by Peter Høeg
Surrounding these two men of the gentry is a swelling sea of Finø society, among them the island’s doctors and its two postmasters, solicitors and the manager of the cooperative supermarket, directors of the boatyards and the brickworks and the fish factory, and the editor in chief of the Finø Gazette, and then all the delegations who will be sailing away this evening to the Grand Synod.
It is a colorful sea of evening dresses and dinner jackets, of Svend Sewerman’s staff in livery, Polly Pigonia and her congregation in Hindu whites, Sinbad Al-Blablab in his turban, Ingeborg Bluebuttock in her burka, the Buddhists in purple and the three members of the Jewish community in black hats, and in the middle of this great palette I catch sight of Dorada Rasmussen in local costume.
And all of it is a spectacle into which one might immerse oneself and swim around were it not for the fact that we stand before what seems like an insurmountable problem, which is how to secure tickets and access to the White Lady of Finø, and this is a question we as yet have found no time to address.
At this moment, I sense something is about to happen to Tilte. To say she now receives divine inspiration directly through the open door would perhaps be to exaggerate matters, and after what has happened to our parents and to Jakob Aquinas, and after Rickardt Three Lions’s attempt to secure the leading part in The Merry Widow, we are rather wary of addressing the question of where big ideas come from. Nonetheless, I’m willing to say that what I now sense surging through Tilte’s organism is at the very least a monumental vision.
“Polly,” says Tilte, “you must back us up.”
Polly has no time to reply. Tilte takes hold of her free hand and the three of us part the waves of Finø society until we are standing in front of Count Rickardt and Svend Sewerman.
Tilte lets go of Polly and extends a hand toward the evening’s host, Svend Sewerman, aka Charles de Finø.
“Allow me to present myself, Mr. de Finø. My name is Tilte,” she says. “Tilte de Ahlefeldt-Laurvig Finø. And this is my brother, Count Peter de Ahlefeldt-Laurvig Finø.”
My brain has shut down. As far as I can see, what Tilte is doing now is tantamount to suicide. We are standing before Count Rickardt, an intimate friend, and Svend Sewerman, who may have seen us only once, but less than six months ago, and at that point in time we were sellers of lottery tickets for Finø FC and of rather less than noble birth.
It would therefore be reasonable to assume that in a moment we shall be recognized and sent away into the night without a chance of leaving Finø before the ferry sails on Wednesday, by which time it will all be too late.
And for that reason, what now happens before our eyes most immediately resembles a miracle, not one of Mother’s and Father’s but a real one as featured in the New Testament and the Vedas and certain passages of the Buddhist canon, which is somewhat shorter on miracles than other religions.
What happens is that Svend Sewerman kisses Tilte’s hand.
Of course, part of the reason for this is that Tilte has extended her hand in the first place, as though expecting it to be kissed. And when Tilte extends something in that way, even if it should be a cowpat on a pizza base, people tend to oblige.
“The Ahlefeldt-Laurvigs?” says Charles de Finø.
“The Ahlefeldt-Laurvigs,” says Tilte.
I look into Svend Sewerman’s eyes and find there a variety of emotions: humility, joy, and awe. But no recognition. And I begin now to sense the genius of Tilte’s plan. Because if only one appeals to the deepest desires inside a person, then common sense will shortcircuit, and the deepest desire inside Svend Sewerman is the desire to mingle with nobility.
How Tilte envisages moving on from here is a question that certainly becomes salient but whose answer is postponed by Count Rickardt Three Lions suddenly coming to life. Since the moment he caught sight of me and Tilte, he has remained stock still in the way of people whose nervous systems have been struck by some debilitating affliction. But now the power of speech returns to him.
“Well, I never diddle!”
My first thought is that he is about to blurt out everything and give us away. But then I trace his gaze and can see that his outburst is aimed at other parties altogether. For in the doorway of the banqueting hall stands Thorkild Thorlacius. And behind him the bishop of Grenå, Anaflabia Borderrud.
How such suspect types managed to get themselves released so promptly is unclear. And neither do we have time to dwell on the issue, because Svend Sewerman now lights up even more.
“And there we have the professor!” he exclaims. “And my dear bishop! Both will be in attendance at the synod. As representatives of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Denmark and the natural sciences, respectively.”
Tilte and I act as one. As I have already told you, we are a family that gels when it matters, we play as a team and know each other’s game. What’s important is to have an overview that spans the length and breadth of the pitch, and this is something I possess and that allows me to see that there is only one exit by which we can possibly escape in time.
In time means before Thorkild and Anaflabia catch sight of us. And not only them. Because behind them come Lars and Katinka, and although they may be holding hands and their eyes sparkle from their newfound love, which has progressed significantly since Tilte and I helped them discover each other beneath the acacia tree only a few short hours ago, their vigilance remains unaltered, their eagle eyes scan the hall, and I for one would wager that they are looking for us.
It is a situation that might have gone terribly wrong. But through one innocuous movement, Lama Svend-Holger and Sinbad Al-Blablab demonstrate unique compassion and a sense of occasion by simultaneously blocking further entry into the hall and preventing Katinka, Lars, Thorkild Thorlacius, and Anaflabia from seeing inside.
