The Prophets of Eternal Fjord

by Aitken, Martin, Leine, Kim

  The splash of the fountains feels comforting now. A cool dampness is felt to drift across the lawns. A girder of rainbow appears above the neatly trimmed grass and dwindles among the topiary of the trees. He wipes his brow with a handkerchief, which he returns to the pocket of his waistcoat. Shoes crunch the gravel, a walking cane, a slim young gentle ­man clad in a green tailcoat and chalk-white stockings passes by in the company of a lady, by no means entirely young, whose lower body and legs are enclosed within a birdcage of crinoline, for which reason one cannot help but think first and foremost precisely of her lower body and legs. Her dress ruffles about her, the playful breeze toys with the pleated trim that has absorbed the dark colour of chlorophyll from the grass across which it has been drawn. She smiles while looking straight ahead with a firm expression that appears to Morten to be false or melodra­matic, but which nevertheless has prompted her gentleman to assume a rather fawning posture. The white-stockinged man seems almost to be silently begging for some favour. Miss Schultz and her sisters have wind of the drama. Breathlessly they watch the couple and take in the scene. Each time the gentleman comes up alongside her, the lady increases her pace, yet when he lags behind she walks more slowly until he catches up with her again.

  Once they are out of earshot, the three girls begin to twitter. They debate and argue as to the nature of the relationship between the young gentleman and the more mature lady. Morten can tell as he listens to them that they are by no means unused to reading novels of chivalric romance. He wonders if he should lend them his Moll Flanders, which he read in the winter. He considers it might shake them up a bit.

  What opinion has the student? says Abelone Schultz. I see he stands there smiling, as if in possession of better knowledge.

  Whatever I might imagine of the relationship between these people, I shall wisely keep it to myself.

  They tease him and call him Magister Stick-in-the-Mud. But when they walk on, Abelone puts her arm in his.

  A finery stall in Østergade sells intimate garments and perfumes for ladies. He purchases two flacons, one of lavender, the other of bergamot, and presents them to the maid of the printer’s house with a message that they are a gift to Miss Schultz. It is her sixteenth birthday. He has composed a brief letter and attached it to the parcel: Dear Miss Schultz, please accept this humble gift and may it remind you of the most obedient of all your admirers, id est stud. theol Morten Falck.

  The following day the gift is returned by the printer’s maid. He puts it aside. He has allowed himself to be carried away. He has revealed his intentions. The time is unripe. He must be patient. He regrets nothing. Now she knows, and the family Schultz know, where he stands. It feels liberating. It is as though he has kissed her, then passed his hand over her hip.

  He watches the door of the printer’s home. Abelone is in hiding, but her sisters are there, and Madame Schultz, too, spends time in the court­yard, fussing and yet in good humour. A person of cheerful disposition. He likes her and he is certain she is not unkindly disposed towards him. The two younger sisters conspicuously refrain from looking up at his window, where he sits reading in the window seat. It is plain from the manner in which they ignore him that they are keenly aware of his presence.

  Morten’s mother writes to him often from Lier. She, too, uses his former name, Morten Pedersen, until, in an angry letter, he instructs her to employ his new one. She does so. His father, however, continues to refer to him as stud. theol. Pedersen, and it is in this name, too, that he receives letters from the Procurator Gill. Yet it is his mother who writes most, once a week at least. She must spend considerable sums on the postage, both to himself and to Kirstine in Nakskov. She names with caution one or another girl who now has been confirmed or has reached a certain age, who is of sound constitution, diligent and meticulous, an obedient daughter to her parents, of good moral standing, etc. She keeps a careful eye on the parishes whose incumbents are of poor health and whose vacant living he might seek once he has become ordained. Their own pastor is not of advanced years, so the prospects are slight, but he has been kind enough to promise to put in a good word for Morten when the time comes for him to apply for a parish. Your father is once more of ill health, she writes, and has now lain for two days without rising while com ­plaining of aches and sounds inside his head. Should he write to inform you of his imminent demise, however, take heed that he is as fit as a confirmand, and the numerous ailments of which he inclines to suffer are but imaginary.

  The letters darken his mood; they make him itch and give him headaches, and he is consumed by the urge to get drunk or go to a pros­titute. He frequents a drinking establishment with Laust, who has returned after his illness, a spontaneous melancholy that almost did away with him. Now he is descended into the opposite ditch, throwing his money about, hiring carriages and insisting on paying for everything wherever they go, inviting his friends to the Comedy House, where he has rented a box. Morten sits in his velvet-covered seat. The large audi­ence and the lamps cause him to sweat. On the stage the singers stamp about, making fearful grimaces, throwing out their arms and roaring at one another. A classical Italian opera is performed. The audience com ­ments loudly on the action, boos and cries of bravo compete to drown each other out. There is a ceaseless coming and going, a slamming of doors, a scraping of chairs, chatter and the chinking of ale glasses that makes it impossible to follow what is going on. The music rises and falls, someone fires a pistol, a soprano shrieks and falls dead, gunpowder smoke drifts into the orchestra pit, the painted backdrop is hoisted up by a noisy pulley, another descends with a clatter, one hears the stage hands tramping back and forth, groaning and out of breath, the first violin shouting out the time to his orchestra and endeavouring to conduct them with his bow. Morten looks down from his vantage point upon dozens of swelling bosoms. The ladies are powdered white, beauty spots decorate marble cheekbones and the occasional breast. They fan themselves to stave off the heat. The stalls are like a warm and sunny field full of flowers and fluttering butterflies. He has the most recent of his mother’s letters in his breast pocket. He thinks to himself that it is a peculiar mingling of worlds. Imagine if my ageing mother were here. He smiles to himself. The world of the theatre must be as distant from his mother’s as anything could ever be. He wishes that she could enjoy it, though most likely she would be shocked and would perhaps even faint with fright. She is not the kind of person who can forget who they are and rise above themselves. She is enchained, like almost everyone else.

