“But what on earth was it, Johan?”
Father took her aside and whispered something in her ear.
Mother stood with her eyes closed and looked as though she had turned to stone.
Then no more happened, and everything seemed to be as before except that the organ grinder no longer emerged from his room. Father let one of the assistants in the shop take his food down to him.
Shortly after this, the organ grinder left on board the Christina, which was carrying a cargo of fish to Spain. Now he looked quite different from when he came, dressed as he was in a decent jersey and wearing a seaman’s cap with a shiny peak, but the strangest thing of all was that not only was the black eye patch gone, but his hump had also quite disappeared. He had the little monkey in a shawl in his arm. In the vestibule he quickly kissed Mother’s and Aunt Nanna’s sleeves. When he had gone, Mother sat for a long time hiding her face in her hands.
It was a curious event that reminded you of all those strange things that happen in fairy tales or dreams, and you were not much the wiser from the explanation you got from Aunt Nanna.
“Your father didn’t like him. Couldn’t stand him.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Because he was a poor feckless idiot.”
“What’s a feckless idiot?”
Aunt Nanna doesn’t answer that, but just puffs you in the face.
“And because your father’s a tyrant.”
“Tyrant? What’s a tyrant?”
She doesn’t answer that either, but simply stands there flushed and with anger in her eyes and with her mouth twisted as though in disgust.
Grey, Windy Winter’s Day with no Sun or Shade.
An ordinary day. A day late in time.
Here, from the tower when I, Amaldus the Ageing Reminiscer, am now sitting (well, tower is perhaps saying too much, for we are talking of a sorely modest cabin where, in addition to myself as I write, there is only room for a table and a chair and a little fireplace and, under the table, a folded parachute) – from the window up here in my elevated nook I can sit and look out across the tiny smoke-veiled town in the midst of the ocean, where three quarters of a century ago I saw the light of day and the darkness of night for the first time and had my first timorous thoughts about life and death – thoughts that have perhaps since taken on a more clearly definable shape, but which are no less helpless for that…
Here I sit, staring far out into the distance, out into the Land of Youth, gone and for ever vanished, a place to which I no longer belong, and which I secretly envy you who still have a free rein down there; especially I envy you your wonderful regenerative ability!
Down there, where the beginning began and the continuation still continues, night and day still pursue their customary course, everyday reality still reigns, life is lived, those great things that are worth experiencing are still experienced, those landmark first things that ever make life constantly new.
From this long cri de coeur it might be understood that the town of which we are talking is not a voluntary refuge, but a prison, the miserable cell of age and corruption at the End of the World. Aye, here I sit abandoned in my lofty prison on the edge of the great abyss – listening to the threatening roar from the depths and trying to take the situation with good grace, although God (who still hovers like a cloud above the waters) knows that it is not always easy and that it would be quite unbearable if I couldn’t cheat a bit.
So look, I will take my good parachute out now and open the window, and then I will float slowly and full of delicious expectations down to the vanished but imperishable places where my heart is at home.
Hannibal
Then it was that one day I fell among thieves and got to know Hannibal…
On the little stretch of sand below the warehouses at the mouth of the river running through the town, where you had gone to sail your two toy boats, the Christina and the Sea Serpent, a lot of empty packing cases had been piled one on top of the other so they looked like a tower. There was a little peephole in one of them, and up there an observant face appeared, then other suspicious faces with watchful eyes, and suddenly a bunch of wild savages issues from this peculiar tower, and before you can manage to get away you are grabbed and put into a narrow, dark cell. Here you lie wriggling and doing your best to resist and kick down the sides of the packing case while plaintively shouting, “Give me my ships back.” But your complaints meet only with silence. Then a voice is heard:
“You’re a prisoner. If you don’t shut up, you’ll be shot.”
“Give me my ships.”
“We’re going to burn them.”
Then you do the silliest thing possible – you start to cry. You sob aloud and cry out while furiously stamping on the floor and battering the sides.
Then a gap opens in the top and you get a glimpse of hands and grinning faces, and one of your ships is lowered down to you. It’s the Christina with the white sails. But before you can grab it, it’s pulled up again, and this is repeated time after time to the accompaniment of suppressed laughter.
Then the laughter suddenly stops, and a pistol appears in the hole above.
“Beg for mercy.”
“Let me out.”
“Beg for mercy, or else you’ll be shot.”
“I want out.”
“Beg for mercy. I’ll count to three. One!”
“Let me out.”
“Beg for mercy. Two!”
“No, don’t.”
“Three!”
Then the pistol is fired and you get a sharp jet of water straight in your face. It hits your nose and mouth and makes you sneeze and splutter.”
“Now will you beg for mercy?”
Well, you beg for mercy, for you are no hero.
So you’ve begged for mercy and you are let out of the cell and you are sitting on the floor of a rather bigger and lighter packing-case cell, wet and embarrassed and furious, but quite broken.
“You could have begged for mercy straight away, Amaldus, and then you wouldn’t have been shot.”
