of, like Strø, Lystrup, and Bastrup, potential pantries on his zigzag passage escape along hedgerows and woods toward Copenhagen. And when his supplies from the break-in ran out, the rubbish bins became his best friends. Only seldom was the abundance of household rubbish in these outlying areas lacking, and Marco wasn’t too choosy to turn his nose up at leftover food and stale bread. At least not at the moment.

  His timing was good and he reached Rådhuspladsen late enough in the day not to risk running into Zola’s troops on their way home with the day’s haul.

  Before him lay the city’s familiar streets and getaway routes, but this territory also belonged to others besides himself. An unguarded moment, the briefest lapse in concentration, and they would be upon him if he should dare to venture forth. And that would be the end.

  From the building site of the House of Industry he craned his neck to peer over the fencing toward the ongoing metro extension and beyond to the Palace Hotel and the offices of the Politiken newspaper. Construction projects wherever he looked. Roads dug up, stacks of portable huts, mountains of concrete rubble, and truckloads of building materials, steel and concrete modules in every direction.

  It was pandemonium.

  Marco found his new life in the Østerbro district. The reasons were several.

  On this cold November day he stood amid the roar of traffic on Østerbro’s Trianglen, a hub that bound together the city’s various neighborhoods. It was a place he had never been before. He looked down at himself and at the throngs of people going by, and he wondered where he was going to sleep at night and how he would find food. For who would help a filthy kid who wasn’t one of their own?

  The busy crowds were a temptation for Marco. An invitation almost. He was hungry, he had no money and no idea what to do when the night came. He looked around as thoughts reflexively crowded his mind regardless of his reluctance to acknowledge them. For the women’s bags were slung so casually over their shoulders at the bus stops, and the men so carelessly placed their briefcases on the ground at their feet while they paid for their things at the kiosk.

  Here he could earn enough to keep him happy a whole day in just half an hour, simply by stealing from people, that much was plain to him. But was that what he wanted? And even if it wasn’t, would he be able to say no if he wished to survive?

  He thought for a second about sitting down on the pavement by the telephone kiosk, holding out his hand, and begging. And then a snowflake settled on the back of his hand. First one, then another. Within a moment, people turned their faces skyward as the snow began to fall, spattering the facades of the buildings. Some smiled, others pulled up their collars, and when the air became a swirl of white the women clutched their bags and the men lifted their briefcases from the ground. The weather was against him.

  If he sat down to beg now he would soon be even wetter and colder, and if he huddled beneath the meager shelter of the kiosk roof he knew he would quickly be shooed away. He was more acquainted with the psychology of begging than almost anyone, and a beggar at too close quarters was unwelcome. Besides, people were now heading off in all directions, winter having arrived without warning, their clothing suddenly inappropriate, Marco’s included.

  What now?

  He surveyed the new scene. Buses with sweeping wipers, cyclists dismou
nting to step through the slush onto the pavements. Flagstones now slippery, once-empty windows now teeming with life as people settled in the cafés to enjoy hot, steamy beverages. But Marco remained standing outside.

  It was no good.

  He pressed his freezing lips together and picked out his target coming toward him from Blegdamsvej. He could tell she was going to veer off any minute to wait at the pedestrian crossing, for he had seen how her eyes appeared to be fixed on the 7-Eleven on the other side of Østerbrogade.

  A schoolteacher, he reckoned. There was that kind of authority about her, as though she were used to maintaining discipline. Her bulging, well-worn shoulder bag was half-open. It wasn’t the cheapest of bags, but certainly no flashy accessory either, bought to be used and to last. Marco’s hands had been inside so many like it. He knew the wallet nearly always lay outermost. If there was a pocket, it would be there.

  He walked past the buses to the crossing and waited.

  It took only a second from her coming to a halt until he found the fold into which the wallet had been placed. He stood motionless until she stepped out onto the crossing. His hand slipped out as she moved away. She might feel a slight bump against her hip as the bag fell back into place, but her attention would be elsewhere.

  Marco remained standing with a strange feeling inside him, the wallet now concealed up his sleeve. Usually his eyes would be darting to make sure he had not been seen by pedestrians coming from behind, and he would be away from the scene in an instant.

  But this time, shame immobilized him.

  Zola had warned them all against such emotion: “You realize, of course, that no one expects anything but the worst of us. The Roma will forever be branded untrustworthy. So feel no shame. It’s the ones you’re stealing from who ought to feel shame for their distrust. Their loss is our compensation and reward.”

  It was pure rubbish, for the feeling was there regardless. Zola had never worked the streets himself, so he knew nothing about it.

  Marco shook his head. He saw the woman inside the 7-Eleven now, already with the items in her hand that she wanted to buy. In a moment she would be at the counter.

  This was the first time he had ever really seen the vulnerability in one of his victims. Normally he would have been far away by now and the possessions he had stolen already passed on to one of the other clan members. The victim would be out of sight and mind, and Marco would already be targeting the next.

  Was there anything in the wallet, the wallet he now felt burning his skin, that the woman would be truly sorry to lose? Did it contain anything but money and credit cards? He didn’t want to know, nor did he want to be tormented by this feeling of shame. As of this moment, the days of Zola ruling Marco and his life were over.

  He brushed the wet snow from his face and hurried over the crossing when the signal again turned to green. To anyone else, this would have seemed easy enough, yet for Marco these were the longest twenty-five meters of his life.

  The woman was already rummaging through her bag in a panic by the time he reached the glass door. The assistant behind the counter was trying to appear patient, but it was obvious he felt she was wasting her time.

