The Elephant Keepers' Children

by Peter Høeg

  Albert Winehappy fixes his gaze on Pallas Athene.

  “I run a brothel,” she says. “I did three men and a woman last night. We’ve got a card number for one of them. A Dane by the name of Henrik.”

  She writes some digits on the pad that’s lying on the desk as she consults her mobile. She must have investigated while I was serving cake to Alexander Flounderblood.

  Albert Winehappy turns back to me.

  “Do tell me what you’ve been up to since you gave us the slip.”

  I give him the short version, though with all the relevant headlines: our escape from Big Hill, the trip to Finøholm, the crossing on the White Lady, and our morning in Copenhagen. As I relate these events, I sense unease on the part of Pallas Athene. Perhaps it occurs to her that life may hold more severe fates than being bothered by men in traffic. But Albert Winehappy reveals no emotion, apart from profound satisfaction with his smørrebrød. By the time I reach the end of my tale, all twenty pieces have departed whence nothing ever returns.

  “You’re fourteen years old,” he says. “Technically, a child.”

  “But my soul has age. And I have reached deep into my being.”

  These are words I’d be reticent about uttering in the dressing room of Finø FC. But it’s imperative the man in front of me takes me seriously.

  He stares at me. His eyes seem to widen. And then he chuckles.

  He reaches a hand the size of a plum pudding under the table and produces what looks like a pirate’s chest. And from it he takes out his real lunch, the twenty pieces of smørrebrød heaped with delicacies merely being an appetizer. He senses my gaze.

  “I had a difficult childhood,” he says.

  “You should come and see mine,” I tell him.

  He lifts an open sandwich that seems to be little more than one great dollop of mayonnaise with the occasional shrimp peeping out coquettishly. He places it on his tongue and then closes his mouth, whereupon the whole thing disappears. From a folder on his desk he takes a sheet of paper on which are affixed four photographs of three men and a woman. Pallas Athene gives a start. One of the men has hair so white it looks like it’s been bleached with peroxide. I assume him to be Black Henrik, enemy number one of rats and the indebted alike. It’s hard to say anything about his appearance other than that this is a man of confidence who doesn’t mind demonstrating that fact.

  “You’ve heard of fundamentalism,” Albert Winehappy says. “Well, religion didn’t invent it. Most people are fundamentalists, and the world is a den of thieves.”

  Behind him is a small cask of draft beer. With pleasure and pride I note that Finø Brewery’s Special Brew seems to be winning market shares across the country. He fills a half-liter glass and pours the contents down his throat.

  “Cheers,” he says.

  I find myself thinking that if anyone should ever wish to discover Albert Winehappy’s weakness, all they’d have to do would be to take away his packed lunches or his draft beer and they’d have a fundamentalist on their hands before they could say Jack Robinson.

  “Globalization is putting the squeeze on the great religions, and their response is to go fundamental. The whole fucking lot of them. Fundamentalists are everywhere. Christians, Hindus, Buddhists, Islamists, and whatever else they all choose to call themselves. There’s only one safeguard, and that’s the police and the armed forces.”

  At this point, I’m very close to asking if we shouldn’t also mention Asa-Thor, which on Finø has recently demonstrated clear fundamentalist tendencies. Its membership has plummeted from seven to five since word got out that Einar Flogginfellow is considering sacrificing his son, Knud, who’s in the same class as Tilte, to Odin in order to compete with the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Denmark, not to mention Polly Pigonia and Sinbad Al-Blablab and Lama Svend-Holger, which consideration I warmly applaud seeing as how Knud is a habitual criminal second only to Karl Marauder Lander in despicability. But again my sense of timing tells me the moment would not be well chosen.

  “Fundamentalism begets terror,” says Albert Winehappy. “And most people harbor a terrorist inside them. It’s only a matter of time before he appears, and for that reason people have to be kept on a short lead. Ninety-five percent of the earth’s population needs to be told how to behave. That’s why terrorists work within organizations. Not one in a thousand ever works alone.”