The voice is that of a redheaded boy whom you know to be called Hannibal and who is the son of the widow Anna Diana, the woman who has been married to Howler Hans. He is a couple of years older than you and is very big for his age. He is wearing a dark green waistcoat over his jersey and there is a watch chain with a compass suspended between the two pockets of his waistcoat, while a dagger hangs at his belt in a shining wooden sheath.
“And here are your rotten ships. Now go home and tell tales, you weakling.”
This was your first encounter with Hannibal.
You stayed where you were, embittered and humiliated, with five or six robbers’ eyes staring at your feeble person. You stayed there without taking your ships and going off.
You asked for mercy, you were humiliated, but you stayed where you were, for you didn’t want to be a weakling.
Embarrassed silence. Hannibal still sits there with one of your ships on his knees; it’s the Sea Serpent. He sits stroking the lovely ship with the gilt prow.
“You’re a queer fish, Amaldus. Who made these ships for you? Your father?”
“Ole Morske.”
Silence. Murmuring. “Ole Morske.”
“Like a cigarette, Amaldus?”
“No.”
He lights a cigarette for himself and sits there blowing smoke rings.
“Have you really had your ships out sailing in salt water?”
“No, only up in the river.”
Hannibal suddenly gets up.
“Come with me, Amaldus.”
And to the others, who show signs of preparing to come with us, “No, ’cos Amaldus and I are going alone. Aren’t we, Amaldus? I want to talk to you about something.”
He turns round and beckons to one of the boys: “You can come, Karl-Erik.”
We go out along the shore to the little bay called The Bight, Hannibal and I each carrying a ship in our arms. And we set the ships sailing out here in the calm
waters in the cove. There is no wind; there they lie rocking, reflected in the water; the afternoon sun blazes down on the white sails of the Christina and the rust-coloured ones of the Sea Serpent. Hannibal and I sit there for a while looking at each other in silence while Karl-Erik keeps an eye on the ships. Hannibal’s face is covered with freckles except for a spot on one cheek, where there is a white scar. He has a front tooth missing. His eyes are small and pale.
“Are you still mad with us, Amaldus?”
“Me? No.”
“Did you think I was going to steal your ships?”
“Yes.”
“Aye. I think the others were going to. But then I forbade them. ’Cos I’m the chieftain.”
Hannibal tosses his head a little and adopts a stern look. He’s the chieftain and all the others must obey him.
“Were you terribly frightened when you were going to be shot? Did you think it was a real pistol?”
“Yes.”
Hannibal takes the pistol out.
“It’s a jolly nice pistol, isn’t it? Everyone’s frightened of it even though it only shoots water. And you can put salt or vinegar in the water, and then it burns.”
He whistles through his fingers: “Hey, Karl-Erik. Go and fill the pistol.”
Hannibal hands me the filled pistol. “Look, press it there.”
The big iron-grey pistol looks quite formidable, but when you hold it in your hand and feel the rubber, it is nothing but a fake after all. Hannibal takes it back and shoots a lovely long jet of water up in the air.
“Hey, Amaldus. What would you say to letting me have one of your ships and you having this? Is that a bargain? Yes or no?”
“No.”
Hannibal looks as though this was the answer he had been expecting. But then he takes the dagger out of its fine sheath and sits and makes it shine in the sun.
“But what do you say to having this in exchange? It’s a good dagger. It’s very sharp. You can cut a cockerel’s head off with it. And you could stab someone to death with it. So what do you say, Amaldus? Yes or no?”
“No.”
“Well, it’d be daft of you to say yes, Amaldus, but then I was only asking you to test you – to find out whether you’re stupid or clever. But see here.”
Hannibal takes a pocket watch out of his waistcoat pocket. It is set in a yellow, worn horn case. He opens the case and lets the big, shiny pocket watch dangle from the chain.
“This is an expensive watch. It’s an heirloom. So what do you say now, Amaldus? Yes or no?”
“You can have the Sea Serpent for nothing if you want.”
“For nothing?”
“Yes, for nothing.”
“Well, just you think carefully, Amaldus. I’ll count to fifty while you think.”
Hannibal turns away so as not to disturb me while I think.”
“Well? Do you still say that?”
“Yes.”
Hannibal does a finger whistle. “Come over here, Karl-Erik, I want you to be a witness.”
Now the promise has to be repeated while Karl-Erik listens to it.
“Go down and fetch the ships,” commands Hannibal.
He nudges me: “Karl-Erik’s my servant, my hajduk. He’s a nice little chap, but it’s a pity for him ’cos he’s going to die soon.”
“Why?”
“’Cos he’s got consumption. All his brothers and sisters have died of consumption, all of them except his youngest sister, but she’s ill and she’s going to die as well soon.”
Karl-Erik comes with the ships, and Hannibal puts the Sea Serpent on his knee and strokes it with delight.
“That was wise of you, Amaldus. ’Cos you wouldn’t have got that expensive watch in any case, you know. But I’ll still give you something in exchange. I’ve made my mind up on that. I know what. It’s something you’ll like. You will. But it’s got to be seen in a certain way. It’s only good when you see it in a certain way. If you come down here tomorrow and the weather’s good, you’ll be able to see it.”
“See what?”
