The Quiet Girl - Peter Hoeg

by Peter Høeg

The man's tone changed to something Kasper remembered from the marketplace, a tone that preceded steer trading.

  Kasper rose, with difficulty. On the desk in front of the professor lay a blue folder. He drummed on it.

  "There is free exchange of information among institutions of higher learning," said the professor.

  The folder was from the police department; Kasper recognized the cover from Asta Borello's office.

  "That's nice," said Kasper.

  "We could do business. You worked with Danish Technical University. In the eighties. At the Institute for Mathematical Acoustics. As a consultant, it says. In connection with planning and renovating large concert halls. They evaluated you. Here it says you could perceive variations in three- to thirty-five-thousand-hertz frequency fields. One-hundredth-of-a-decibel changes in the sound pressure level. That's quite unusual, if it's true. It says that they can't understand it. That they constructed one-hundredth models. Put you in them. And you were able to tell them immediately what was needed. Whether they should pour sine profiles into the concrete. Or some damn thing. Is that true?"

  The post-traumatic shock from the van's entrance into the office was about to wear off the man's system. That attested to his robustness. Kasper felt a touch of respect for the entourage Kain had assembled. "They were dreaming," he said. "And it was in my early youth."

  "They write that you say physical sound is only a door. Behind it is another sound. A world of sounds. Is that true? Could you tell me a little about it? Maybe I might know something about the children in return. And about the staretza too."

  Now Kasper heard the other man's misfortune. The theoretician's longing to rescind his separation from reality.

  "You got the folder from Moerk," said Kasper. "You've bet on two horses. Or on three. You've worked for Kain. And had your time at the Institute. And kept Department H informed."

  The other man's tone began to get thinner.

  "You wanted to try to avoid anything happening to the children," said Kasper. "But you also wanted to be near the money. And to Kain's reason for getting the children. While at the same time, you wanted to look out for yourself. You tried to bet on all the horses. The entire track at once."

  Along the back wall of the room were showcases containing optical instruments, possibly from the time the building had functioned as an observatory. And the world had been simpler. Perhaps.

  "We humans," said Kasper. "We bet on too many horses. That way one never fully comes up into the light. But on the other hand, never fully down into the dark either. We stay right here. Where it's just clear enough to be able to fumble our way forward."

  He hoisted himself into the van.

  "It's the reptile brain," said the professor, "that contains acoustic memory. They say reptiles can also recognize the sound of prey. That is a primitive function in the deepest sense."

  "You went along to see if I was for sale. To see if you would strike anything firm. When the instruments were thrust in deeply."

  "Everyone can be bought. That's the ultimate reality."

  Behind the anger Kasper heard the despair.

  "I think you were the one," said Kasper. "Who killed the little girl. I checked with Immigration. You were in Nepal at that time."

  The man leaped up like a jack-in-the-box, flailing his arms and legs.

  "It was Ernst. Josef's bodyguard. I had no idea that was going to happen. I was miles away when it occurred."

  Then the professor sank back down into the chair.

  Kasper listened. The other man had possibly told the truth.

  "I tried to explain something to them," he said. "At the university. We orient ourselves in measurable aural space because of the subtle time difference between when the right and left ear perceive the sound. But in the larger context, a little information has disappeared. The actual sound is perceived by both ears at the same time. By the mind, so to speak. And it doesn't get lost. It exists outside time and space. And it's free. You don't have to buy it. All you have to do is prick up your ears."

  The man on the other side of the desk suddenly appeared much older. As if he had aged in five minutes. His hair looked white.

  "I'm afraid," he said, "that Kain will fly the children out of the country."

  12

  They were out on the Ring Road.

  On the seat beside Kasper, Franz Fieber sniffled. It is important, even while making large arm movements, to remember to show consideration for what is close at hand. Bach also did that. In the midst of constructing his cosmic tonal cathedral he had shown concern for each individual brick. A preoccupation with always making everything sound good. Gentleness with Maria Barbara, with Anna Magdalena, with the children, one could hear that. Kasper laid a reassuring hand on the young man's shoulder.

