The Elephant Keepers' Children

by Peter Høeg

  “There’ll be exhibition cases in the other rooms as well,” says Tilte. “But the real jewels will be in the round one. It’s like when we went on that school trip to London and saw the Crown Jewels in the Tower, and it’s the same at Rosenborg Castle in Copenhagen. The most valuable treasures are all in the same place, and if the alarm goes off, the whole case automatically descends into the hole.”

  We think about that for a while, all three of us. And I don’t consider myself to be overstepping the bounds of our usual modesty when I say that when Tilte and Basker and I put our heads together, not a stone will remain unturned.

  “Why did they want the footage?” Tilte asks. “And where did they get it from?”

  I allow her second question to hang in the air. So as to afford the first my undivided care and attention.

  “They’ll have wanted to make sure no one discovered them.”

  “Then their plan, whatever it might be, involves an installation visible to workers, security guards, and anyone else,” says Tilte.

  “They must have been there themselves,” I venture. “Mother was away for one night. Do you remember? They got Bermuda to do the flowers in the church.”

  A recollection brushes by, and from my pocket I produce the folded piece of paper with the scribbled notes in pencil. I unfold it and turn it over. The blue heading says Voice Security. The V is emphasized. And inside the V is a little swirl of a treble clef.

  Tilte and Basker and I exchange glances.

  “She must have been doing some work for them,” Tilte ventures. “For Voice Security. That must be it. She’ll have been there as a security consultant.”

  We know nothing about a company called Voice Security. But our hearts go out to them, whoever they are. They’ll have wanted to make such a good impression. And yet they brought a wolf into the henhouse. Or rather: an elephant.

  We peruse the newspaper clippings again. And I can tell you they’re given our rigorous attention.

  The most recent is from last Monday, the day before Mother and Father disappeared. It concerns some sort of sneak preview of the exhibition whereby journalists and invited guests were allowed in to see the treasures. It’s clearly an invitation they’ve taken seriously, because all of them are done up to the nines so you’d think it was the end-of-term dance for the pupils of Ifigenia Bruhn’s Dancing School.

  There’s about a kilometer of exhibition cases, and gold and jewels glitter and sparkle behind the glass. It’s hard to make out anything in detail, but one gets the clear impression that if only you could get your long fingers inside just a single one of those exhibition cases and secure a long-term agreement with your conscience, then all liquidity problems would be solved once and for all and your cash flow ensured for the next three or four centuries.

  One of the photos is from the room where the seven days of footage was taken. The exhibition case now contains items on display, though it’s impossible to see what’s in it, only that it shines in a way that is at once intense and fluid, like a neon tube submerged in water. People are standing around it, their faces illuminated because of the light reflected from all the precious stones, and for that reason their features are unclear. But one face is darker than the rest. A dark, pensive face beneath a green turban.

  “If we had a feather, you could knock me down with it,” says Tilte. “That’s Ashanti, from Blågårds Plads!”

  And indeed it is, and behind her stand two men. Both are in suits and their faces are hidden, but not enough to disguise the two bodyguards with the BMW and the impressive sprinting abilities.

  We sink back into the sofa. The pieces of the puzzle seem to be falling into place. Only the most important remains. Basker growls quietly.

  “Basker wants to say something,” says Tilte. “He wants to point out that a lot may certainly be said about Mother and Father. They have their weaknesses, their soft spots, and their holes in the head. But they have also demonstrated cunning and guile. It would be unlike them to lay a plan that would put everything they own in jeopardy: their liberty, their children, their dog, their jobs, their good names and reputations. Only then to leave a big fat clue in a safe-deposit box they forget to pay for.”

  “And then go off like this,” I add, “in a rush.”

  We think about that for a while, all three of us. The room quivers.

  “It was spur of the moment,” says Tilte.

  “There was something they realized,” I say. “Something they hadn’t thought of.”

  Now Tilte and I are playing together.

  “It must have been something important,” says Tilte.

  I repeat her words slowly, partly because Basker is a dog and on occasion rather slow-witted compared to us, and partly because it all sounds so odd it needs to be said again.

  “Mother and Father plan a heist from the exhibition that’s being put on alongside the Grand Synod. Everything’s ready. And then they realize something. Whatever it is, it’s something they realize only at the last minute. It means they have to leave right away. And it’s so important they forget to cover their tracks, or else they couldn’t care less.”

  37

  There are those who might consider that after all the work Tilte and I have done this past hour we might deserve a break. We ourselves would, certainly. But there’s nothing quite as dangerous as leaning back into a comfy chair after a grueling first half, with a second half ahead that’s going to be even tougher, because before you know it you’re out of steam and there’s nothing left in reserve, and Tilte and Basker and I know this only too well.

  “There are two things we need to do,” says Tilte. “We need to get Maria back in the coffin. And we need to speak to Rickardt.”

  At that moment we rise from our chairs as though a miracle suddenly were happening in front of our eyes, the name of the miracle being bilocation, which is known in all religions and means that certain highly developed individuals allegedly are able to manifest themselves out of thin air, thereby to impart the joy of their presence in two different places all at once. And the reason we rise up like this is that beside us we hear a voice that belongs to Svend Sewerman’s wife, Bullimilla Madsen.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she says. “It is my pleasure to announce that dinner will now be served in the aftermost saloon.”