  Afterwards he drives with Laust to a serving house, where they sit and pretend to be fine gentleman until they are ejected and make towards the ramparts, pursued by a trail of prostitutes, who stride along, arm in arm, bawling raucous drinking songs.

  Then Laust is gone again. Morten hears rumour that some accident has befallen him, but learns of no details. He writes to his father, a customs officer on Fyn, though without reply. He attends a single per ­formance at the Comedy House, but it is costly and rather dull without the festive Laust to hurl insults or excessively intimate compliments at the ladies, without a box to separate him from the rabble, and he stands alone in the throng of the stalls, unable to hear or see a thing, and thinks of Rousseau and Man is born free and everywhere he is in chains! He cannot expel the sentence from his mind. It is as though the philosopher has placed his hand upon his shoulder and wished to speak to him in person.

  The winter of 1784–5. The royal city is inundated with farm labourers and lads who have run from the villeinage of the Stavnsbånd to seek their fortunes. January brings strong frost. The hearses are busy, and the corpses that arrive at the vaults beneath the academy are well preserved, delicate almost, unsmelling and as white as snow. After Laust’s disap­pearance, Morten has stopped collecting bodies around town, but he earns a small sum from his drawings, which are more detailed than ever before, and some now hang upon the walls of the academy’s teaching rooms.

  Morten sees the carri
ages come to the printer’s house with young men, who bound up the step to be welcomed inside. Suitors. He is little con ­cerned with the matter. At the eleventh hour he has found interest in his theology studies and spends many hours each day at the university’s library. Moreover, he has taken on work teaching small boys a couple of days a week at the Vajsenhus orphanage. Now when he goes to the Procurator Gill on the first weekday of each month it is to bring money to his account, rather than to request a withdrawal, and he receives a receipt as evidence of growing savings. He lives cheaply and sensibly and goes seldom into town. His excursions outside the city gate are made on foot and rarely further than to Valby Bakke, where he sits near Frederiksberg Palace and gazes out across the semicircle of frozen lakes and the rampart, the thoroughfare of Vesterbrogade to his right, and behind the ramparts the steeples and spires and hundreds of smoking chimneys. He has no idea what he might do when his studies are com ­pleted this coming summer. Perhaps he will continue to teach. Perhaps seek a living. But finding a living is difficult, the competition is stiff. And where would he want to go?

  Winter. The frost is beneficial insofar as it freezes the city’s filth and excrement, making it easier to walk about without becoming soiled in the gutter or bespattered by carriage wheels. The stench of the latrine buckets is less penetrating. On the other hand, a thick and immovable blanket of coal smoke enshrouds the city, and people die by the hundreds from lung disease or else they simply freeze to death. He himself is in good health. He has hardly had a cold since his arrival here and the various epidemics of fever sicknesses have passed by his door. The print room beneath his chamber is kept well heated, for otherwise the ink becomes stiff; and, besides this good fortune, his room is equipped with a small tiled stove, which he may light as need arises. He fetches the coals from the printer’s coal bunker and pays a fixed sum each month. Apart from this, he spends much time at the university, which, though not exactly warm, nevertheless maintains a tolerable temperature. For his sake, the cold and the winter may continue. It reminds him of his child­hood and the native place from which he hails and which now more often seems distant to him.

  One evening he proceeds shivering along Vestergade in the direction of the rampart. In this district of the city live many ale brewers and distillers of aquavit, and every other stairway contains a drinking estab­lishment whose enticing yellow light beams into the snow. He goes inside at one place where the window is illuminated, driven by an acute need for human company. There is music and some singing, men play cards, a fire roars in a tiled stove, tobacco smoke gathers below the ceiling joists. The atmosphere appears relaxed. At a table a boy is seated alone. He sits down opposite him and orders a mug of ale. He meets the youngster’s gaze, but neither says a word in greeting. He looks foreign. A Gypsy, Morten guesses. Perhaps a Jew.

  Morten receives his ale. He sips.

  Is it cold? the boy asks in the dialect of Sjælland.

  Yes, the night is cold. Bitterly cold.

  The boy stares at him wearily. His eyes droop towards his mouth. His Adam’s apple ascends and descends. Morten wishes he could move to another table. He hears himself say: Will you join me in a mug?

