The Susan Effect

by Peter Høeg

  It’s also what made Thorkild Hegn say what he said.

  The instant he accepted the idea of our driving to Italy in the Volvo, a vortex formed in his system. It happened swiftly, perhaps imperceptibly to him, though to me it was manifest indeed. The Effect can be like an X-ray.

  It was clear to me, at that instant, that he wanted to say no. And yet he said yes.

  I can think of only one explanation for that. What happened is that a mental representation glanced off the surface of his consciousness and implanted itself in mine: he remembered that when his men installed a camera in our house and a transmitter in our garage, they also fitted tracking devices to our cars.

  The reason it was so important to accompany us to the airport and put us on a plane was that only then could he be certain we actually left the country instead of turning back in the departure lounge. But then he realised he still had that security, thanks to the tracking device I’ll bet my hat has been fixed to our car.

  The question is where.

  Laban and the twins are quiet. That’s one reason we’ve stuck together so long, in spite of everything: whenever it’s been needed, we’ve given each other some space.

  I was twelve when I conducted my first thought experiment. Without knowing Einstein had created the term and refined the technique. Without even knowing who Einstein was.

  I was living in a residential institution called Holmgangen, up in the wilds of Vendsyssel. A farmhouse as far out as you can get in a country as overpopulated as Denmark: kilometres to the nearest neighbour, and virtually off the radar to even the most local tradesmen. The institution was underfunded, too. We had to feed the straw boiler with disused car tyres, and its outer surfaces were coated in a sticky black layer of melted rubber, a compound of such durability that to this day whenever I cough I get a peculiarly vulcanised taste in my mouth, of radials and cross-plys.

  Being far from the nearest waterworks, the place had its own supply, and one day the electric pump broke down. They never called a tradesman if it could be helped, and the staff tried instead to fix the problem themselves, only they couldn’t. Then someone suggested asking me.

  I sat on the manhole cover, peering into the depths of the well. The pump was half a metre down, a Grundfos. Everyone, kids as well as adults, converged around me. No one said a word.

  I can’t put my finger on exactly what I did. But I know today that I conducted a thought experiment. I’d seen the staff eliminating various possibilities: changing fuses, cleaning the intake filter, checking the riser pipe, adjusting the pressure switch so as to increase the difference between start and stop pressures.

  Maybe it shouldn’t be called a thought experiment, because the feeling, then as now, is more physical. What I did was simply to allow what I saw to be absorbed into my being.

  I sat on the manhole cover and became one, physically, with the pump. And then I knew what it was: the volume of air in the diaphragm tank was too small. So I adjusted the regulator nut. And that was that. They put the pump back together and it started first time. I didn’t say anything, didn’t gloat. But I knew it had been a decisive moment. A crystal ball in which my future had just become apparent.

  It’s the same thing now, in the Volvo halfway along Kochsvej in Frederiksberg.

  When I was fourteen I de-restricted my first moped, a pink Puch Maxi. When I was eighteen I repaired my first 2CV: the engine was as simple as a scooter’s.

  In the case of our Volvo, I can barely work out where to put the anti-freeze.

  It’s not me who’s changed, it’s the cars. Today you need a university degree and a million kroner’s worth of tools and electronics to understand and repair anything in the kind of tin can in which we’re seated.

  So I don’t bother trying to work out where they put their device. There must be a thousand possibilities and I haven’t time to waste on thinking. Instead, I try to become one with the vehicle and the situation at hand.

  After ten minutes of silence, it comes to me. The others haven’t made a sound.

  The fuel-driven heater works. That’s what I realise – or my body does.

  The transmitter in the heater is in principle a mobile phone. It works using a SIM card bought from my provider. It’s got a monthly minimum usage of twenty kroner. We’ve been away in India for a year. I’ve remembered to do a lot of things since we got back, but topping up that SIM card isn’t one of them. It ought to be empty.

  But it isn’t. And it’s not the provider being exceptionally patient with its customers either. It’s because someone else topped it up instead.