  His eyes pick out a piece of smørrebrød. One must assume the towering heap of delicacies to rest somewhere upon a slice of rye bread, but this is nowhere visible. What is visible is a hunk of liver pâté as thick as a loaf, on top of which lies the greater part of the country’s annual yield of mushrooms, elegantly topped by rashers of crispy bacon from half a pig.

  “Those who do work alone are the tricky ones. We call them floaters. No permanent fixpoints and always on the move. They’re my area of expertise. And I’m going to tear their fucking heads off!”

  He drums a finger on the sheet of paper in front of him.

  “This lot here are floaters. We’ve known about them individually for more than ten years. What we’ve not seen until now—and what has never been seen before in history—is that they appear to have joined forces. And how the hell they can do that without murdering each other is something we’ve had more than a little trouble getting our heads around. So much so that we’re almost off our food.”

  I feel an urge to comfort him and tell him how confident I am that his appetite will survive, but at the same time I’ve no wish to distract him from the worthy successor to his liver pâté, which involves roast beef and would seem to require the aid of a forklift truck in order to successfully make the journey from plate to mouth.

  “The world’s a filthy place,” he says. “And when people get together they do so only out of need. We think that what brought these four hooligans together is something they believe to be even more dangerous than each other. And that something is the Grand Synod.”

  He now feels compelled to get to his feet and stand by the window. Propelling himself those few steps would seemingly equate to a marathon.

  “All the great religions have two sides to them. And if you ask me, one’s dafter than the other. There’s a side that faces outward. They call it exoteric, and it’s what the vast majority of adherents relate to. Then there’s the side that faces inward. That’s what they call esoteric, and it’s reserved for the chosen few. The exoteric, outward-facing side is what’s practiced in the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Denmark, in the Catholic Church, in mosques, temples, synagogues, and gompas all over the world. It’s all about external rites and rituals comforting believers, telling them that while they might be going through a rough patch right now, everything will be all right once they’re dead. The other side, the esoteric part, is for the loonies.”

  From the window, he casts a long glance back at the ten open sandwiches that remain alluringly on his enormous plate.

  “It’s for those who can’t make do with just a taste. The ones who can’t wait until they die, but who want all the answers here and now.”

  “You’re like that, too!”

  I blurt it out, with no idea why. But all of a sudden, I’m in no doubt that Albert Winehappy is an elephant keeper.

  “What the hell are you talking about, lad? Are you completely mad? Of course I’m not. All that’s in the past. I’m reformed. Religion is a disturbance of the brain.”

  He pauses, clearly intent on continuing. But I’ve been close to stealing the ball.

  “The Grand Synod is all to do with the innards of the great religions. It’s the first attempt ever on such a scale to open up a dialogue among madmen and mystics about the possibility of their being something unifying behind those faiths. The lunatic idea they’ve taken into their heads is to investigate whether their various religious understandings might share some common foundation. And to that end they’ve brought in neural scientists and psychologists. What the floaters are afraid of is that the different religions should discover them
selves to have more in common than they thought. And if they do, fundamentalism loses its legitimacy. No one’s likely to feel threatened by a person who’s basically as deranged as themselves. That’s what’s brought them together.”

  He gulps a mouthful of air and returns to his chair to finish his lunch. He doesn’t actually lick his plate, but my feeling is that’s only because he’s got company. From the larder underneath the desk he now produces a chocolate cake.

  It’s big enough to give pleasure to an entire parish council. Albert Winehappy considers it closely for a moment and decides there’s enough for all three of us. He cuts me and Pallas Athene two wafer-thin slices.

  “You’re a sportsman,” he says to me. “It’s in your file. You need to watch your weight.”

  “What about yourself?” says Pallas Athene.

  I can tell from Albert Winehappy that he is suddenly placed under pressure. It’s now glaringly obvious that the quickest way of freaking him out would be to go for the cake.