  With all due respect for Bullimilla Madsen, she is by no means the first person one might suspect to be capable of bilocation, but it becomes immediately clear to us that her voice in this instance issues from a public address system of such quality you would think that she had put her lips to your ear.

  Tilte and Basker and I are on our feet. Not only on account of our stomachs being empty and our throats parched, but because the aftermost saloon is the one through which we passed earlier, at which time it was deserted, and in the cold store of its galley we have parked Maria from Maribo.

  We’re there in seconds, initially to heave a sigh of relief. We’re the first, apart from Bullimilla herself and a waitress who stand ready to serve mountains of what looks like cold smørrebrød, which allows us the hope that the galley might be empty and that we’ll be able to sneak in and bring Maria out. And sure enough, there’s no one there, and no one has seen us either, because we peeped ever so cautiously from our hiding place behind the door, and now we’re down on all fours, crawling under cover of tables and chairs, and around the back of the high serving counter that separates the galley from the saloon, and now we are out of sight.

  What we envisage is a commando raid into the cold store to snatch Maria, then to await an unguarded moment for our getaway, and for Tilte and me this would be much like plucking ripe fruit in the gardens of Finø Town. But now a series of events occurs that makes us understand why Eckhart and the Zen patriarchs and the Vedic prophets and the Sufi sheikhs would seem to be in such complete agreement about one thing at least, that when asked to describe the world in one word, they all say: unstable.

  The first thing that happens is that Count Rickardt
Three Lions suddenly enters the saloon. He is carrying his archlute and gives Bullimilla such a start that a suspicion of mine is confirmed, which is that she is the one responsible for trying to conceal the instrument from Rickardt, almost certainly for fear that he might begin to perform during dinner.

  “Ladies,” says the Count, “I have been encouraged into providing diners with some musical accompaniment. The piece is from The Merry Widow.”

  Bullimilla’s protest is surprisingly lame: “We’re having canapés. They’re not suited to music.”

  We hear the count’s spurs jingle across the floor. He considers the buffet.

  “Little piles like that need to be digested with music,” he says.

  At this point, Tilte pops her head out from our hiding place and beckons Rickardt toward us, putting a finger to her lips before ducking back behind the counter. The count changes tack.

  “Allow me to test the acoustics,” he says to Bullimilla.

  And then he’s around the other side of the counter to where we’re hiding, and we drag him through the galley and out into the cold store and remove the bags from Maria.

  “We need to put her back,” says Tilte. “Before it’s too late. Where’s the coffin?”

  Rickardt is not over the moon about seeing Maria again.

  “In my cabin,” he says.

  At this moment, the door of the cold store opens. We cover Maria up again and the three of us dive behind her wheelchair.

  The person who now enters the cold store is arguably the person we least would have expected: Alexander Flounderblood. He stands motionless for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Then he comes straight toward the wheelchair.

  He stops half a meter away. Had he taken one more step, he would have seen us, and a situation would then have ensued from which we would have had more than a little difficulty extricating ourselves.

  But he doesn’t notice. All his attention is focused on a shelf containing a number of what look like, and indeed probably are, vacuum-packed sheep’s brains, most likely of the highly praised Finø breed, and next to them stand two bottles of champagne. Flounderblood picks these up and investigates their touch. Then, less than satisfied, he puts them back, turns, and is gone.

  We heave a sigh of relief, and when you heave a sigh of relief in a cold store your breath is white steam in the air. We open the door, and the galley is empty. The count wheels Maria out while Tilte and Basker and I lie prone at the corner of the counter, peeping to see if the coast is clear.

  Unfortunately, it isn’t. The table closest to the kitchen is now occupied by Vera the Secretary, Professor Thorkild Thorlacius and his wife, and Anaflabia Borderrud, and this intense little group has been joined by Alexander Flounderblood and our two officers of the Police Intelligence Service, Lars and Katinka.

  Tilte and I have no need to resort to verbal communication, because we each know what the other is thinking. What does the ministerial envoy to Finø have to do with Anaflabia and Thorkild?

  The answer soon transpires.

  “Five minutes more,” says Alexander Flounderblood with proud authority. “Champagne must never be served above ten degrees Celsius. Certainly not on an occasion such as the present. And here comes our delightful hostess with the crystal!”

  Bullimilla places the glasses on the table. When she has gone, Anaflabia leans forward. She speaks softly, which means that every word would be audible from the foredeck.

