His phone vibrated in his pocket just as Jeppe took his first step down Bredgade. He glanced at the display, took cover under a hotel awning, and took the call, surprised.
“Werner, what the heck? I thought you were happily buried in a diaper pail. Isn’t that what happens when you have a baby?”
She pretended to laugh.
“You’ll have to ask someone else,” she answered. “I’m so tired I can’t tell the difference between the diaper pail and Svend.” Some lip smacking and grunting could be heard over the phone. “She’s nursing right now. I’m nothing more than a freaking milk dispenser these days.”
“Well, that sounds kind of nice.”
“Yeah, I guess so. Are you in the middle of something?”
Jeppe looked at his watch. It was quarter past eight. The museum had closed ages ago, but Clausen’s researcher friend, Monica Kirkskov, was working late and had promised to stay and wait for him. She had an exhibit anyway that she needed to finish.
“It’s fine. Is something wrong?” he asked. It got quiet on the other end of the line. “Hello, Anette, is everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” She cleared her throat. “I’m a little bored. That’s all.”
“Uh, okay. How about turning on the TV or doing a crossword puzzle?”
“The body in the fountain,” she said, perking up. “Tell me about it!”
“Are you joking?” Jeppe laughed. “You’re on maternity leave! Read the newspaper if you want an update. Take care of… your daughter. When are you going to name her anyway?”
“We just want to get to know her first,” Anette said, and then moaned. “Ah, she’s biting. So tell me! Who was the woman in the fountain? What did she die from?”
“Why would you want to know that?”
“Come on!” Her tone grew serious. “Come on, Jeppe!”
“Anette Werner, I’m never going to figure you out, am I?” Jeppe started walking down the sidewalk, shielding his phone from the rain with his free hand. “The victim’s name is Bettina Holte. She was a health-care aide. The killer cut her arteries in several locations on the body and then let her bleed out.”
“Ooh, sadistic! Are there any suspects?”
“No, not yet. And now I have to go talk to a grown-up, so you’re going to have to focus on breastfeeding!”
“Bettina Holte, you say?”
“Tell Svend I say hello, would you? Talk to you soon!”
Jeppe hung up and picked up the pace. Down the street from the golden onion domes of the Alexander Nevsky Church and next to a bus stop, he could just make out the unassuming sand-colored facade that housed the Medical Museion. Neoclassical columns by the door were the only flashy aspect of an otherwise simple, almost humble front. Jeppe walked up the six steps to the front door, located the doorbell, and was buzzed in right away.
Inside it was dark and deserted between the cool, marbled walls. To the left and right white-painted stairs disappeared up into the darkness, and straight ahead, wide stone steps led up to a large foyer. Jeppe hesitantly walked up the stone steps. His footsteps sounded small in the massive silence that seemed as unwavering as the walls and columns surrounding it. In the middle of the foyer he checked his phone. His mother had called again. Twice. The light from his phone flashed in a glass cabinet next to him. He went closer and shone the light into it. Yellowish skin, dead mouths with the tongues out, empty eye sockets.
Jeppe gasped and took a step back. What was he looking at?
He shone the light from his phone around the room. He was surrounded by glass cabinets full of dead human fetuses. Mutated baby bodies with two heads and their bellies open, floating in formalin, the heads pressed against the glass, as if trying to reach out to him.
“Have you seen the mermaid?”
Jeppe jumped. The voice had come from somewhere in the dark behind the display cases. He shone his light that way and saw a figure approaching in the reflection in the glossy marble.
“She’s my favorite, the pearl of our teratology collection.”
The figure came over to stand beside Jeppe, took his hand, and guided his cell phone up so the light pointed at a smaller display case in the corner. Inside the glass there was a fetus whose lower body tapered down to a point instead of legs.
“Teratology is the study of congenital abnormalities. The museum’s collection of fetuses and children with malformations and birth defects is one of the best in the world.”