“I’m not going to tell you now. But you’ll like it a lot, Amaldus, I know you will. See, shake hands to be sure I’m not going to cheat you. And Karl-Erik, you’re a witness.
Hannibal gives me a firm handshake to ensure that I won’t be cheated.
“And now we’re friends, Amaldus. We are friends, aren’t we? Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
Hannibal looks intently at me. Then he sits down for a moment and strokes the Sea Serpent and looks as though he was going to say something but doesn’t quite dare.
“You’re not the least bit mad at me now, Amaldus, are you?”
“No.”
“Look, Amaldus, shall I tell you something you don’t know?” “Yes?”
“Then I can tell you that you’re almost my brother. At least you’re my cousin. You didn’t know that, did you?”
“No.”
“Well, let me explain. Do you want me to explain it to you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, my mother’s your grandfather’s daughter, the grandfather that had the same name as you. So now you know, Amaldus. So your mother and my mother are sisters, see? So they’re both equally good, aren’t they? Aren’t they Amaldus? Yes or no.”
“I suppose so.”
Hannibal sits rocking the Sea Serpent on his knees. He holds the ship up towards the sun so that the light shines through the red sails.
“Are you mad at me, Amaldus? Yes, you are. I can see it in you.”
“Me? No.”
“No, but you’re not very happy either. But in any case it doesn’t matter, ’cos you’ll be happy when you get my present. I’ll guarantee that.”
***
The following day we met again at the Bight; there was a bright autumn sunshine and a cold wind.
“Come on. Now you’re going to see it.”
“See what?”
“Get a move on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Up to Our Lady’s Hill.”
We hurry away. Up on Our Lady’s Hill there is a crowd of boys, all looking up at the sky.
“Can you see it now, Amaldus?”
“Yes, a kite. Is it yours?”
“Yes, but it’s yours now. I’ve made it myself. You can see it’s not any old kite, ’cos it’s all gold. Can you see it’s gold all over its head, Amaldus? And can you see its eyes?”
Yes, you can see that its head shines all gold and has big white eyes with black dots in them and red tufts for its ears.
It was a clear and sunny, but perishing cold day in October with frost and a north wind, but it was one of those days you don’t forget. The big paper kite stood out sparkling against the pale sky, with its long tail slowly flapping like a fish swimming free in the water and waggling its tail. (There are really few sights on earth that can compete in gracefulness with the sight of the excited but elegant and leisurely movements of a kite’s tail.)
Hannibal passed to you the reel to which the string was fastened.
“Just feel how it pulls!”
Indeed it pulled. It was just like having a huge fish on a hook.
There we spent all that long afternoon enjoying the kite dancing high up in the low, cold sunshine and never tiring of playing and doing all kinds of celestial hops, skips and jumps. With us down on earth, dusk gradually fell, but up there where the kite was, it was still day for a long time.
Only when the dusk became more intense and the stars began to shine did Hannibal reel in the line holding the kite, slowly, for there was no hurry, and the kite didn’t like it; it pitched and tossed and grew ever more unreasonable as it came closer to the ground, and when finally it lay on the grass like a pile of tinsel and newspaper through which the wind was whistling, everything became so strangely sad. No one said anything. Hannibal wrapped the long paper tail around the head of the kite and fixed the reel to the crossbeam, and then there was only a deep and lonely evening with stars and No
rthern Lights and a cold that made your teeth chatter.
Hannibal handed the folded kite to me.
“Well, aren’t you pleased with this fine present, Amaldus?”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, I think you should say thank you.”
The Skull
Hannibal isn’t one you can play around with. Either you are his friend, in which case everything is fine, or else you are his enemy, in which case Heaven help you. But if you want to be his friend, you have to have a cut made in your finger and mix your blood with his.
“Will you? Well, it does hurt a bit. But say whether you will or not. Well? Yes or no?”
“Yes, but not today.”
Hannibal puts on a chieftain’s look.
“It’s got to be today or never.”
“Well, then I don’t want to.”
“Oh, so you’re scared? Oh well. So was I at your age. But then I pulled myself together, ’cos I didn’t want to be a coward any longer.”
So we mix our blood after all.
It all takes place in the cellar beneath the “Chapterhouse”, one of the dilapidated old warehouses near the Square. This is where Hannibal has his “robbers’ den”. This is where, well hidden in a wooden box and wrapped in hessian, he has his maroon, a large and tightly packed and tarred package, out of which projects the end of a fuse. With this maroon he could blow the entire warehouse up if he wanted, indeed even set fire to the whole town. But he doesn’t want to. At least not yet.
The mixing of blood doesn’t hurt as much as might be expected. Hannibal’s dagger is big and sharp, but it only makes a quite small cut in the soft flesh at the tip of the little finger, and then a drop of blood comes out, and that’s enough. It is wiped off with the blade of the knife and flicked down into a chipped saucer and mixed in salt water together with a much bigger drop of Hannibal’s blood.
“Now you’ve got to say the Our Father backwards.”
“Well, I’m not going to.”
“Yes, come on.”
“No, I won’t.”
Hannibal smiles and reveals his funny teeth with one front tooth missing and another black.
The Tower at the Edge of the World Page 5
