by Peter Høeg
She carried the flowers to his car, laid them, carefully on the seat beside him. Her fingers caressed the back of his neck.
"You've been alone for a long time," she said.
He didn't answer. There was nothing to say.
"I don't know the Map and Land Registry office," she said. "But I'm sure the peonies will be a good beginning. Maybe you should wait awhile before telling her where you got them."
* * *
The Map and Land Registry was on Rentemester Road. On the ground floor, a middle-aged woman was selling maps behind thecounter; if she had been a dog there would have been a sign saying, PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.
He placed the flowers in front of the woman. The bouquet was as big as a tuba.
"It's her birthday," he whispered. "I want so much to surprise her."
She melted, and he got past her. That's how one can measure spiritual progress. The guardians of the threshold become more and more cooperative.
The building had four additional stories, and on each floor there were between ten and twenty offices plus laboratories; he peeredinto all of them. On the top floor was a cafeteria with a roof terrace, where large seagulls waited for a chance to clear the tables. The terrace had a view out to sea, over to Sweden.
She sat alone at a table. He laid the flowers in front of her and sat down. For a while neither of them said anything.
"The first meeting," he said, "is risky. What do we hear--is it anything but what we hope to hear? On the other hand, we have no history together. We haven't put up our guard. Anyway, here are some flowers. Maybe you can put them in water at home. Without hurting the man in the diving boat."
She looked out over the roofs. Over the elevated railway, Harald Street, out over the sea.
"It was a colleague," she said. "A woman."
He stood up. If there was one thing Bach could do, it was leave at a high point.
"You can stay a little longer," she said. "I've just started my lunch break."
6
Someone had said something, the memories thinned out, and then they were gone. Franz Fieber's eyes hung on Kasper's lips; Kasper wasn't certain what he had said and what he had only remembered. "They're dead," said Franz Fieber. "We'll never find them."
"Who is the other child?"
"Bastian. He and KlaraMaria disappeared at the same time. From the school yard. In the middle of the day. They went in a car."
"Where are the police in all of this?"
"They've got many officers on the case. All of us were questioned. At the Lyngby police station. And downtown."
"Where downtown?"
"On Blegdam Road. At the jail."
Kasper's temples were throbbing. He had to telephone his father. It's unfortunate. To be forty-two. And the only way out is still to call your father.
* * *
Maximillian answered the phone immediately. His voice was almost
gone.
"If two children have been kidnapped," said Kasper, "and the police are questioning people at the Blegdam Road jail, what's going on?"
"Is the person being questioned a potential suspect?"
Kasper looked over at Franz Fieber.
"No," he said.
"Then they've activated VISAR. The international profiling register for serious criminals. It's administered by the Danish police force. In collaboration with external criminologists, behaviorial psychologists, and court psychiatrists. They have a large advisory panel. Vivian sits on it. She's sitting beside me. She's studying my dying process. I'll call you back in a minute."
He hung up.
* * *
A clip attached to the dashboard held receipts and address slips. Kasper leafed through them, to no effect. Another clip held a thinner bundle; it was consignment notes. Leisemeer had his own imports of wine and delicacies; some notes were for the following week. Kasper found what he was looking for at the bottom of the pile. It was an order from Konon for an Italian lunch on the following Wednesday. The order was attached to a brochure printed on handmade paper. The kind one would give to guests on the Concorde or at the Ritz with a warm welcome and a description of the flight plan and an assurance in four languages that this is simply to comply with the law because we will never die, at least not in this place and at this ticket
price.
The brochure showed a cross section of Konon's buildings, plus a ground plan. He put on his glasses. Everything was labeled: stairs, emergency exit, library and archives, meeting rooms, administrative offices, two cafeterias, four restrooms on each floor, technical buildings, company boathouse and jetty. Someone had also added directions, in red India ink, about how the Italian lunch should be served.
The telephone rang.
"You know about the children," said Vivian. "That hasn't been made public. Perhaps to protect them. Perhaps to conceal the investigation. The one child, the girl, it must have been she who drew the map?"
She was silent for a moment.
"I was asked to sit on the advisory panel," she said. "But I declined. Usually we get all the information the police have, but in this case it was on a need-to-know basis. Far too little information. I said no. But one of my girlfriends is in on it. A child cardiologist. One of the children had surgery. I've telephoned my friend. The police are trying to link the two children with four or six others. Who have disappeared other places in the world. Boys and girls. Seven to fourteen years old. Two from a Buddhist convent school in Nepal. One in Thailand. A Senegalese girl from a Catholic girls' school in France. No reported connection among the children. Now comes the bad news. One child has been found. She was strangled. No sign of sexual molestation. But tortured. The second joint of the fingers on her left hand had been cut off. While she was alive."