  I open the little compartment underneath the dashboard to the left of the steering wheel. Inside is the driver’s manual, and to the left of that the switch to operate the fuel-driven heater manually. Above it, secured by two Velcro straps, is the combined transmitter–receiver unit.

  I pull it out. Increasingly, the world is hidden from us in little compartments, behind computer screens and specialised interfaces accessible only to experts. We’ve had the car for four years and this is the first time I’ve held this unit in my hand.

  It’s a bit bigger than a mobile phone. I open it.

  The insides are made up of a rechargeable power supply twice the size of a mobile phone’s, and presumably twice as durable. It’s charged by means of a cable that must be connected to the car battery. Above the power supply is a small cover which I remove to reveal a starry dazzle of electronics no larger than a wristwatch, but requiring yet another university education besides the one called for by the vehicle itself.

  However, it takes no schooling at all to see it’s been tampered with. Some very dextrous fingers have positioned a printed circuit board on top of the device’s own electronics. And although it’s only ten by ten millimetres and one millimetre thick, even a child would be able to tell it was a parasite, a cuckoo in the transistor’s nest, placed there in order to feed off the telephone’s power supply and other hardware for a single dire purpose, which I’m in no doubt is to transmit a constant geographical position.

  The others are completely quiet. I disconnect the unit and place it on the seat next to me.

  Then I flick the indicator and pull away.

  20

  TO THE BEST of my knowledge, Andrea Fink has never said there should be a long-distance truck driver in every woman’s life.

  Nevertheless, that says little about long-distance truck drivers. All it says is that even Nobel laureates have their blind spots.

  I’ve always had a thing about long-distance truck drivers, ever since I was little. It’s not quite true that everything relevant that can be said about music is contained in the songs of Hansi Hinterseer. There are nuggets to be found in country and western, too. Especially when it comes to trucks and the men who drive them.

  We pass the post office depot. Across the railway tracks I can see the DGI leisure centre and the Kødbyen former meatpacking district.

  ‘When I was a kid,’ I tell the twins, ‘the truck drivers used to congregate over there, at Kødbyen and around the Halmtorvet. Their trucks would be lined up and there were cafeterias where they would have breakfast. My mother used to bring me along here in my pushchair.’

  ‘Why would Grandmother bring you here?’

  The question comes from Thit, casually, as if she weren’t really interested. But underneath the incurious exterior, she’s on tenterhooks.

  ‘My father was doing time in Vestre Fængsel. And my mother liked to walk. We came this way whenever we went to visit him.’

  We’ve reached the Køge Bugt motorway and pass the first services. It’s one good place to find truck drivers. But not the best.

  I take the next exit. At first it looks like a mistake that’s about to lead us into some godforsaken sprawl. But then all is revealed.

  On a sign that might have felt at home in Las Vegas are the words Oda’s Rest Stop. There must be a hundred trucks parked, of all shapes, sizes, colours and nationalities. The place itself comes into vie
w as we pull in.

  Architecturally it’s hard to describe. I remember from my childhood that the physico-chemical point of departure was a sausage stand. They must have given it some shots of whatever it is they put in the sausages, because now it’s a two-storey structure some fifty metres in length, all of it lit up like a Ferris wheel in a fairground.

  ‘Why don’t you come in with me, Thit?’

  She stops outside the entrance, as if in reverence.

  ‘Mum, how come you know about this place?’

  ‘My father used to bring me here.’

  ‘You mean when he wasn’t in prison?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘They actually let him out sometimes. I’ve been here a few times on my own since.’

  ‘Why haven’t you ever taken us with you?’

  I pause. We look at each other.

  ‘Sometimes, once a year perhaps, I just want to sit here with all these men.’

  She doesn’t flinch. She nods.

  We go inside and it’s as if, for the briefest of moments, everything stops. There are maybe fifty men at the tables, and we’re the only females. Apart, that is, from Oda.