Tilte and I duck away into the human sea, emerging from beneath the surface only when we have passed through the door.
32
The room we now enter is dimly lit and cool, the air inside it thick with the smell of food. From out of the darkness loom the outlines of tables laden with supplies for the buffet, crates of beer and soft drinks, batteries of wine bottles. On an adjoining table, cloth napkins have been placed in neat piles, and on another is a different kind of material altogether. I pick it up and unroll a length. It’s not regular fabric but the sort from which Finøholm’s curtains are made and that already is draped before one of the room’s two windows. It feels like something in between tent canvas and stage curtains.
The curtains that hang before the windows of Finøholm are embellished with gilded flag halyards and golden tassels as big as paintbrushes. But seemingly, the curtainer was unable to finish his work before the evening’s revels kicked off, and for that reason he has left a roll of material behind on the table here. One explanation would be that the curtainer is none other than Herman Marauder Lander of Finø Curtains and Drapes, our neighbor and father of Karl, which in itself would be reason enough for the man, alarmed as to whether his house might still be standing, to drop everything and hurry home to see.
I’m aware that we must act quickly and that my presence is required in the role of initiator, because Tilte is still completely immersed in her own inspiration.
I venture to suggest that Cinderella was afforded no better treatment by the small animals in preparation for her encounter with the prince with whom she would live happily ever after than the treatment I now bestow upon Tilte. I make her a turban, and a kind of Roman toga, and I’m able to do so because Mr. Lander of Finø Curtains and Drapes has been kind enough or sufficiently distracted to leave behind his scissors and a large number of safety pins. Then I wind a second turban and cut a long robe for myself, and finally, from the lining material that is like a cross between medical gauze and fishnet, I make a veil for Tilte.
Now we are transformed, and all in less than five minutes. And then the door opens and in front of us stands our host, building contractor and honorable member of the Danish parliament
, Charles de Finø.
The situation is prickly, but Tilte is clearly still surfing on the crest of invention.
“We were hoping you would come,” she says.
Svend Sewerman’s eyes have yet to adjust to the dim light, but he instantly recognizes Tilte’s thin voice.
“Miss Ahlefeldt-Laurvig!”
Then he notices our costumes and some systemic confusion becomes apparent.
“We represent the Advaita Vedanta Society of Anholt,” Tilte explains. “And thereby one of the world’s most supreme forms of nondogmatic meditation.”
Advaita Vedanta is, of course, well known on Finø as well as on the mainland, not least on account of the efforts of Ramana Maharshi, whose smiling mug adorns the wall of many a teenager’s bedroom in Denmark, and for this reason alone much ought now to be explained. Svend Sewerman relaxes noticeably.
“We wish to speak to you concerning a matter of the utmost importance,” says Tilte. “A rather urgent matter, I’m afraid, and perhaps our most significant reason for being here this evening. However, we must insist on your complete confidence.”
Svend Sewerman nods his head. His eyes are what I would call vacant, a sure sign that he is now being sucked into Tilte’s troposphere.
“At home at Anholt Manor,” Tilte continues, “my brother and I, and indeed our parents, too, are highly taken up with a phenomenon with which few in Denmark are as yet familiar. We call it hidden aristocracy. The idea is that in all the great noble families, children have been born outside of wedlock, and that these children have the inherent right to bear a title. The families involved have naturally always done their best to conceal this fact with a view to maintaining control of their vast fortunes. We believe the time has come for transparency. To this end we have begun searching for those children and their descendants. And we have discovered that there are two things in particular that characterize such persons of the aristocracy who are unaware of their own standing. First, there is what we call inner nobility, a sense of natural belonging in respect of noble circles. And the second thing is physiognomical similarity.”
I cannot profess to having followed Tilte in all that she has said. But I’m in no doubt that she has now ventured beyond the point at which solid ground begins to crumble underfoot.
And yet it immediately becomes clear that I can relax. Svend Sewerman’s breathing quickens, his eyes become milky white, and anyone who didn’t know better might think he was on the verge of breakdown. But Svend Sewerman was born a navvy and possesses the strength of a carthorse.
“Peter and I have grown up surrounded by hundreds of family portraits,” says Tilte. “And when we set eyes on you, a chill went down our spines. It really is striking how much you, Charles, resemble a true Ahlefeldt-Laurvig Finø.”
Once again, Tilte and I stand before a man who shows how speaking directly to the deepest desires of a person will be sufficient to trigger the complete shutdown of all cognitive systems. Svend Sewerman is at this moment putty in our hands, and the path forward onto the White Lady of Finø would seem to be opening out before us.
So imagine my dismay when a voice from the dimmest part of the room says, “Would that be on account of his protruding ears?”
We turn and see a woman seated at the back of the room. Her hair is yellow as corn and piled up like a haystack with a perm. Her arms are like the sides of beef on the buffet table, and at her feet is a bottle of cold beer. Tilte and I both know straightaway who she is: Svend Sewerman’s wife, Bullimilla Madsen, whom we recall having seen drive past once in a horse-drawn carriage with Svend and of whom we have heard tell that she is a sandwich maid by profession and that she refused to change her surname to de Finø. And we know, too, that this is a woman more generous by nature than her husband, because the day after Tilte and I had been sent packing from Finøholm without having sold a single lottery ticket, our brother Hans made his own attempt and was greeted at the door by Bullimilla, and she bought the whole lot.