They were both quiet for a moment. Maximillian took the phone. "You wouldn't believe it. But I still have a friend or two. I asked them to take a look at Kain. I've got a report on him. He's about the same age as you. We don't know anything about his childhood. He first comes to light in the navy. Merchant marine, seamen's school, coxswain candidate, navigation school, and shipmaster. After that, he gets a shipping trade certificate and passes the military shipmaster exam. Then joins IMO, the International Maritime Organization. And studies economics. Youngest flag skipper ever in the Royal Danish Navigation and Hydrography Administration. Leaves the government. Suspected of smuggling. He's been able to draw on his knowledge of international radar and report systems. Wanted since '95 for illegal shipping operations outside international security regulations. Probably involved in illegal financial activities too. Hasn't been seen, identified, or photographed since '95. He's thought to be living in England. And to be carrying on illegal trade through a front organization in Denmark."
"What might the name of that organization be?"
"Konon."
Kasper closed his eyes.
"The occult," he said. "If it has ever existed. In the circus. Who would know that?"
"The genuine article doesn't exist."
Kasper didn't say anything.
"Have you tried the Amusement Museum archives in Frederiksberg? Barley's collection? Boomhoff 's circus agency?"
"The woman," said Kasper. "Who you and Mother talked about. Something to do with birds."
Maximillian was silent. Somewhere in the silence there was anxiety.
"Feodora," he said. "Jensen. The world's greatest bird act. The world's greatest circus collection. The world's greatest memory. But in the first place, she won't talk with you. And in the second place, it's a blind alley."
Kasper didn't say anything.
"The Artists Association apartments," said Maximillian, "in Christianshavn."
"Christianshavn has been evacuated."
"On a voluntary basis. She's no longer able to leave her home. She's there. If she's alive."
Vivian was back on the line.
"Lona Bohrfeldt," said Kasper. "Where was she employed? What organization did she work with?"
"It's
a long time ago. As far as I recall it was a collaboration. Between the university's Panum Institute for Social Medicine and the Mind Institute."
Kasper heard a motorboat going through the Stokke Channel. He heard reflections from the thousand IV sets around him. If all the screens around us are hard and unfeeling and powerfully reflect sound, the strength of the sound is essentially independent of distance. So the unmerciful world presses in on us at full volume.
"I've sat on the VISAR panel," said Vivian. "Perhaps twenty times. I know the crime folks. From both the Intelligence Service and Department A. They are level-headed people. But not this time. They're afraid. Big, tall police folks. So whatever you do, be careful."
She hung up. He sat there looking at the receiver. Then he took out his lottery ticket. He turned it over. On the back was Lona Bohrfeldt's home address.
* * *
They passed Charlottenlund Fort; beyond the public swimming pool they turned inland and drove past Deer Park toward the cliffs behind Raadvad.
The distances between houses became greater, and then the houses ended. To the right, the valley stretched toward the Sound; to the left were the sharply rising hills. Kasper had rolled down the window. He gave a sign; they stopped and got out.
All they could see was a tall wire fence. Behind it, nearly two hundred feet of lawn leading right up to the steep hill, no house.
There were large bushes on the lawn. One of them covered a double carport, where the little Mercedes was parked. Next to a black Jeep that was as big as a tractor. The motor's cooling system was still running; perhaps that was what he had heard.
They leaned their heads back. The window was right in the hill, fifty feet above them. It was shaped like an ellipse, with about twenty feet between the focal points. The house must have been dug into the hill. The windowpane had a faint bluish glow. Like a huge eye. They found a tall narrow gate in the fence. On the gatepost were a sunken doorbell and a scarcely visible intercom box. Kasper pressed the doorbell.
In the beginning of Either/Or Kierkegaard writes that his favorite sense is hearing. He could permit himself to write that because intercoms had not yet been invented in the 1800s. He should have been here this evening. The loudspeaker gurgled like a stuffed turkey.
"It's me," said Kasper. "The situation has gotten worse. Since the last time. Now there are two children. They still haven't been found. There's also been a murder."
"I don't want to talk with you," she said.
Franz Fieber had opened his toolbox. He found a panel on the gatepost and opened it.
"Closed circuit," he said softly. "If I cut it the alarm will go off. Keep talking. I need to find the control box."
"From the time I was a boy," Kasper said into the intercom, "ever since I was born, I knew I had come to the wrong place. Right family, but wrong planet. So I started to search. For a way out. A wayhome. A door. I've spent my life looking for it. I haven't found it. But the little girl. Maybe she's standing in the doorway."
The intercom was silent. But he knew she was listening. Franz Fieber had pulled himself up the fence by his arms; he rolled over the top and fell onto the other side. He landed on his arms and the stumps of his legs, as softly as a cat. He crawled over the ground like an inchworm. Brushed aside a camelia bush. Behind the bush was a metal box. He signaled to Kasper.
"I'm measuring the impedance," he whispered. "If you put a conductor with the wrong impedance, the alarm will go off. Let the golden gift of gab flow."
"I haven't had children," said Kasper. "Have never been present at a birth. But I think that door must be open at a birth. Just like when a person dies. For a moment, the door is open. And you can hear what'sbehind it. That's why you've made birthing your profession."
"Go home," said the intercom.
Franz Fieber rose inside the gate. His hands came through the bars. Punched the code pad. The gate opened.
"Something in you is like me," Kasper said into the microphone. "You're searching. You've been searching near a door."