  She’s standing behind the counter, and of course she doesn’t recognise me. I’ve only been here about fifteen times in the course of thirty years.

  Like her sausage stand, she’s grown. But some women age into wisdom instead of falling apart. And instead of getting fat they just acquire more volume and become a bit firmer in the flesh.

  ‘I need a man,’ I tell her. ‘Someone going to the south of Italy.’

  Never one to hurry, she studies first me, then Thit.

  ‘You’ve got a decent pair of wheels out there, with a man inside. And even if you didn’t, you’re not short for the airfare. So you’re not looking for a lift.’

  I bide my time. She likewise.

  ‘I’ve had this place forty years,’ she says after a while. ‘I’m pleased with it. We do the best homemade pork sandwich you’re likely to get. We rake in the money. But that’s not what’s important. What’s important is the customers. Some of them have been coming here from day one. Forty years. Do you know what I don’t want? What I don’t want is to see one of my boys charmed into carrying illegal goods over the border and getting done south of the Alps, banged up inside for eight years for something he got sweetened into by a pair of blue eyes and a bit of lipstick.’

  She knows as much about sincerity as I do. Probably more. She’s heard every conceivable story humanity has to offer, and has lent her ears and heart on every occasion.

  I put the transmitter–receiver unit down on the counter in front of her. Complete with the extra battery.

  ‘We’ve been sent out of the country. It’s a witness protection programme. They’re tracking us with this device. We need to win some time. A couple of days, that’s all.’

  ‘And what were you thinking of doing in the meantime, love?’

  I lean towards her.

  ‘I’m looking for a man,’ I tell her. ‘A man who did something really bad. And when I find him I’m going to make him say he’s sorry.’

  She looks me in the eye.

  ‘What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Susan. And this is Thit.’

  ‘Come with me,’ she says.

  She steps out from behind the counter and leads us down among the tables. I’d never have believed a person could weigh eighty-five kilos and still move like a mermaid through this world of chrome and vinyl, weightless amid its greasy plates and battered fish. But now I do.

  She halts by a young man seated on his own.

  ‘Johnny,’ she says, ‘this is Susan.’

  She whispers some explanation in his ear, turns and is gone. I sit down in front of him. Thit remains standing. I put the unit and the battery down on the table. Followed by six thousand-kroner notes, counted out one after another and placed in a little pile.

  ‘This is a tracking device. I want the authorities to think they’re following me. I’d like you to take it with you to Italy. Somewhere in Apulia there’ll be a garage with a workshop. The place’ll be a tip. At the back, among all the junk, there’ll be an old bucket. A nice, dry place where no one’s going to look for at least a fortnight. I want you to drop this there.’

  He weighs the device in his hand.

  ‘How did you know? That I knew a place with just such a bucket?’

  We smile at each other. He looks at Thit, then back at me, thinking better of trying to work out the connection. Thit has never looked like she was descended from me. Or descended from anyone. Rather, she looks like she just stepped out onto a stage or materialised from outer space without any incriminating past packed into her luggage.

  ‘I could give you my mobile number,’ he says, ‘in case you get into trouble. Or want to see the world.’

  The suggestion is spontaneous and comes from a place beyond his control. As soon as he realises what he’s said, his face turns crimson.

  He’s not half bad, a kind of twenty-one-year-old version of Kris Kristofferson in Convoy. There’s a sparkle about him, and yet a darkness in his eyes.

  It’s a darkness that comes from a longing I’d bet he doesn’t even know he’s got. A longing for mature female sexuality, with all its flashing lights and sirens ablaze.

  Thit’s as motionless as a statue. I get to my feet.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ I tell him. ‘At least not yet.’

  The darkness in his eyes deepens slightly. Then his face brightens.

  He shoves the banknotes back across the table.

  ‘You’ll be needing this yourself. For what they give you in witness protection, you might as well be on the dole.’

  I take the money.

  ‘My pleasure,’ he says.