  Marco took a deep breath, hardly aware of what he was doing as the door slid open and he went inside.

  “Excuse me,” he said, reaching the wallet toward her. “Were you the one who dropped this outside?”

  The woman stiffened, her facial expression blurring like a strip of film caught in the projector, melting. Worry turned to dark suspicion, then to the kind of relief a person might feel when an object hurtling toward them misses by a centimeter. It was strange, watching her reactions. Marco braced himself, unsure what to expect.

  If her movements were too fast he would drop the wallet and leg it. He had no desire to feel the tight grip of her hand on his wrist.

  Marco watched her intently as she finally thanked him and reached to take the wallet.

  He bowed almost imperceptibly and turned quickly toward the door, already on his way.

  “Stop!” The woman’s voice cut through the air. It seemed obvious to Marco that her life had been defined by issuing commands.

  He glanced warily over his shoulder as the doorway was blocked by two incoming customers. Why did he have to go and hand back the wallet? They had seen through him, of course they had. Anyone could tell what sort of an urchin he was.

  “Here, take this,” the woman said. Her voice was so soft now that everyone heard it. “Not many people would be as honest as you.”

  He turned slowly to face her, staring at the hand extended in front of him. In it was a one-hundred-kroner note.

  Marco reached out and accepted it.

  Half an hour later he tried the trick with the wallet again, this time without success, as the woman he had picked out became so upset by her carelessness and loss that she clutched at her breast, unable to staunch the shock wave of sobbing that Marco had precipitated.

  So he withdrew without his reward, but with the resolve that this had been the very last time.

  The hundred kroner would simply have to last.

  6

  Early 2007 to late 2010

  Marco received the shock of his life the day Zola gathered the flock and without warning revealed that from now on they would no longer live as Gypsies and had never belonged to that tribe, anyway.

  It was the day Marco reached the age of eleven, and at that moment his respect for Zola ceased.

  He expected his uncle to explain what he meant, but Zola merely gave a wry smile when he saw how the children reacted. Then he told them of the nights he had lain with a raging fever, his mind suddenly becoming clear, his thoughts collecting to focus on whole new pathways in life.

  Marco turned and stared at the grown-ups who stood in a ring behind the children. They looked so odd with sheepish smiles creasing their otherwise stern faces, as though at once both glad and apprehensive. It was obvious something momentous was in the offing.

  “I have awoken from my delusions,” Zola went on, this being the way he spoke to them when they were gathered. They were used to it.

  “As from today, you are blessed with a spiritual leader, a man who not only serves to unite the family in common endeavors, but who will also steer you on toward new and greater goals. Do you know what I mean, children?”

  Most shook their heads, but Marco sat quite still, absorbed by the intensity of the man’s piercing gaze.

  “No, I am sure you do not. But though we have lived as Gypsies for many years, Roma we are not. Now you know.” His words were as simple as that.

  Marco frowned as his window on the world disintegrated. It was as though all life had suddenly been sucked out of him.

  “And even though we feel tied together by the flesh as a family, this is not the case for all of us. But fear not, for we are all of us brought together by God.”

  Everyone sat as though hypnotized, but not Marco. He stared at the ground and tried to focus his gaze on a blade of grass. Zola said they were not all family. What then?

  Zola spread his arms as though to embrace them all. “Yesterday it came to me that Almighty God created one singular day on which nothing whatsoever occurred in the world. A day when everything stood still. Yes, yesterday I read about this one unique day on which no plane fell from the sky, no wars raged, no event of significance found its way to the front page of any newspaper. On this day, not one notable personage died or was born. The wheels of history ceased to turn, if only for a day, for God desired that this day should be the purest, least eventful day on earth. And it was surely on a day such as this that the Lord Jesus was born.” He nodded pensively. “And why did God create such a day? I shall tell you. He did so to perfectly frame one, single momentous event that took place on exactly the day in question.” He closed his eyes tight. “And do you know what day that was, children?”

&n
bsp; Once more, the majority shook their heads, even many of the adults could not refrain.

  “The day was April 11, 1954, the least eventful day of our time. And several of us present here know why he chose that very day, and why the silence of sudden peace in the world descended in veneration of one special occurrence that was to outshine all others. And now I shall reveal to you all what it was.” His face lit up in a smile wide enough to expose his gums. It had been a long time since he had smiled so much.

  “The reason God did so was because this was the day on which I was born.”

  Nearly all the adults broke into applause, but most of the children merely stared blankly at Zola as though having failed to truly grasp the momentous nature of that fantastic day. Marco was among them.

  For he believed it to be a lie.

  Zola lifted his head and gestured for them all to be quiet. And then he told them of how as a young man in Little Rock he had fled the draft that would have sent him to the war in Vietnam, and of how later in Italy he saw the flowers of peace and love bloom among like-minded peers in the Damanhur movement.

  The garb of the hippies became his uniform and during those first months he became enthralled by northern Italy, soon joining up with the other flower children who would become his family. And on one particularly enchanting night when the stars were out in their multitudes they vowed to establish their own community on the plains of Umbria, where they would live together like the Roma in solidarity with the fate and circumstances of that martyred people.

  There were many difficult words, but Marco understood what they meant. The grown-ups had lied to him and the other children. They were not Roma at all, and from that moment, being Marco would be so much harder, no matter what Zola said. It was like having your skin removed and replaced by another.

  Marco looked around at the other children. They were silent and motionless. He didn’t like it at all.