  "In a few minutes," he said, "both children will be sitting between us.

  He stroked the trembling muscles; his hand left a sticky trail of blood. They passed Roskilde Road, Glostrup, the first fields. Kasper pointed; the van turned left down a dirt road just before the go-cart track. The road became steep, and then stopped. They parked on an artificial embankment across from the water purification plant. Below the plant lay the courtyard and stables, utterly quiet, with only a single floodlight on.

  "You can't go down there. They're waiting for you."

  Kasper crawled out of the van.

  "I'm flowing with Tao."

  "How can you know that?"

  The yellow eyes had given up on him.

  "I can hear it. It's the sound of a gentle fair wind."

  13

  Between the field and the road there was a thick hedge of poplars; between the poplars and the yard a vehicle was parked. Kasper got down on all fours.

  The car was half a tone too high. Half a tone is not much, but to a person with absolute hearing it is annoying. Throughout the seventies Kasper had wondered about Richter's recording of The Well-Tempered Clavier, it had been half a tone too high. At first Kasper had thought it must be the record, or the master tape; there must have been a faulty transposition. Later, Richter's recording of Prokofiev's sonatas had trickled through the Iron Curtain; they also had been half a tone too high. So Kasper had realized there was a reason behind it.

  When a car has contents, people or baggage, the number of natural vibrations rises, or it feels like that. Kasper crawled sideways, and got the car between him and the floodlight; in it sat two men.

  The explanation came first in the nineties, after the only long interview with Richter was published. Toward the end of the interview the great pianist said that age, in addition to the other damage it had wrought, had lowered his keynote perception almost half a tone.

  Then Kasper had understood. Richter had tuned the grand piano up to compensate.

  That had deeply moved him. Not that age corrodes a person's hearing; age corrodes everything--think only of Beethoven. But that a man can possess such great willfulness that he raises all classical music half a tone in order to accommodate his own system.

  He remained on all fours until he was around the corner. He let himself in by the little door on the south side of the courtyard. Stood up, wanted to run; it was impossible. Hunched over, moving with difficulty, he went around behind the corral and the riding house. In the stable only Roselil heard him. He stroked the horse soothingly, leaving blood on the horse's coat; then he felt around in the hay. The violin and his papers were gone.

  He made it through the courtyard in the shadow of the wall, tried the door to the office; it was not locked.

  The room looked the same, but its tone was too resonant. He felt along the shelf under the desk; the three-legged stand was gone, as well as the Bunsen burner and the nightstick.

  The shelves looked just as always. In the faint light he spelled his way along the ring binders to K; he took the volume from the shelf and opened it. It was empty.

  He put the binder back in its place, tried the door to the private office. It was unlocked, and he went in. The
room was too quiet. He opened the door of the refrigerator; it was turned off. The door of the freezer; it was defrosted.

  He went back to the outer office. Sat down in the desk chair. Lifted the telephone receiver. It was still connected.

  He dialed Sonja's number; she answered immediately. He lifted the turban of tea towels and napkins on his head. He could hear she was lying down. The voice becomes deeper when the anti-gravity muscles don't press against the lungs and decrease the spatial tone. A man was lying beside her; Kasper could sense his breathing.

  "The trailer space," he said, "at Daffy's. How did you find it for me?"

  "I got a special offer. As far as I recall. An insert. In the Scandinavian issue of Circus Zeitung."

  "Your office gets thirty special offers a day. You don't even look at them. Why this one?"

  She was quiet at first.

  "It was addressed to me," she said. "It was half price. I should have wondered about those two things."

  He paused, tried to collect himself.

  "Have I done anything wrong?" she asked. "Have I hurt you somehow?"

  "A guardian angel," he said, "can only do good."

  "Is there anybody with you? You shouldn't be alone."