  I turn to leave. Thit comes with me. I stop in front of Oda and put one of the notes down on the counter. She shakes her head.

  ‘I’ve got more money than I know what to do with, love. I’ve got three places like this on the E48. I’m only here because I can’t stay away. You keep your money.’

  I stuff it back in my wallet. It’s the second time in five minutes someone seemingly in their right mind has turned down free money. Maybe I’m sleepwalking.

  She looks me up and down one last time.

  ‘I’m not sure why,’ she says, ‘but I’m glad I’m not that bloke you’re looking for.’

  Thit and I linger for a minute outside the door. In the distance, we can see Brøndby Strand.

  ‘Mum, have you ever been unfaithful to Dad?’

  Some people might think there are truths best kept from children. Those who do know nothing about the Effect. And they don’t know Thit.

  ‘Yes,’ I tell her. ‘Lots of times.’

  She says nothing. We go back to the car. Harald gets out and opens the door, first for me, then for Thit.

  ‘Laban’s driving,’ I say. ‘I’m tired.’

  We get in. Laban pauses before starting the ignition.

  ‘Why is it so important for us to hide from Hegn?’ he says. ‘What’s his interest in us, exactly?’

  From the breast pocket of my shirt I take out a very tightly folded sheet of paper, size A4.

  ‘What I gave him,’ I reply, ‘wasn’t the names I got from Magrethe Spliid. His are made up. The real ones are here. Once he realises, he’s going to be rather miffed. And then he’s going to come after us.’

  21

  ‘WE’RE INVISIBLE!’

  Laban’s in the middle of the floor with his arms raised. He dances the first steps of a rumba.

  I’m leaning on Harald for support. I’ve slept a total of six hours in the last forty-eight.

  ‘Hegn will be tracking us to Italy on his computer. The guy who was after you and Harald most likely got his brains bashed in. So now we’re invisible!’

  It wouldn’t be fair to call Laban a Renaissance man. To do him full justice you need to add that his ability to construct his own version of reality is so powerful that, for muc
h of the time, he actually resides in the Renaissance. Before real-time information collection and digital surveillance. Before big data.

  ‘They could be here any minute,’ I tell him. ‘We can’t be sure they’re not monitoring the house. We’ve got forty-eight hours if we’re lucky.’

  ‘Twenty-four,’ says Thit. ‘I’m afraid it’s only twenty-four. Christmas Eve doesn’t count.’

  Laban stops dead, as if nailed rather abruptly to the floor. I lean heavily against Harald.

  Christmas Eve is a demon Laban and I have endeavoured to exorcise for sixteen years. The children keep bringing it back.

  Laban and I have never cared for Christmas. The excess of consumerism. The mass psychosis.

  The Department of Experimental Physics is less than 400 metres from the Teilum Building and the Department of Forensic Medicine. Occasionally, we’d lend the forensic pathology section a statistician, or computational time on our servers, or some lab equipment. Pathologists work round the clock at Christmas. At no other time of year do they see as many suicides and victims of domestic violence. If anything can work the Danes into a rage it’s the singular combination of alcohol, presents you can’t afford and a massive collective imperative that requires families to be sweetness and light from the first strains of a carol.

  We always went away for Christmas. To the west coast of Jutland or some arid little island in the Mediterranean. Until the kids came along. Then we were trapped. When it comes to loving Christmas, in all their national conservatism Thit and Harald must be somewhere to the right of Ghengis Khan.

  ‘And we have to invite a homeless person,’ says Thit. ‘It goes without saying.’

  Thit is forever on the lookout for needy creatures to take home with her, be they beast or human. At one point we had six stray dogs. And never fewer than eight cats. For some years we had a crow called Kevin that she found with a broken wing in the Charlottenlund Slotspark and brought home with her. It slotted straight in, uppermost in the family hierarchy.

  When she was nine, the idea occurred to her for the first time that Christmas isn’t Christmas unless spent with someone homeless. By the time she got to ten she was strong enough to enforce it.