The Elephant Keepers' Children

by Peter Høeg

She must have pressed a button somewhere, because all of a sudden the murderer is standing beside me, and once again I failed to hear him approach.

  “Andrik,” she says, “the boy has a password that doesn’t belong to him. He won’t tell me where he got it from.”

  Andrik nods and looks concerned, which means I am now faced with two individuals, both of whom wear the same expression.

  “I could ask him about it in the steam baths,” says Andrik.

  One can only hazard a guess as to Andrik’s techniques of inquiry. But it seems unlikely that he would coax the answers out of me with mint humbugs and little words of encouragement. He probably wants to coax them out of me by holding my head under a jet of steam and then slamming it against the tiled floor.

  “I’m a dishwasher,” I tell him. “One of the guests in the restaurant left the band of a cigar behind and on it were an address and a phone number. The password was written on the inside.”

  They stare at me. Then the woman nods.

  “Sounds plausible, I suppose,” she says. “Andrik, would you be kind enough to see the young gentleman out? By the back stairs.”

  The man doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t need to. All he does is take a step closer and that’s enough for me to leap out of the chair. The woman opens a door at the other end of the room.

  The so-called back stairs are classy enough for most people to dream of having them at their main entrance. As we step out onto the landing, the woman clears her throat.

  “How long have your parents been missing?”

  “A few days.”

  Andrik and I begin our descent. She clears her throat again.

  “Andrik, he’s just a child.”

  The man nods. I sense some disappointment.

  We cross a courtyard with palms in great pots and a red vintage Jaguar parked at one side. Andrik must have a remote, because now a double gate opens and then we’re standing in a narrow street. Andrik looks both ways. The street is deserted. He puts his hand around my upper arm and squeezes tight.

  “Crybaby, are you?” he says.

  On this point, however, he is mistaken. If I shed a tiny tear it is only at the thought of the revenge I will take for him squeezing so hard.

  “I think this should be the first and last time we enjoy the pleasure of the young gentleman’s company,” he says. “Do you know what I mean?”

  “I do,” I say. “But what about them?”

  I peer into the darkness of the gateway we have just left.

  It’s the oldest trick in the book. But it’s also one of the best. If correctly employed, it provides ample illustration of something Tilte and I have studied at length. Great mystics all agree: words make reality.

  More than that, it’s the very basis of what all Danish football and handball players will know as the dustman’s trick: look one way, then go the other.

  Andrik’s fast, I’ll give him that. He spins round on his heels and stares into the gloom of the gateway to see who got past. And he’s alert, too, because as he does so he makes sure to keep a tight grip on my arm.

  But it’s too late. His grip on the situation is gone.

  I extricate myself as I have done so often when penned in by three defenders who could find work as steamrollers any day of the week. I twirl around like a ballerina on my left foot. And then I boot him up the behind.

  He’s in good shape. I can tell, because his buttocks are like footballs, firm and elastic against my instep.

  In case you are unfamiliar with the finer details of football, I can tell you that any great kick issues not from the leg but from the deep muscles of the abdomen. The most exquisite execution involves a seamless sequence of acceleration, contact, and follow-through, and this particular kick is indeed exquisitely executed. My whole body’s behind it, and its force is so perfectly directed as to send Andrik careering onto his nose four meters into the gateway darkness whence he came.

  I toss him the white towel that’s still draped around my shoulders.

  “Andrik,” I say, “what would you say to both of us trying to bear in mind the notion of compassion, before this escalates any further?”

  No answer is forthcoming, which hardly surprises me, because Andrik is already up and running in my direction.

  He’s a fairly decent sprinter. But his natural surroundings are marble bathtubs and expensive bottles of champagne, not the football fields of Finø, and his buttocks have not even begun to stop aching, so before I reach Højbro Plads he’s lost me for good.