The woman’s voice was soft and so were the fingers holding Jeppe’s hand.
“Uh, could we turn on a light?” Jeppe pulled his hand away. He could tell from her voice that she was moving away from him, and then a bright light filled the foyer.
“Don’t worry, most people are afraid of the children.”
The woman walked back to him. She was wearing a white shirt and wore her dark brown hair down, the kind of lustrous hair that seemed to glow all on its own. Her legs were long and she had a slight gap between her front teeth. She was, Jeppe thought, one of those rare people who was so beautiful that she made everyone else look ugly.
“You must be Jeppe Kørner. Sorry for taunting you a little with the fetuses. We academics rarely get out and have so few pleasures.”
Jeppe returned Monica Kirkskov’s smile and reflected briefly on the unfairness of the world: because she looked the way she did, her behavior became beguiling as if by magic, even though one minute ago he had found it disconcerting.
“Thanks for meeting at such short notice. Clausen says you’re the leading expert in antique medical devices.”
“Clausen is too kind. Come, let’s go upstairs to the auditorium.”
She led the way up a smaller staircase, and Jeppe followed her through a narrow hallway, to a room with a high ceiling.
“The building is from 1785 and once housed the original Royal Academy of Surgery. This auditorium was used for autopsies.”
Jeppe looked around a small lecture hall with wooden benches rising steeply toward the ceiling in a half circle. Bright bulbs shone from a round light fixture in the middle of the vaulted, coffered ceiling.
“This looks kind of like a theater,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the speaker’s rostrum.
“Exactly.” Monica Kirkskov nodded approvingly. “A couple of hundred years ago, autopsies were little theatrical events. The ceiling is modeled after the Pantheon in Rome.”
She sat down next to him, and he picked up the scent of lilacs and wrinkled bedsheets.
“You work here?” he asked, instantly regretting his redundant, stupid question.
“I’m an associate professor of scientific history and historical philosophy, meaning that I teach, research, and curate exhibits here at the museum.”
“And you can enlighten me about our murder weapon?” Jeppe leaned back to pull his phone out of his pocket.
“Well, that all depends on how bright you are to begin with.” She smiled a teasing smile. “But, yes, I do specialize in historical medical devices.”
Jeppe found a photo on his phone.
“This is the victim’s wrist with incisions from the murder weapon. It’s not a pleasant picture.…”
“I’m not squeamish.”
She leaned forward and studied the image of Bettina Holte’s arm briefly, then got up and left the room. Jeppe could hear her opening drawers in the adjoining room. A minute later she returned carrying an object in her hands. She presented it on her flat hand, as if it were a crown jewel.
“And that is?” Jeppe asked, his brow furrowed.
Monica Kirkskov was holding a brass box the size of a Rubik’s cube.
“A scarificator. This specific one was given to the museum by me, and I inherited it from my grandmother, who grew up in Vendsyssel and had inherited it from her grandmother. That takes us back to the middle of the nineteenth century.” She set the little metal box on the table. “Before it became part of the collection, I used to use it as a paperweight.”
“And what did
your grandmother’s grandmother use it for?” Jeppe asked, reaching for it.
“Stop! Ah, sorry, but you might trigger it if you press in the wrong place.”
“Trigger it?” Jeppe pulled his hand back. “Tell me, what is that thing?”
“Allow me to demonstrate.” Monica Kirkskov carefully lifted the box and pushed a little button on its side.
Zing.
The sound was crystalline clear and unmistakable. The music of a switchblade unsheathing, or in this case several switchblades. Twelve little knife blades jutted out of the box. They gleamed, shiny and sharp, in the harsh lights of the auditorium.
“Do you mean to say that this is our murder weapon? Those little knives could barely scratch the paint on a car.”
“Obviously that’s up to you to decide, but a perforated artery is a perforated artery.” She turned a little handle on the top of the box that withdrew the knife blades back into the box. “As you know, it’s not the size that matters—”
Jeppe cut her short. “What would you use this for?”