  “With your profession,” he says, “you need to keep yourself slim and attractive. And this, I’m afraid, is a calorie bomb.”

  He stuffs the cake into his mouth and swills half a liter of coffee from a thermal mug, then delicately brushes away the crumbs from his beard with a serviette.

  “What about my mother and father?” I ask him.

  And then he says something that bowls me over.

  “Your mother and father are upstanding citizens. They called and reported an explosive device. Concealed within the underground security box into which the jewels will descend in case of fire, vandalism, or attempted theft. The bomb squad were deployed immediately and took care of it all. I met with your parents. Your mother has done a splendid job of security. Decent people, both of them. Keen. Polite. Law-abiding. How the hell they managed to produce children like you is a mystery. But then again, the brain can be affected during a pregnancy. Your headmaster even states as much in the report. Water on the brain, wasn’t it?”

  Cautiously, I endeavor to open and close my mouth. It works, though only just.

  “So there’s no warrant out on them at all?”

  “Who? Your parents? Why the hell should there be? More likely they’ll be given a medal. Either that or a hundred million for having saved the valuables. That should be enough for them to get you and your sister a babysitter. Maybe they should inquire about bringing the Hells Angels in for the job. Cheers!”

  He downs another half liter of frothy special brew.

  “Why did they have to remove us from our home?” I ask. “And how come Hans was to be arrested?”

  “Request of your parents. So they’d know you were safe.”

  Among the first team of Finø FC, the Pastor’s Peter is renowned for his Oriental inscrutability. So you can’t tell by looking at me. But inside, I’m combusting. And the reason is that Mother and Father most certainly did not have us banged up with blue wristbands on for our own safety, because our safety was never threatened by anyone but themselves. The reason was so we wouldn’t be able to pick up their trail.

  “And my sister?” I ask.

  Albert Winehappy’s expression turns grave.

  “We’ve four thousand police officers on the streets. Civilian reinforcements from Sweden, Norway, Germany, and the United States. Close on seven thousand in all. We’ve got surveillance helicopters and coastal patrols, and we’re backed up by the civil defense and the fire brigade. As we speak, her picture has gone out and the search has been initiated. We’re going to fucking find her!”

  58

  We’re sitting in the Jaguar overlooking the square and the Nyhavn waterfront. We’ve called Hans and Ashanti, and it turns out they never got any farther than a lovers’ bench with a view of the harbor, and now they’ve met up with us here. We’ve told them everything. Pallas Athene starts the car and I realize she’s now driving differently from before, as though somehow she’s absent, which would be understandable considering how quickly she has been introduced into our family.

  Personally, I feel so low as to be bordering on despair. My in-depth religious studies in the company of Tilte have time and again brought to our attention that all the great masters recommend viewing any suffering one might be fortunate enough to experience in terms of a godsent opportunity, and all of them stress the notion that one should savor the experience and make sure not a drop is spilt.

  This is easier said than done, and even the smallest measure of success will render it impossible to retain control of anything else at the same time, one’s limbs, for example, and now my hand appears from out of my pocket with a small rectangular piece of card in it. This is what I found tucked between the framed pictures in Conny’s modest abode, just before everything took off, so I never actually got the chance to examine it. I do so now, discovering it to be a business card with a crucifix embossed on it. Next to the crucifix are the words Catholic University of Denmark. The address alongside says Bredgade. And below it is that very Danish of names, Jakob Aquinas Bordurio Madsen.

  What now happens inside me is difficult to explain and impossible to excuse. But a flash of madness zips through my brain. And the question that follows like a clap of thunder is this: What can the fact that this business card was found in Conny’s apartment mean, if not that Jakob Bordurio, the puma of Ifigenia Bruhn’s Dancing School, has set his sights on Conny and is now stalking his prey?

  I know what you’re going to say. Was I not dealing spiritually with my grief at Tilte being gone? And if that was the case, then how come I’m now spinning scenarios about Jakob and Conny all of a sudden? Of course, you’d be quite right, and the only thing I can say in my defense is that of all the demons depicted in the great religions, jealousy is and always will be captain of the team.

