The Elephant Keepers' Children

by Peter Høeg

  “Indeed,” says Thorkild. “Such must be the chain of events.”

  “There’s just the minor detail of where the body is,” Katinka adds.

  “Indeed,” says Thorkild. “The only uncertainty.”

  From my position opposite him I sense that Thorkild is impressed by Katinka’s ability to draw together the facts, though rather less aware of the sarcasm that oozes from her recapitulation.

  “Yesterday,” Katinka goes on, “when Lars and I released you from custody, a decision we now realize to have been a severe mistake, you, sir”—and at this juncture she indicates Thorkild—“presented yourself as a neural scientist. I suggest now that you and your companions remove yourselves from Langelinie to a place where you all can have your brains examined. What’s more, I think you should take that gentleman with the sticky-up hair with you.”

  This she says with a nod in the direction of Alexander Flounderblood.

  And with that she removes her gaze from Thorkild.

  One should always be careful about removing one’s gaze from Thorkild. Recent events have opened Tilte’s eyes and mine to the fact that the professor is equipped with the temper of an Italian donna, and this fate of nature has been reinforced by the blows that have been dealt him of late. Added to which is the man’s long-standing membership of the Academical Boxing Club.

  And sure enough, Thorkild now springs to his feet like a jack-in-the-box and launches a fierce uppercut toward Katinka’s abdomen.

  It is a blow invested with his full body weight. Had its delivery been completed, Katinka would most certainly have had a struggle on her hands. But the punch falls short. Or rather, a hand as heavy as a meat cleaver is brought down on the professor’s arm to foil his attack. And the hand belongs to Bullimilla.

  “What was that I heard about my canapés?” she says.

  By rights, Thorkild is not the one to ask, but he readily provides Bullimilla with a reply, which takes the form of a left hook aimed at her temple.

  This punch, too, is thwarted as Katinka comes in from behind, grabs the professor’s hand, and twists until he is forced down onto the table. In the same seamless movement she produces a pair of handcuffs, and for the second time in less than twenty-four hours the professor finds himself with both hands cuffed behind his back.

  Tilte and I have read with interest about how patterns of the opposite sex always form around the great mystics, like, for instance, the female attendants of Jesus and Buddha and Einar Flogginfellow, who never goes anywhere unless accompanied by his mother and his daughters and at least two top-flight players from the women’s team. Tilte and I have discussed whether some system kicks in every time a major personality unfolds, and this is a theory that is nourished empirically here at this breakfast table, where it becomes clear that the women surrounding Thorkild Thorlacius have not the slightest intention of retreating to their Danish pastries while their alpha male is led away.

  One minute his wife is sipping her herbal tea and nibbling her crispbread without butter, the next she’s spitting flames and smoke is coming out of her nostrils as she hurls herself at Katinka and Bullimilla.

  Tilte and I choose this strategic moment to sneak away. As we depart, I see Lars place a hand on the arm of Vera the Secretary, presumably to prevent her from putting her oar in.

  “I can’t stand to be touched,” says Vera.

  She says this in a voice that would have prompted Lars to let go if only he had heard it. But he is fully entangled in the catfight that is now ensuing and soon will be out of control.

  “Release her!” Anaflabia orders. “She’s my secretary!”

  “I don’t care if she’s your makeup artist or your personal shopper,” says Lars. “You two are coming down to the station where you can explain everything in a statement.”

  At this moment, Vera reveals the truth of her claim that she cannot stand to be touched, and she does so by planting her knee firmly in Lars’s abdomen.

  And this is the last thing Tilte and I and Basker see before we escape down the gangway.

  42

  Awaiting us on the quayside is not only a welcoming committee but also a crowd perhaps a hundred strong, including journalists and photographers and people with television cameras, which again goes to show the importance of Finø in the greater scheme of things.

  Tilte and I are looking to disappear into the throng, because now that we’ve got this far without being recognized by Lars and Katinka it would be tragic indeed if that were to happen at this point, so we’re the first to hit the quayside.