  “I’ve just received an email. From Bodil Fisker, municipal director of Grenå Kommune. They’ve received the professor’s appraisal of the situation following our inspection of the rectory and interviews with the children. The verdict would seem to be severe endogenous depression. The local authority is backing us completely. Tomorrow, the Ministry of Church Affairs and the parish council will be issuing a joint statement to the effect that Konstantin Finø has been released from all clerical duties and Clara Finø likewise from her services as organist. The statement will not include mention of their psychological habitus. However, we shall let it be known to selected members of the press that expert opinion initially indicates that both are suffering from severe depression. Bodil has assured us that the social services will remove the children from the home, and that they are to be separated as soon as they are found. We on our side have voiced concern that the girl in particular exerts a bad influence upon her younger brother. He will be placed in the Children’s Home at Grenå, she to begin with in a youth detention center on the island of Læsø. The press will not be informed of their intended whereabouts. This means that regardless of what the parents are up to we shall be able to put a lid on the matter, or at the very least say that whatever crimes have been committed were done by persons no longer in the service of the church and from which we can only distance ourselves. Alexander Flounderblood has provided us with the entire inventory of the children’s misdemeanors during the past two years, which in itself cries out for intervention from the authorities, and from which it furthermore transpires that the boy suffers from water on the brain. So, dear friends: an extremely prickly situation would seem to be resolved. To be frank, we are well deserving of champagne!”

  38

  At this point, before continuing my report of events, I must clear myself of any suspicion and explain that bit about water on the brain.

  It all takes place two years ago while Mother and Father are away on the second of their three tours leading to their remand in custody and the ecclesiastical court, and at that time Conny and I have known each other since we were little, just like everyone else who goes to Finø Town School. But since that time in the barrel, which was six years earlier, and which in a way was a shock to me, even if I was asking for it myself, since then there has never been any real contact, and I’ll be quite frank and say that the way I feel about her, even at a distance, there’s no way I would ever be able to gather courage enough to initiate any again.

  I don’t know if you have friends who are always messing about with their hair, but Conny does that. Let her out of sight for ten minutes and she’s changed her hairstyle, and it means that her neck, when you’re sitting behind her in class, always shows itself in new and surprising ways.

  In this particular situation I am about to relate, Alexander Flounderblood has just begun in the capacity of headmaster and has taken on a small number of lessons himself so as to gain evidence of our miserable academic state, and at this moment he’s giving us a history lesson, sketching out some memorable details of Hannibal’s journey across the Alps, when my attention falls on Conny’s neck, which today presents itself in hitherto unseen perspective. Her hair has a hint of red, perhaps like the first blush of morning in the chestnut trees when you’ve been out collecting gulls’ eggs and are on your way home to the rectory at four in the morning, if you understand what I mean. Below her hair is an area of fine down that gradually becomes more golden until eventually it wanes away, and from there her skin is white, but deeply so, like mother-of-pearl in the voluminous oyster shells found by the Northern Lighthouse, as though one might almost see through it. With my study this far comes the thought of the aroma that might be found in that place, and what it would feel like if one were to come close enough to touch it, and at that moment Hannibal’s journey across the Alps has slipped rather unnoticeably into the background, and suddenly Alexander Flounderblood is standing in front of me exuding military anger of the kind one might easily imagine Hannibal to have plagued his surroundings with.

  Flounderblood takes hold of my arm, and one has to give him his due and say that his grip is like a vise.

  “Get out and stand in the corridor,” he says, “and remain there until the lesson is over. Afterward, you and I will pay a visit to Boleslaw and have a little chat about your stance on the pursuit of academic knowledge.”

  Boleslaw Daddyboy is deputy head of Finø Town School and Alexander has brought him with him from the mainland. Rumor has it that he gave up a promising career in the army in order
to purge Finø Town School of unwanted elements. Meeting him is never a pleasant experience, but having to do so in the company of Alexander Flounderblood is a serious turn for the worse.

  At this point, something wells inside me. My own view is that it’s because of my spiritual training, because at this time Tilte has long since discovered the door and we have embarked upon what in the field of mysticism is referred to as a deeper process. What happens is that I sense myself rise up to the full height of my twelve-year-old frame and look straight into Alexander’s eyes, which at this moment look like the mouths of the cannon on the frigate Jutland, which lies permanently docked in Ebeltoft harbor and is the destination of Finø Town School’s annual trip every year on the first Sunday of September.

  “I would gladly,” I then hear myself say, “exchange all academic knowledge in the world but for a glimpse of Conny’s neck!”

  An indeterminate span of the aforementioned silence of the grave now descends.

  And then Alexander Flounderblood picks me up and carries me out of the classroom, thereby demonstrating that he is in possession of more raw muscle than his slim and well-groomed exterior might otherwise suggest, and on our way down the corridor to Boleslaw Daddyboy’s office I find solace in their evident need to manage my execution in tandem.

  But then Alexander comes to a halt, and he does so because Tilte has blocked his way.

  “Alexander,” she says, “I should like to exchange a few words with you in private.”

  By now it’ll be as apparent to you as it is to me that Tilte could bring a hurtling goods train to a halt if that was what she wanted, so of course Alexander Flounderblood stops in his tracks as though frozen by a death ray from some alien, and then he lets go of me and follows Tilte into the book depository with an empty and rather glazed look in his eyes.

  Tilte closes the door behind them, and on the other side they exchange words that would forever be sealed for posterity by their discretion and professional confidentiality had it not been for my accidentally putting my ear to the keyhole and thereby overhearing their brief conversation.