  Aye, says the boy quickly. I shan’t say no to that. He winks to the host and shouts out his order. On this here gentleman’s bill, he adds, and points demonstratively. Morten nods to affirm, but avoids looking up at the man. He regrets having come here. He has no idea why he should enter into conversation with this young scoundrel. Then a man rises and embarks upon a long ballad, and he leans back and listens to the song, a saccharine tale of unrequited love.

  When it is over the boy says: A student, eh?

  He nods, but refrains from turning to face him. He feels he is being scrutinized.

  Priest, says the boy.

  Morten turns. How can you tell?

  The boy grins sheepishly and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It’s a skill I have. An art.

  An art? says Morten. What more can you say of me?

  I can tell the pastor’s fortune, says the boy. But it’ll cost him copper.

  Ah, a vagrant trickster, Morten thinks to himself, who earns his bread from the credulity of others. How much does this fortune telling cost?

  That depends on the prophecy. The boy smiles with cunning. A long life and good luck in matters of love and with wealth to boot is dearer than haemorrhage, the workhouse and imminent death. It stands to reason.

  Morten gestures for their two mugs to be filled. He asks the host if he serves food. Herring, says the host. All right, two portions of herring. The boy casts himself over the meal. His mouth full of boiled cabbage and the rich, salted fish, he divulges to Morten that he travels with a troupe of acrobats and tells fortunes for his living. The Lord has given me the gift to look folk firmly in the eye and to read them as if they were a book, even though I can’t read and can only scratch my mark.

  And you can read me? Morten enquires.

  Hm-m, says the boy between two mouthfuls, and nods. I can see right the way in and out the other side. Easy, it is.

  And what can you see?

  The same as all the others, the boy replies jauntily. The pastor’s nothing special, if that’s what he thinks. But if he wishes to have his fortune told, it’ll cost him three marks. It’s the usual price in winter, otherwise I take five.

  First I shall test you to see if you are worth your money. Can you tell if both my parents live?

  The boy studies his food, as though Morten’s secrets lay hidden there. He fills his mouth again. They live. And your sister, too, is in good health. But some brothers departed this life a long time since, God rest their souls.

  So far, so good, says Morten. He feels his mouth to be dry. Can you see what my sister is doing?

  Oh, she’s playing the two-headed beast with her pastor. The boy breaks into a peal of laughter.

  Morten feels himself grow pale. Kirstine? he says.

  I don’t know her name. But I can see a white dress and black vest­ments. I hear church bells, a dreadful clamour, not for me at all. Priest weds priest, a dainty sight, indeed! And the bridal gown is white on the outside, but inside it’s black and stained with filth. He spits out these latter words as though with malice.

  His hair drops into his eyes, black and greasy. A dribble of spit glis­tens in the upwardly curled corner of his pretty mouth, and in the spit a crumb of bread has settled. The breadcrumb moves as he speaks. Morten reaches out and removes it with the tip of his index finger. Their eyes meet, and then he asks:

  Is she happy?

  The boy smiles. I think she’s in good humour. She laughs, at least, but even skulls seem to laugh when the flesh is picked from them, so what would I know? I’m a seer. I look through people, not within them. I’m no soothsayer. People around her are happy. I can tell by looking at them. They’ve got what they want, but I don’t know about her. Her face is like water when you piss in it. The weather’s nice, the sun’s shining on the church, white, white, shining on the dress, white, white. I can’t wait for summer, can you, Pastor, when the lark twitters and a person can go wherever he wants? Then I’ll be able to travel again with my people and sleep in the woods.

  What about me? says Morten. Can you see my future?

  I can see a whole lot of strange people dancing in the fells. Not Christian folk, though. They don’t look like Christian folk. Black and dirty they are, but they’re your friends and you’re dancing with them. And I can see fire.

  Fire?

  Flames and balls of fire. The pastor’s a man who likes to play with fire. But the fire doesn’t touch him. He comes out of the fire without so much as an eyebrow singed.

  The boy has finished eating. He has drunk three mugs of ale. Now his chin drops to his chest. He begins to snore, shoulders drooped, his body slides back against the wall. Morten sits a while and studies him. Then he tosses some marks onto the
table and walks home. It has begun to snow.

  He does all that is expected of him. He goes to the lectures; he pores over his Latin and Greek and Hebrew, and reads his works of theology. He teaches his boys at the Vajsenhus. He courteously acknowledges Miss Schultz when encountering her in the courtyard. She looks at him as though she were waiting, as if she has prepared something to say to him if they should meet, but he does not take the time to converse with her. The printer clearly imagines that Morten is pining away with unrequited love for his daughter. He pats him sympathetically on the back and says, My dear theologicus, give it time, give it time, for all things come to he who waits. Morten nods and does his best to look like a valiant suitor. The truth is, it is merely a role he takes upon himself. He thinks only infrequently of the young mistress, although he knows he ought to devote himself to her rather more, that it would be the natural thing to do. But the young mistress is so pure and untainted. It is hard to imagine that there is anything else beneath her skirts and underskirts than more skirts and underskirts, and much that is pleasant to the smell.