She sat back down and carefully put the brass box on the rostrum next to him.
“It’s an old medical device. The scarificator was used for bloodletting, back when medical science viewed disease as an imbalance that could be drained from the body. All the way up until the twentieth century, people were bled, not just with scarificators, but also with cups placed on the skin or devices like a lancet or fleam. You let the barber do some bloodletting when you went to get a shave and a haircut anyway.”
She leaned back, supporting herself on her hands, breasts pushing against the fabric of her shirt. Jeppe scooted away ever so slightly.
“So, originally the purpose wasn’t to hurt or kill?”
“Certainly not. Murdering someone with a scarificator is like playing Beethoven on panpipes.” She smiled, baring the charming gap between her front teeth. “It was used to purify the body.”
“How exactly?”
“By bleeding small quantities of blood at a time,” she said, tossing her hair back over her shoulders. “A deciliter, a half a cup perhaps, which was thought to bring the body into balance. Bloodletting was viewed as a way of getting rid of so-called bad humors. In the event of a serious illness, larger quantities of blood would be drained. Sometimes the bleeding was allowed to continue until the patient fainted.”
She crossed her legs slowly without taking her eyes from him. The air between them grew thick. Suddenly Jeppe didn’t know where to look. The ringtone from his pocket cut through the charged atmosphere.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but I have to answer this one. Call me if you happen to think of anything else that might be important.” He got up and handed her a business card. “Thank you for your time. I’ll let myself out.”
“My pleasure,” she replied with a grin. “Good luck with the investigation.”
Jeppe jogged down the stairs, feeling her eyes on the back of his neck, and hearing the ringtone in his ears. At the door, he declined the call and let himself out onto Bredgade.
It was his mother. Again.
* * *
ESTHER DE LAURENTI cleaned up after her half-eaten dinner, so moved by the magical web Maria Callas wove around her that at first she didn’t notice the doorbell.
Mi chiamano Mimì, il perché non so. Sola, mi fo, il pranzo da me stessa.
So beautiful, so unbelievably sad with all the illness and death that was coming. The doorbell rang again. She raised the record player’s needle arm and went to the front door, where the dogs were already barking. Before opening it she smoothed her short, henna-dyed hair with her hands.
A man Esther had never seen stood on the landing, his back half to her. When he heard the door open, he turned and looked at her in surprise, as if he had been expecting somebody else. He was tall, and his beaming green eyes competed with a pair of deep dimples; his chin was strong and his shoulders wide. She laughed in spontaneous enthusiasm before getting control of herself.
“Yes? How can I help you?”
The man didn’t respond, just stood there smiling at her.
She noted that he had short gray curls and was barefoot on the stairwell linoleum floor. Dóxa and Epistéme growled, and she herded them back inside and pulled the door closed behind her.
“I’m forgetting my manners.” His voice was deep and clear with a faint accent. “I’m your new downstairs neighbor. Alain. Spelled the French way.” He held out his hand and grasped hers in a strong grip. “Yes, well, pardon me for coming up and bothering you like this, but I was unpacking and then I heard the music from…”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Was I playing it too loud? I do sometimes.”
“Is it even possible to play La Bohème too loudly? I don’t think so. Certainly not when Rodolfo asks Mimi to tell him about herself and declares his love for her.”
He liked opera. Esther smiled.
“I agree. You just can’t have too much Puccini. But really, just let me know if my music bothers you in the future. And welcome to the building. It’s a lovely place to live.”
“I’m starting to sense that.” He winked at her and smiled, much too broadly. It embarrassed her. “Well, you’ll have to put up with my cooking smells in return. I’m a concert pianist by profession, but I love to cook when I’m off. I’m a bit of a chef, if I do say so myself, always cooking up a pot-au-feu or a boeuf onglet.”
A concert pianist who could cook. Esther felt something shift deep down, between her belly and her pelvis, that same flutter you feel on a good roller coaster. She reined herself in. Surely he was married.