  Even so, I keep running. Someone like Andrik might easily jump inside his great BMW and cruise the old city frothing at the mouth until he finds me again. So from instinct I run like a gazelle, because how else should one run in a strange city, through the narrow streets parallel to the pedestrian thoroughfare called Strøget until reaching Kongens Nytorv, where I slip between the cars that are parked to face the waterfront of Nyhavn?

  Reaching the Krinsen parterre in the middle of the square, I pass the red double-decker bus and catch a fleeting glimpse of the driver.

  He doesn’t see me, because he’s busy kissing a woman who is sitting on the seat diagonally behind him. And their kiss isn’t just a peck on the cheek but one of those kisses in which everything else ceases to exist, and the only things left are petals floating down from the sky, and butterflies, and violins weeping with joy.

  Which means I’ve plenty of time to make absolutely sure. There’s no doubt about it. The driver is Lars, detective constable of police intelligence. And the woman behind him is Katinka.

  In a way, it’s only natural. Lars and Katinka have carried out the intentions of changing profession that they voiced earlier on board the White Lady.

  It’s not hard to understand why. Anyone whose job involves the continuous risk of being assaulted by the likes of Alexander Beastly Flounderblood, Anaflabia Borderrud, and Thorkild Thorlacius-Claptrap would put in for reschooling as soon as humanly possible.

  On the other hand, it’s puzzling. A thought emerges, only to be denied the space it deserves, because the knowledge that a serial killer like Andrik is stalking me through the city compels me to concentrate on keeping my speed just above steady.

  54

  I cross the square in front of Amalienborg Palace and run down a narrow road, at the end of which I catch a glimpse of the harbor. I haven’t seen anything of Andrik, but then life on Mount Olympus is filled with nectar and ambrosia and too little exercise. I’ve started to look forward to telling Tilte and Hans and Basker and Ashanti of the inroads I’ve made, even though they perhaps point us in no particular direction.

  I take a left onto Toldbodgade, and at the same moment a black van comes up the ramp of the underground car park. It turns away from me and I catch sight of its number plate, T for Tilte and H for Hans, and the digits forming the date of Finø FC’s promotion to the Danish Minor Islands’ Super League.

  I sprint like a man possessed, but it’s already around the corner and gone. Soon, there’ll be no breath left inside me, and yet I manage to tumble through the door and take the stairs six at a time.

  The door is closed though unlocked, the apartment empty. It’s ten minutes after the time we agreed on. Normally, ten minutes would be of no consequence to Tilte. She always says the great religions operate with two kinds of time: profane time, which is the one shown by clocks, and sacred time, which is the one on which she runs.

  As far as I can see, the distinction is nothing but an excuse to turn up as she sees fit. But this is different. In this case, I know she ought to be here.

  I’m worried now. I look for signs.

  The apartment is still easy to survey. Once people move into a place, all its subtleties are lost in the mountain of clutter with which we all fill up our lives. That’s what we’re like in the rectory, at least. But no one’s properly moved in here yet, so I see it right away.

  Leaned against the wall by the bed are a number of framed pictures waiting to be hung on the walls, one in f
ront of the other and their reverse sides facing outward. Between the outermost picture and the next one in, someone has tucked a piece of thin card. It is small and rectangular, yet clearly visible, at least to a specialist such as me in the field of housework.

  I squat down to pick it up, and from there I can see along the floor.

  From this angle, the light reflects differently. And I see that something has been spilled in the kitchen area in the other room. Whatever it is has been wiped away, but the floor has not been washed afterward, and a dry film remains.

  I walk over and moisten a finger, draw it across the floor and taste. It’s faintly sweet, faintly sour, and would seem to be juice.

  I open the cupboard where a rubbish bag hangs from a holder. Uppermost in the bag is a dishcloth. I remove it, and underneath is a broken wineglass with a tall stem. I pick up a shard with the fleshy remnants of a yellow fruit stuck to it. Then I drop it back into the rubbish bag.