  But the very next instant I relax. Because the business card must have been put there by Tilte. And Conny is fourteen, whereas Jakob is seventeen, and no historical precedent exists whereby Conny has chased an older man. So common sense prevails, and the question now is why Tilte would have left it behind. Because Tilte, as I have already mentioned, isn’t one for dropping things, and everything would seem to indicate she left it for me to find.

  We turn right and pass a long, narrow park. At the end of the street we can see the harbor. Basker grizzles. He’s worried about Tilte, too. I turn the business card over in my hand, and on the back Tilte has written the figure 13 in pen.

  Thirteen is Tilte’s lucky number. She says it’s a lot better than it’s rumored to be. She was born on the thirteenth and is very pleased with the rectory’s address, which is Kirkevej 13, and Count Rickardt, who has conducted extensive research in numerology, has at length explained a great deal of matters whose details I am no longer able to recall but that all have to do with how well Tilte is suited to the number.

  But why that should prompt her to write it down on the back of Jakob’s business card is a question to which I find no immediate answer.

  “We need to make a detour,” I say. “To Bredgade.”

  And then a number of things happen in quick succession.

  The first of these is that Pallas Athene wrenches the steering wheel, pulling the Jaguar up onto the pavement and slamming on the brakes. We come to an abrupt halt amid the sound of squealing tires and the waft of burnt rubber.

  “I’ve got it,” she says.

  What she’s got is something we’re given no time to grasp, because now someone thumps a fist against the roof of the Jaguar, and not in the manner of a polite inquiry as to anyone being home but rather in a way that would make anyone think we’d landed in a scrap yard and the Jaguar was now being squashed into a cube. And that sets everything off.

  The face of a man inserts itself through Pallas Athene’s open window.

  The man is seated on what looks like a brand-new Raleigh. He’s wearing a suit and a white shirt and tie, bicycle clips keep his trouser legs in place, and his shoes are shiny. On the pannier is a leather case for a laptop, and in his hand
a voluminous bunch of long-stalked roses wrapped in cellophane, and now he yells into Pallas Athene’s face.

  “What the hell do you think you’re playing at, you stupid cow! Won your license in a lottery, did you? Never heard of the Highway Code?”

  I don’t know the man personally. And yet I’d give ten to one he’s a solicitor, that he’s now on his way home from the office to his apartment in Charlottenlund, that his fiancée is waiting for him, and that they’ll soon be married and have two, perhaps three, children and a dog, and then live happily ever after until the end of their days.

  It’s a project I can only warmly support. Even if I myself am destined to remain alone forever, I can still find pleasure in the happiness of others.

  That’s why I wish I’d had the time to tell the solicitor about how to keep one’s anger in check, a strategy all the great religions recommend and on which they even provide guidance. Unfortunately there’s no time at all, because now he’s already yelled into Pallas Athene’s face.

  Hers is the wrong face into which to yell. Her eyes glaze over, and before we know it she’s yanked the solicitor through the window by his lapels.

  Then she hesitates. She is almost certainly pausing to choose between two equally excellent avenues down which to proceed: Should she break the man’s neck or simply begin to tear off his head?

  This brief interlude is our chance. Hans, Ashanti, and I grab her, just as it becomes apparent from the look of satisfaction on her face that she has made her decision.

  For a moment, I don’t think we can hold her back. But then Hans flexes his muscles, and when Hans flexes his muscles all natural movement is suppressed. Slowly, the glaze disappears from her eyes. She looks at the solicitor and returns him through the window onto the saddle of his modest mode of transport.

  “On your bike, fat ass!” she says.

  He kicks off from the curb, accelerating away without looking back. As far as I can tell, he’s unharmed. But I have to say, as many of the great masters have said before me: a solicitor who has looked death in the face is no longer the same solicitor.