  But we forgot to take account of the journalists, and it now transpires that this is a section of the population that can organize a defensive wall worthy of any set piece involving Tilte and me on the edge of the penalty area, and they are upon us like hawks, sticking their microphones under our noses and wanting to know what confession we belong to and what our expectations are as to the conference, and I have to admit they catch us unawares.

  In this kind of situation, in which all your plans fall apart, the great systems of spiritual guidance will tend to rub their hands together in glee and say that it is at this point exactly that the world becomes fresh and open in all its shocking unexpectedness, and the Zen Buddhists would say that one should concentrate on one’s breathing, and the Vedantic Hindus would say that one must ask oneself who exactly is experiencing this outlandish breakdown, and the nuns of St. Teresa of Ávila’s convent somewhere in Andalucia would say that one must recite the Lord’s Prayer, and in a way all of this is what Tilte and I attempt to do at one and the same time.

  But this is also the point at which forgetfulness and distraction enter, and I forget to keep hold of Basker, who has tired of being kept underneath Svend Sewerman’s curtains and instead wants out and in on the action, and so he wriggles himself free and runs back up the gangway to gain a view of what’s going on.

  And at this very moment, the worst possible of all, Alexander and Thorkild and the three women appear, all of them handcuffed, and behind them come Lars and Katinka.

  Lars is sporting a black eye that is already so swollen that one ought to have a word and recommend he and Katinka putting off the wedding for at least five or six months until the swelling goes down. But his injury does not prevent him from spotting Basker, and now Katinka sees him, too. And not only do Lars and Katinka both see Basker, they also recognize him and draw the reasonable conclusion that Tilte and I cannot be far away. Their searching gaze falls upon us, at which point their common thought process grinds to a halt, foiled by our disguises. But then logic steps in to sweep all doubt aside, and now they realize that they have found the individuals they were supposed to have been guarding but who nevertheless managed to escape from their watchful eyes.

  Until this point, Lars has been keeping hold of Alexander and Thorkild, but now he lets go of them both and starts to run toward us.

  In a way, it’s rather touching for Tilte and me to witness how eager a detective constable can be to carry out his duty, even in such a tight spot as this. It’s the kind of diligence that means we all may sleep soundly in our beds at night.

  Unfortunately, it now undermines his cool, detached thinking. Personally, I would never leave two such individuals as Alexander Flounderblood and Thorkild Thorlacius unattended at any time, certainly not in their current state of mind. Because all it takes is just such a moment’s inattention for everything to go to pot.

  I turn to the journalists in front of us. It seems they’ve noticed very little of all this, and what they have noticed they lack the deductive premises to comprehend. So they’re still standing waiting to find out who Tilte and I are.

  “We’re singers, that’s all,” I tell them. “We accompany the two trance dancers, Alexander and Thorkild. That’s them up there on the gangway.”

  “They’re handcuffed,” says one of the journalists.

  “Indeed, but only to make sure they don’t hurt themselves when they’re in a trance,” I tell them.
/>   “Which is when they make contact with the dead,” Tilte adds.

  Tilte and I have no real notion of how journalists prioritize their time, but it becomes clear that trance dancing and contacting the dead are right up there at the top of the list, because now the defensive wall moves as one organism up the gangway, pinning Lars against the railing in the process.

  Here, however, his superior physical shape prevails. Half a dozen journalists are swept aside as though they were bowling pins, and for a brief and rather threatening moment Lars has a clear view.

  But then he is engulfed. And what engulfs him is Lama Svend-Holger, Polly Pigonia, Sinbad Al-Blablab, and their respective entourages, and the whole process looks rather haphazard, as though they merely want to get a look at what’s happening, but Tilte and I can see the gleam in their eyes, and in it we see the noble compassion that is the hallmark of all the great religions.