So our overall impression is of a human being whose personality comprises many qualities.
Charles de Finø clearly feels that presentation is now called for.
“Tilte and Peter Ahlefeldt-Laurvig,” he announces. “In the ceremonial robes of the Supreme Veranda.”
Bullimilla takes a swig of her beer.
“Looks more like our curtains, if you ask me, Svend.”
This is an astute comment that passes Svend Sewerman by. Svend has more important matters on his agenda.
“How do we proceed?” he asks. “As to this possible—or likely—kinship?”
“Genealogy,” says Tilte. “We shall be needing your family tree. And then we must go to Copenhagen, to the State Archives. Unfortunately, the ferry doesn’t leave until Wednesday, so we shall have to wait.”
“The White Lady sails tonight,” says Svend Sewerman. “We’ll provide you with a cabin. And that tree you’ll be needing.”
His head disappears into a drawer. Bullimilla pensively pours the last half of her beer down her throat and plucks a new bottle from the crate.
“How fitting that you should belong to nobility, Svend,” she says. “Coming from that fine family of yours. Four generations of toilet cleaners in Finø Town. And before them a haze of shepherds and half-wits wandering about on the heath.”
Her tone is not without warmth, though it is mostly weary. I find myself wondering if she lives with an elephant keeper.
“Tonight,” she says, only partly to herself, “I have seen more nutters than in all the years I managed the canteen at Kolding Town Hall. And the night’s still young.”
As so often before, Tilte elects to proceed along the direct path.
“Mrs. Madsen,” she says, “what would you say if it should turn out that you were a countess?”
“I’d pay money not to be,” says Bullimilla, “if it meant not having to be lumbered with nutters like the ones here tonight.”
Svend Sewerman hands us a memory stick and a book bound in golden leather, presumably his family tree and suchlike. Time is short and we must be off.
“I don’t suppose there’d be any chance of getting those curtains back from the supreme whatever it was?”
The question comes from Bullimilla.
“Most certainly,” says Tilte. “And when they return they will have been blessed and sprinkled with holy water by leading religious figures.”
Svend Sewerman holds the door and we dive back into the human sea. The last thing we hear is Bullimilla’s voice.
“Nutters, Svend. Like all your other friends. And these were only children.”
33
We pass through the crowd once more, but this time our passage is smoother for our being hidden behind Svend Sewerman. We catch glimpses of Thorkild Thorlacius and Anaflabia, and of Lars and Katinka, but remain unnoticed by them all, and the only unpleasant surprise along the way is that I happen to eyeball Alexander Flounderblood, whose presence I hasten to explain away by him being the ministerial envoy and thereby a natural member of Finø’s intelligentsia, and by that time we have reached the door at the other end, and thereby our finishing line. There, however, we come to a halt.
Our standstill is down to Tilte, who has stopped dead in front of a person whose skin is slightly too olive colored to be ghostly white but nevertheless is palid in the extreme. In his right hand, the person in question holds a rosary, but at the sight of Tilte all prayer is arrested.
“Allow me,” says Svend, “to present my wife’s nephew and my own very dear friend, Jakob Aquinas Bordurio Madsen. Jakob is reading theology in Copenhagen and has set his sights on becoming a Catholic priest. He will be sailing with us to the capital tonight. Jakob, may I present Tilte and Peter Ahlefeldt-Laurvig of the Supreme Placenta at Anholt.”
Tilte slowly draws her veil aside. Jakob has, of course, recognized her despite the disguise, so the old adage that love is blind is not true, because love clearly is sighted. But now at least she is able to look him directly in the ey
e.
She indicates our costumes.
“In case you should be wondering about this, Jakob,” she says, “I can tell you that I have received a calling.”
And with that we are out the door. It closes behind us.
We emerge onto a lofty terrace, beneath which lies a rose garden. At the bottom of the garden, three carriages are waiting. All three make our own from Blågårds Plads look like a farmer’s cart, and each is drawn by six horses of the Finø Full Blood race that make the fiery steeds of Blågårds Plads look like something the vet has agreed to put down.
“Passengers will be driven to the ship,” Svend explains. “To the accompaniment of fireworks. In ten minutes. You’re in the first carriage.”
He bows and kisses Tilte’s hand, presses his own into mine, and pats Basker on the head, as though Basker, too, were an Ahlefeldt-Laurvig, and then we stride off through the roses.
When finally we are on our own, I succumb to the feeling of offense that has weighed heavily upon my heart for the last five minutes.
“Tilte,” I say, “all the great world religions have much to say in recommendation of truth. What is anyone supposed to think about the whopper you just told Svend Sewerman?”
I can sense Tilte begin to writhe inside, a sure sign that she is far from content.
“There’s a story in the Buddhists’ Pali Canon in which Buddha kills fifty pirates so as to prevent them from committing murder. As long as your intentions are sound, you can cut yourself some considerable slack.”