“I just got divorced,” he admitted. “Completely undramatic, but still it’s daunting to move and change neighborhoods when you’re our age.”
He flattered her, and they both knew it. How old could he be? Maybe fifty-five? Ten to fifteen years younger than her. There was no chance he was flirting with her. Just that French charm surely.
“True! It’s hard to move to a new neighborhood when you’ve been living somewhere for a long time. But it has potential. We’ve been living here for about nine months, and I keep discovering new places all the time.…”
A shadow seemed to fall over his face. He was still smiling, but his eyes shone less brightly.
“You’re married?” he asked.
At that moment, the door opened and Gregers stood behind her, wearing a topcoat and his old checked sixpence cap. He stared at them in astonishment.
“Do we have guests?” he asked. He leaned in and lowered his voice ever so slightly. “Who is this buffoon?”
Gregers was eighty-four but frequently acted like a four-year-old. Esther was quite fond of him and normally overlooked his indiscretions, but right this moment she could really have done without them.
“Gregers, this is Alain, our new downstairs neighbor. Alain, this is my tenant, well, my roommate, Gregers Hermansen.”
“Alain Jacolbe,” Alain said, extending his hand. “A pleasure.”
Gregers squinted his eyes and stood in the doorway without moving. An awkward silence overcame them. Finally he nodded slowly.
“We haven’t by any chance met before, have we?” Gregers asked. “I never forget a face.”
Esther knew that was a downright lie. Gregers forgot pretty much everyone he met, apart from that cute girl at the local bakery, who seemed to have made an indelible impression on him just by handing him his bread and taking his money.
Alain smiled awkwardly and withdrew his hand.
“I don’t believe so,” he answered. “I’m sure I would remember.”
Gregers mumbled something to Esther, of which she could only make out the word jackass. Then he edged around them out onto the stairs.
Alain watched him leave, surprised.
“Gregers was born a curmudgeon. Don’t take it personally.”
“Well, I really ought to be getting back downstairs to my unpacking.” Alain shrugged lightly. “But thanks for the chat.… I’m sure I’ll see you around.
” He kept standing there with those dimples.
Esther didn’t know what to say. Damn, if those eyes didn’t turn her into a schoolgirl! It was wholly unsuitable for a woman of almost seventy.
He clasped her hand before she had a chance to react. With a mixture of shock and delight, she watched him raise it up to his lips and kiss the back of her hand with excessive intimacy. She jerked her arm back and hurried into the apartment with a breathless goodbye. On the other side of the door she heard him go back down the stairs at a leisurely pace, contrasting sharply to her own racing pulse.
Until a few minutes ago, the world had been cumbersome and the day insurmountable. Everything had seemed stuck. Now she felt reinvigorated, effervescent.
Alain…
How silly! Simply absurd.
Esther walked back to her record player, taking small, cautious steps, and moved the needle back to the groove. Music filled the room once more, and she closed her eyes, listening.
¡Sí! Mi chiamano Mimì, ma il mio nome è Lucia. La storia mia è breve. A tela o a seta ricamo in casa e fuori…
It felt amazing. It felt dangerous.
CHAPTER 5
One could hardly blame the two new parents for not having prepared for one of life’s two most important events: having a baby and dying. Being no fools, they had foreseen that it would be a particularly difficult adjustment given their age. Anette Werner, midlife and mother for the first time, had read up on parenting as if she were taking her college entrance exams again. Sleep rhythms, breastfeeding routines, and diaper liners made of paper fleece versus cotton pads had been deliberated and discussed ad absurdum. To her own surprise, Anette was the one who took charge, maybe because it felt most real to her—the baby had grown in her body, after all—maybe because she was the one who was most afraid of the change. When you have had a great marriage for twenty-odd years, you prepare for the tornado looming on the horizon so it doesn’t rip everything up by the roots.
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