  We are about to turn and vanish into the crowd when the first journalist claws his way forward to Thorkild Thorlacius and in a clear voice asks him if he believes trance dancing will be a big thing at the conference and if he would mind showing the viewers a couple of steps.

  We’re spellbound, and thereby also able to hear the second question, which is put to Alexander Flounderblood and concerns whether he might have been in contact with any dead person recently.

  It is a question that is followed by a scream, from which it is apparent that Alexander, whose hands are cuffed, has delivered a kick to the groin of the inquisitive journalist. And after that, all hell breaks loose and the gangway dissolves into what most often would be referred to as a scuffle. By this time, Tilte and Basker and I have already made ourselves scarce.

  43

  We weave our way through the crowd and past the waiting cars. If like us you’ve been cooped up with a shipload of lunatics and then suddenly discover the whole wide world lies open at your feet, you will no doubt feel an urge to expel a whoop of joy, and this is indeed what we are about to do when the claw of a crane grips us tight and lifts us into the air.

  Many people in this situation would incline toward throwing in the towel, but not me. I’ve scored heaps of goals from positions such as this, hemmed in by four defenders who could have made a name for themselves in Hollywood as stand-ins for King Kong without even having to wear a mask. I have only a hundredth of a millimeter in which to maneuvre. But for the strong of faith, a hundredth of a millimeter is enough, so I whirl around and put the boot into the bloke behind us.

  It feels like kicking a fully inflated tractor tire, which is to say that it gives slightly, though without moving, and makes no sound. I know only one person with that kind of resilience, so I tip my head back to look straight into the blue doll’s eyes of our brother Hans.

  “Nice try, Brother,” he says softly, and I can tell from his voice that I at least managed to disturb his breathing.

  Then he opens the door of the car beside which we are standing, bundles us into the backseat, slips behind the wheel, and whisks us away.

  Although we have only glimpsed Hans’s face, it’s obvious that something about it has changed, and the resolute manner in which he is now acting seems only to confirm the impression. Part of the explanation is immediately apparent, because sitting beside us on the backseat is a person wearing a familiar sweater and running shoes, and that person is the gorgeous singer of Blågårds Plads.

  “You’ve met Ashanti, of course,” says Hans.

  I’ll be frank and say that the moment he utters those words I feel a sudden jolt in my heart. Though there ought to be plenty of other things to think about as we move along Langelinie quayside, and a great many questions need to be addressed, for a brief moment something else becomes salient. Because when Hans utters her name, Ashanti, he speaks it in the same way that Conny, who now is gone with the wind, spoke my own name, and it is a way of speaking a name that cannot be faked and may only occur when a person is genuinely in love with another.

  For that reason, it’s as sure as fate that in the short time that has passed, something has taken place between the singer and our brother, which has completely rearranged his furniture and pulled a major part of him down from the stars and back to earth and moreover has turned him into a person who is deliriously in love. And though this is exactly what Tilte and I have always wanted for him, the realization that it has now happened feels almost devastating. Because now I realize that I never really thought it would happen at all. Deep down, I always thought Hans would be there to look after me right to the very end, and now the end is suddenly nigh, now everything hurts and there’s a knot in the pit of my stomach.

  The car in which we are seated is a Mercedes, a make Tilte and I are beginning to take for granted. We turn toward the Langelinie bridge, but then Hans crosses the cycle lane, pulls up on the grass verge, and turns off the engine. Tilte and I cower in the depths of the car, peeping cautiously out of the windows. We see taxis passing by, and behind them the limousines that have picked up Polly, Lama Svend-Holger, and Sinbad Al-Blablab, a hearse containing Maria’s coffin, two police cars, and a black van with bars across the windows, and inside we catch a glimpse of Alexander Flounderblood staring straight ahead with a look that suggests he might be thinking of biting his way through the steel plating and throwing himself upon innocent passersby.

  “We need to go to Toldbodgade, Hansel,” says Tilte. “If that’s part of any galaxy you can find without the aid of astronomical navigation?”