  "I have company," he said. "SheAlmighty's piano tuners. I'm about to be taken down a half tone."

  He hung up.

  * * *

  He approached the trailer cautiously, and stood listening; there was nothing to hear. He felt around for the little piece of cardboard, which was still just the way he had left it. Then he walked in.

  He didn't dare turn on the light. He sat down for a moment in the easy chair. The lighting on the grounds streamed in through the windows.

  He could have had a castle, like Grock's in Oneglia. He could have owned a housing complex outside Paris, like Rivel. He could have had a nine-thousand-square-foot penthouse overlooking Kongens Nytorv Square, like the place Oleg Popov had in Moscow overlooking MKhAT, Chekhov's old theater. Instead, for twenty years he'd had only this trailer. Two hundred square feet plus a small entry, minus the space taken up by the prop cabinet, the costume closet, the piano, and the bookshelves.

  He looked at the sheet music. The little potbellied stove. The washbasin. The electric kettle. The firewood. The hot plates. The small stainless-steel refrigerator, condenser-cooled without a compressor; he had never been able to stand the sound of compressors. He looked at the toilet. The Fazioli. He looked over at the sofa.

  The winter after they met each other, Stina had sometimes been waiting for him when he returned from the performance. Often, but not always. And never planned. It had been difficult or impossible to make an appointment with her. She could lay out a work schedule and an on-duty plan six months in advance. But when it came to planning to meet in the evening, she couldn't make up her mind about it the same afternoon. He'd never been able to understand that.

  He'd arrived at midnight. It had snowed. He saw her tracks lead ing to the trailer.

  He was supposed to leave the country, but never had. That winter changed his relationship to the seasons. Before, he had wished that Denmark would be closed and evacuated five months of the year, from November to March. For ten years he had not accepted any winter contracts farther north than Cannes. Her footprints in the snow changed everything. The outer seasons became irrelevant.

  Smoke was coming from the chimney. Her down jacket and boots filled the entire entry; she didn't want to get cold. Since the beginning of November she had been dressed for Nanga Parbat.

  The windows were white with steam; she had cooked food. She had a lifetime contract with the physical world. All she had to work with were two hot plates and an iron ring on the potbellied stove. Nevertheless, she had made something straight out of Leisemeer's vegetarian cookbook.

  She sat on the sofa, across from where he now sat. Wearing ski socks. With her legs drawn up under her. With her papers, or her computer. Or with empty hands.

  He stood just inside the door.

  Femininity does not have a specific sound. Nor a specific musical key. Nor a specific color. Femininity is a process. The moment a dominant seventh chord rings out in the subdominant major key, one hears femininity.

  Until then he had lived in dissonance. Now his trailer was no longer a trailer. No longer a woodshed on wheels. It was a home.

  Her presence brought out colors he had never seen before. It rounded sharp corners; it created surfaces that hadn't been there. It altered the contents of his books. Of his sheet music. Bach would have sounded different without women. Obviously, he would not have sounded at all. And the only thing she had done was be there.

  Now the space around him was hard. Square. Dead. He knew he was seeing it for the last time. He noticed how his thoughts roamed around in his body, like a caged beast unable to find a way out.

  He opened the door to the driver's cabin and slid behind the wheel. They were searching for the van now. But not for the trailer. It was seized but not sought by the police. While the police stormed Konon he could visit Maximillian one last time. And then turn himself in. Get medical treatment. Start the repatriation process with the police. His mind could go no further.

  He turned the ignition key. Nothing happened.

  "They had a mechanic with them," said Daffy.

  He was wearing the camel-hair coat; it appeared to be woven from rock wool that had smothered all sounds, which was why Kasper hadn't heard him.

  Something was placed in his lap; it was the violin case. On top of it was the envelope with his papers, birth certificate, Spanish passport, insurance policies. The Swiss bank account, his temporary health-insurance card.

  He opened the case and ran his hand along the instrument's curves--his right hand; he couldn't move the left one.