"I want to be rich," said the intercom.
"Of course," he said. "We all do. Bach too."
Franz Fieber hobbled across the lawn on his crutches. At the foot of the hill you could see the elevator entrance, a rectangle of stainless steel.
"Very rich," said the intercom.
"That's true of all humans," said Kasper. "Look at Verdi. The Scrooge McDuck of classical music."
"It's too late," said the voice.
"It's never too late. And I know what I'm talking about. Everything has been too late for me. Several times."
Franz Fieber gave him a thumbs-up from the elevator.
"We subscribe to a security guard service," said the woman. "I'm going to call them now."
The connection went dead.
* * *
The elevator was cylindrical; it shot up like New Year's fireworks. "I could be approved by the Danish Insurance Association," said Franz Fieber. "They license security electricians. I do all the electrical work on the Jaguar myself. To stay in shape."
The elevator door opened. They stood in the midst of men's overcoats and women's furs. It was the first time Kasper had been in an elevator that opened directly into the entry, in the middle of the floor, like a sentry box.
He opened a double door and they found themselves in the living
room.
The room was elliptical, like the window, with a double curvature similar to a ship's hull. The floorboards were twenty inches wide. Whatever furniture Kasper had time to identify was Eames.
Lona Bohrfeldt sat on the sofa. In the middle of the room stood the owner of the Jeep; he looked like his vehicle, shiny black hair, traction on all four wheels, and not expecting anything to get in his way. Both he and the woman were in shock.
The man threw off his surprise and headed toward them. "We're very sensitive," he said. "We're expecting a child."
"Are you sure you're the father?" said Kasper.
The shock returned. But just for a moment. The man grabbed Kasper's shirt.
Many people have an incorrect image of clowns. They think that because a clown has a child's sweetness he also has a child's physique. Kasper hit him with the underside of his elbow, from below and upward. The man was unprepared for the blow; it pressed through his abdominal muscles and reached the lower tip of his lungs. He fell to his knees.
Kasper set an Eames stool behind the man. In the kitchen he found a basin, and filled a glass with water from the tap. Wrung out a tea towel. Franz Fieber was leaning against the wall.
Kasper placed the basin in front of the man. He handed the glass and tea towel to Franz Fieber. Sat down across from the woman. She had taken to wearing dark eyeliner since the last time he had seen her.
On closer inspection, it wasn't eyeliner. It was twenty-four, or more likely forty-eight, hours without sleep.
"What is it about the premature babies?" he asked.
"It's that some survive," she said.
Kasper moved his chair. So she could not see the man on the stool. It was part of the circus ring routine. From the standpoint of sound, married couples act like buffalo; with their rear ends toward each other they present a united front against a wicked world. If they are going to do their best for an audience, one must separate the love partners.
"It has always fascinated doctors and midwives," she said. "In the past, when one treated newborns more summarily, it regularly happened that premature babies who were declared dead and taken from the mother came to life and screamed. They wanted to live. And to be loved."
"So you went looking. For someone who might know where those babies come from. Why some come into the world with such a strong will to live."
She nodded.
"And so you contacted the Institute. You contacted the Blue Lady."
"They suggested that I follow twelve children. At that time they were between six months and four years old. Of various nationalities. But they came together at the Institute once a year.
I was to analyze their births. All the obstetrical details. Also facts that are otherwise never reported. The relationship between the father and mother. People present at the birth. Even the weather. And then I was to monitor their general health."
The sorrow around her grew denser. A mother close to giving birth should not have sounded like that; it bordered on resignation. "You sold the information to Kain," said Kasper. "He financed you. He must have financed the clinic."
She leaned forward as far as she could, given her stomach, and hid her face. The man on the floor leaned over the stool and threw up in the basin.
Kasper rose and walked over to the window. The view was unique. Not like Denmark. Mountainlike. You looked down the whole stretch of coastline, from Vedbæk to Amager.
There was a telescope by the window, an astronomical telescope, very powerful; he put his eye to the ocular and the field of vision vibrated nervously. In focus was a polished blue emerald in a black setting. It was a lighted swimming pool; it must be Taarbæk Sanatorium, a combination of private hospital and spa that had been built while he was out of the country. He had heard of it, but never seen it.
He turned the telescope. Found Konon's tower. There was light in the two top floors.
He took out the map that had been attached to the consignment note. The light was in the administrative offices.
"You were supposed to examine the children," he said. "During the past few days. That's what they were going to use you for. They were going to use a doctor."
"Two," she said. "Professor Frank and me."
"From the Mind Institute?"
She nodded.
Kasper looked over at Franz Fieber.
"Øster Void Street," he said. "Next to the botanical garden. In the buildings that were once the Copenhagen Observatory."
Kasper turned the telescope. Found Rosenborg Castle. The Copenhagen Observatory was the city's highest point, right next to the castle. He found the observatory tower. Focused sharply. Around and outside the tower, glass offices had been built, like greenhouses.
"Where did you examine them?"
"I'll lose everything," she said.
Her face was white, almost fluorescent.