  This is but good-natured banter, most people would say. Yet beneath the seeming innocence of it I hear something else, and what I hear is that Tilte feels the same way as I do about Hans and the Gorgeous One. We want so much for him to be happy. And I hear, too, that we now have another job to do if that happy childhood is ever to be brought back home to take its place alongside all those other trophies.

  44

  We drive on along Esplanaden. Tilte makes a sign. We stop and she gets out, goes into a kiosk, and comes back with a SIM card. This is an action replete with timeless wisdom, because although Katinka has already had a full morning, a mind such as hers is bound to discover that she’s lost her phone and then have it blocked.

  Tilte gets back into the car. As Hans prepares to pull away from the curb, she and I catch sight of something that prompts us to say, “Wait!”

  Esplanaden is a very fine boulevard and an obvious choice for excursions and walks organized by the Society for the Improvement of the Capital. On such occasions the society’s members most likely dwell upon the building that is now diagonally behind us and exudes such character as to make even us, who are so familiar with architectural distinction from our rectory home, feel like the Little Match Girl, despite our being seated inside a Mercedes.

  The main entrance of the building is a glass door as wide as a carriageway, and on the wall next to the door is a marble plaque, and this is what has attracted Tilte’s attention and mine, because engraved on the plaque are the words Bellerad Shipping.

  It’s hard to fully explain why Tilte and I now leap into action like two members of a synchronized swimming team, and all I can say is that we are driven by a sense of being at one with a higher purpose and with our own extensive experience at elbowing our way into even the most inaccessible places in order to shift lottery tickets for the benefit of Finø FC.

  “Reverse back three meters,” Tilte says to Hans. “Then get out and hold the door for Peter and me. Salute us when we get out. And then open the glass door for us.”

  As noted, everything indicates that Hans has been through a remarkable phase in his development. But he has yet to reach that advanced stage at which one might venture to contradict Tilte. So he reverses, gets out of the car, opens the door, and salutes. And then he holds the glass entrance door open for us.

  We enter a large reception area. Behind a desk sits a middle-aged woman in her early thirties, one of the kind familiar from the great religions, who guard something valuable with a Gurkha knife or a flaming sword.r />
  But right now, her guard is down, and the reason for this is the Mercedes, Hans standing to attention and saluting, and Svend Sewerman’s curtains draped in the manner of the Supreme Vedanta.

  In situations such as this, Tilte and I divide our labor. I break through the defense, while Tilte lurks to pick up the rebounds.

  I look around me for inspiration. The walls are adorned with photographs of the company’s ships. The first thing one notes is that these are not Optimist dinghies but container ships and supertankers from upward of one hundred thousand gross register tons. The next thing to catch one’s attention is the names. The ships have names like Aunt Lalandia Bellerad, Cousin Intrepid Bellerad, and Uncle Umbrage Bellerad.

  On the basis of this information I deduce two things: the vessels of Bellerad Shipping sail not with coconuts and tourists on Jutland’s Gudenå but with fuel oil and heavy cargo in the Persian Gulf; and Bellerad is a man who is proud and extremely fond of his family.

  I lean forward toward the guardian of the threshold.

  “I’m from the Saudi embassy,” I tell her. “With me I have Her Royal Highness Princess Til-te Aziz. We are here to inform Mr. Bellerad that he has been awarded the Order of King Abdul Aziz.”

  Next to the woman stand three men, who have been studying a map of the world on the wall. Now they turn slowly toward Tilte and me.

  Two of the men are bald and thickset, and equipped with the kind of aura that for a moment makes me think that perhaps Tilte and I ought not to have acted on that higher impulse at all but remained outside in the car.

  But it’s the man in the middle who now commands most of our attention. We know that this is Mr. Bellerad himself, and if you ask me how we could possibly know I would only be able to say that if one day you should find yourself standing in front of Hannibal or Anaflabia Borderrud or Napoleon, which is to say any of the great generals of history, then you wouldn’t be in any doubt either.