  Guarneri and Stradivari had something in common. They had always incorporated a small variation. Like a type of research. In the midst of the bankruptcies. In the midst of the turmoil of the Spanish War of Succession. Never an exact replica. Never monotony. The small, continual experiment. To see if one could create just a minimal improvement.

  "My last season during the court hearings," said Daffy, "was at the Retz in Hamburg. There was a young clown. He had a forty-five-minute appearance. At that time Carl was the only clown in Europe whose solo act could hold people's attention for more than twenty minutes. This clown hadn't even opened his violin case after twenty minutes. Some nights we had to get the firemen into the ring. To prevent the audience from devouring him. There could be eighteen hundred people at the Retz. After I was convicted and left, they kept him on for three months. I said to myself: In ten years he will have his own circus. In twenty years he will have an empire. That was twenty years ago. And you owe me six months' rent."

  Now Kasper remembered. A dark-haired man in a tuxedo. Boras's heir. Just as Daffy must remember a much younger clown. He placed the ignition key on the dashboard in front of the watchman.

  "This trailer here. Have it towed away tonight. You'll get seven hundred thousand for it. At Classic Vintages in Helsingør." Daffy did not touch the key.

  "I looked in the private office. The refrigerator is turned off and defrosted."

  "I'm about to leave on vacation."

  Kasper opened the door. They got out. The night was quiet. Daffy held a set of car keys in his hand; they were keys to the company pickup.

  "I'll drive you to the hospital."

  One could hear the southern highway. Traffic noise is strange. It isn't stopped by sound barriers, just lifted. And comes down somewhere else. Like fallout from a chemical disaster.

  "I was maneuvered here," said Kasper. "To this place. You sent a message. To Sonja at Circus Blaff. Who arranges things for me. A year ago. So we're involved in something far-reaching."

  The other man did not say anything. Kasper scanned the surroundings. Everything was half a tone too dead. There should have been the call of a heron from down in the wetlands. Around eighty decibels, a deep glottal sound like a kettledrum.
And a night owl hooting in the gardens near Glostrup. Instead, everything was quiet.

  "There's a Renault parked in front of those poplars, with two men inside," he said.

  The circus is a piece of the Middle Ages that has survived on the fringes of the modern world. Artists are outdated, like foxes that have adapted themselves to the city and garbage cans. But not simply as lonely wanderers, also as a brotherhood, a brotherhood of half-wild animals. Outside the system of grants and awards. Outside ARTE cultural subsidies. Outside Customs and Tax Administration control. With very few rules, one of which is: You always support one another in life's hide-and-seek with the public authorities.

  Daffy rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  Kasper put out his hand.

  Daffy handed him the car keys. Walked with him to the gate. Opened it.

  * * *

  They were waiting for Kasper; he didn't hear them. Even if he had, it would not have helped.

  They got out of a car that was parked fifty yards farther ahead; it was the two monks. A door opened behind him also, outside the yard. He had the wire fence behind him and Snow White's hawthorn hedge on the other side of the road. And he was having a hard time holding himself upright. He walked over to the monks and got into the car.

  14

  The open area in front of the police station was blocked off all the way down to the Aria administration building. A gate had been set up facing Bernstorff Street; one of the monks put an ID card in the front window, and the gate went up.

  They passed military vehicles, civil-defense trailer trucks, ambulances. The monks parked on the sidewalk near the driving-test examiners' red barracks. They took Kasper under his arms and half led, half carried him. Across the street, through a door that faced the harbor, into an elevator.

  The elevator opened to a narrow corridor; the first thing he heard was music. It was faint, came from a distance away, yet was very clear. It was a Bach cantata, BWV 106, sung by the Copenhagen Police Women's Chorus. He remembered the recording; on that CD the soloist was the patroness of the chorus, Police Chief Hanne Bech Hansen. Kasper recognized her lovely soprano voice, which had almost no vibrato.