  Ordinary people such as you and I drink our juice from ordinary tumblers. Tilte drinks hers from wineglasses. She says it’s a sacred drink to be imbibed ritually.

  Tilte has drunk from the glass in the rubbish bag. But Tilte very seldom drops a glass on the floor. And if she ever did, she would never toss the shards into the rubbish without first wrapping them up. If you live in a household of six that produces as many bags of rubbish a day, you are aware that they need changing and carrying out to the bin and that some other member of the family might risk having an artery severed if you weren’t careful with broken glass.

  So now I’m really scared.

  My cognitive system stalls and I return to the bed to retrieve the little piece of card. To do so I must first tip the outermost picture, which is a photograph. I remove the card and allow the framed picture to fall back into place.

  But then I turn it around to look at the photo properly. It’s of a boy in football kit after what seems to have been a match played in rain, because it’s obvious the subject has been through several mud baths.

  On his jersey are the words: Finø AllStars.

  The boy is me.

  I don’t know who organized the cosmos. But sometimes one could have wished for rather more consideration. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate already.

  The picture was taken by my brother Hans after my first game for the Finø AllStars, in which I scored a goal that was so lucky I ought to have been embarrassed about it. But everything counts in football, even flukes.

  There are only two copies of the photo. I have one. The other I gave to Conny.

  I study the framed pictures one by one. There are film posters. Flyers for end-of-season dances at Ifigenia Bruhn’s Dancing School on Finø Town Square. In one frame is a collage of photographs showing three children.

  I know those children well. They are Smilla, Filla, and Mandrilla, Conny’s nieces.

  I go over to the window so as to at least become mobile and get some of my concern circulating.

  Some people in this situation would find sufficient reserves to recall the advice of the great mystics and reach inside toward the door. Perhaps you would find such reserves, but I can’t. Instead, I feel dizzy. If one thing is certain in all this uncertainty, it’s the fact that this is Conny’s apartment.

  I stare blindly into space. And yet I can’t be entirely blind, because now I see a car turn down the ramp of the underground car park.

  A red vintage Jaguar.

  Of course, it can’t possibly be the one I saw only minutes ago in Pallas Athene’s courtyard.

  On the windowsill in front of me is a telephone. I pick up the receiver.

  55

  I call directory inquiries and give the girl the home number from Pallas Athene’s address book and ask for a location.

  “You’re calling from it,” says the girl.

  But then she corrects herself.

  “No, sorry. It’s the floor below. This number’s registered on the fourth floor.”

  I clutch at the windowsill to steady my balance.

  “Is there a name?”

  “Maria. Maria and Josef Andrik Fiebelbitsel.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s a Jesus Fiebelbitsel, by any chance?”

  “Nothing here.”

  I hang up.

  Standing there alone in the doorway I know someone has kidnapped Tilte. And that it has something to do with the visit we paid to Bellerad Shipping. Someone must have followed us when we left.

  It’s a thought that has a very particular effect on me, something that until now has only ever presented itself a couple of times a year, and only on the football field. I feel that my next move will be decisive, that no one will be able to stop me. If a block of flats should get in my way it’ll be too bad, because all that’ll be left will be rubble and homeless tenants.

  It doesn’t feel like I’m the one pulling the strings. It comes from without, from the sky above the harbor.

  I don’t wait around for Hans. I walk out of the door, go down a floor, and ring the bell.

  Andrik opens the door. In the short time that has elapsed since we parted company, he has taken a bath, and his hair is still wet. He has also picked up the kids from kindergarten, because they wedge themselves against him on both sides, two white-haired twins, perhaps three years old.

  But he most certainly hasn’t had time to recover from the boot I gave his behind. So much is plain from the rather strained manner in which he is standing and from the pained look in his eyes. It’s a look that now makes way for another, for which dumbfounded astonishment would not be exactly the right expression, but that nonetheless falls short of shock and perhaps lies somewhere in between the two.

  “I’d like to speak to Maria,” I tell him.

  Pallas Athene now looms up above him, because even though she has discarded her stilettos and has put away her wig and helmet, she’s still a head taller than Andrik.

  The twins sense the situation is rather less than relaxed.

  “Daddy,” the girl asks, “is he dangerous?”

  Andrik shakes his head. But has yet to find his voice.

  I address Pallas Athene directly. Often, it saves time to skip the middleman and go straight to the top.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

  She shakes her head.

  “That’s quite all right,” I say. “I’ll come back in ten minutes and let myself in. Together with six strapping policemen and a search warrant.”

  They gape at me. And then they step aside. I walk in.

  The apartment is a big sister to the one upstairs. The layout’s the same, but this one’s larger, the balcony more expansive, and there are at least two more rooms. Pallas Athene ushers me into one of them and closes the door behind us.

  It’s a sort of conservatory. Beneath the glass ceiling are wicker chairs and a table, and vines with tiny grapes on them. There’s a bowl made of granite containing a naked cherub and a little fountain. And there’s a view across the harbor to Holmen and farther afield to Langelinie.

  “We’re staying in the apartment upstairs,” I tell her. “I just got home to find someone kidnapped my sister, Tilte. Everything points to it. I’m one hundred percent certain. You know something about the people whose password I used. I want to know what it is.”

  “I’ll need a smoke,” she says.

  Her hand does not tremble as she picks out a cigarette. But that’s only because she’s concentrating.

  “Every year, young people die in their droves, victims of passive smoking,” I say.

  She lights up, slowly and meticulously, and blows the smoke away from me.

  “You’ll survive,” she says. “I’ve got you sussed. You’d survive if you were run over by a tank. And the tank would come off worse. How old are you, anyway?”

  “Twenty-one,” I tell her.

  “That would make more sense. But you look more like you’re fourteen.”

  “I’m young at heart.”

  “Is it true you kicked Andrik’s b
ackside?”

  “He was squeezing my arm.”

  I pull up my T-shirt and show her the marks.

  “Tell me about it,” she says. “Sometimes you have to hit back. I’ve got seven convictions for violence against men. At work I can control it. It flares up in traffic. Some jerk blowing his horn before the lights have even changed. Or else running into the back of me. I go mad. Can’t control myself. Before I know it, I’m out of the car, pulling their door open, and smashing them in the face. My dad was a boxer. There was a lot of slapping around in our house. It’s in the system. But I’ve never touched the kids.”

  She takes a drag. People relate differently to smoke. Most smokers go on automatic pilot once they put a cigarette to their lips. But Pallas Athene relishes each and every drag with her entire being.

  “Do you know what Abakosh is?”

  “It’s a brothel,” I say.

  “But topflight. Andrik and I run five others. Abakosh is the flagship, though. It’s themed on the Greek Mysteries. We give the clients brief instruction in meditation and inner peace as part of the package. And we receive all religions. We have a costume collection as big as a theater wardrobe department. Monks, nuns, houris, angels, dakinis. The Virgin Mary, Kwannon Bosato, bishops’ miters, lamas’ hats. There’s something for everyone. It’s all a roaring success, and the location couldn’t be better. We’ve got Parliament, the Church of Holmen, the major bank headquarters, Slotsholmen and the government ministries, all the solicitors’ offices, and the newspapers. We’re raking it in. What’s more, we’re making people happy at the same time. Andrik looks after the ladies. A third of our clients are women.”

  She stubs out her cigarette deliberately, and in her movements I suddenly detect anger.

  “The drawback is it gets you so cranky sometimes. I love Andrik. But three months in the year I send him away to our holiday cottage at Tisvilde—just so I won’t need to see a man outside working hours. He comes into town and sees the kids every other weekend.”

  She meets my gaze, fixes her eyes on me, unbuttons her blouse, and lifts her breasts from her bra.