The Solitaire Mystery

  I sat thumbing back and forth through the pages I had just read.

  Even though Baker Hans hadn’t heard the whole of the old prophecy, there was a clear relationship between a lot of the sentences.

  ‘The baker’s son escapes over the mountains and settles in remote village. The baker conceals the treasures from the magic island. The future lies in the cards. The village shelters neglected boy whose mother has passed away. The baker gives him the sparkling drink and shows him the beautiful fish …’

  The baker’s son was obviously Baker Hans. Frode had already understood that much. The remote village had to be Dorf, and the boy whose mother had died – it couldn’t be anyone but Albert.

  Then Baker Hans had missed two of the Threes, but if I read the sentences of the other Threes together with the Twos’ sentences, there was another clear relationship.

  ‘The sailor marries beautiful woman who gives birth to a baby boy before she travels to land in the south to find herself. Father and son search for the beautiful woman who can’t find herself. The dwarf with cold hands points the way to remote village and gives the boy from the land in the north a magnifying glass on his journey. The magnifying glass matches chip in goldfish bowl. The goldfish does not give away the island’s secret, but the sticky bun does …’

  This was all pretty clear, yet there were some sentences I didn’t understand.

  ‘The inner box unpacks the outer box at the same time as the outer box unpacks the inner …’ ‘The sticky-bun man shouts down a magic funnel, so his voice carries hundreds of miles …’ ‘The sailor spits out strong drink …’

  If the last sentence meant that Dad would stop drinking every single night, I would be greatly impressed with him and the old prophecy.

  The problem was that Baker Hans had heard only forty-two of the cards’ sentences. He had found it particularly difficult to concentrate towards the end, which wasn’t surprising, because the more the Joker Game progressed, the more distant it was from his own time. All this must have been veiled speech for Frode and Baker Hans, and that is always more difficult to remember than clear speech.

  The old prophecy would be veiled speech for most people today, too. I was the only one who knew who the dwarf with the cold fingers was, I was the only one who had access to the magnifying glass, and nobody else would understand what was meant by the sticky bun giving away the island’s secrets.

  Still, I was annoyed that Baker Hans hadn’t heard all the sentences, because now, due to his lack of concentration, a great deal of the prophecy would remain a hidden treasure for ever, and it was that exact part which concerned me and Dad. I was sure that one of the dwarfs had said something about us meeting Mama, and her wanting to return home to Norway with us …

  While I sat flicking through the sticky-bun book, out of the corner of my eye I saw a little figure peeping out from behind a newspaper stand. At first I thought it was a child who was having fun spying on me because I was sitting on my own, but then I realized that it was the little man from the garage. He appeared only for a moment and then he was gone.

  I was stiff with fear for a few seconds, but then I started to think: why was I so frightened of the dwarf? It was obvious he was following me, but there had been no indication that he wanted to harm me.

  Maybe he knew about the secret of the magic island, too. Yes, maybe he had given me the magnifying glass and sent me to Dorf just so I could read about it. In which case it wasn’t so odd that he wanted to see how I was doing. Literature like that wasn’t easy to find.

  I remembered that Dad had jokingly said that the dwarf was an artificial person who had been made by a Jewish sorcerer hundreds of years ago. Of course, he had only been joking, but if it was true, then maybe he had known Albert and Baker Hans.

  I wasn’t able to think or read any further, because Dad came running across the plaza toward me. He was a good head taller than everyone else. I hurriedly hid the sticky-bun book in my pocket.

  ‘Was I long?’ he asked breathlessly.

  I shook my head.

  I had already decided to keep quiet about the dwarf. The fact that a little man was shuffling around Europe like us was nothing compared to what I had read in the sticky-bun book.

  ‘What have you been up to?’ Dad continued.

  I showed him the cards and told him I had been playing solitaire.

  At this point the waiter appeared and wanted his money for the last fizzy drink I had ordered.

  ‘That’s very small!’ he said.

  Dad shook his head in confusion.

  Of course, I knew the waiter was referring to the sticky-bun book, and I was afraid I’d be exposed. Therefore, I pulled out the magnifying glass, held it up in front of the waiter, and said, ‘It’s very clever.’

  ‘Yes, yes!’ he said. In this way I managed to avoid an embarrassing situation.

  When we left the café, I explained: ‘I was examining the playing cards to see whether there was more on them than the naked eye could see.’

  ‘And what was the result?’ Dad asked.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know,’ I said secretively.

  JACK OF DIAMONDS

  … any vanity Dad had

  was associated with being a joker …

  When we got back to the hotel room, I asked Dad if he had come any closer to finding Mama.

  ‘I visited an agent who makes a living by running some kind of liaison business for models. He insisted that there was no model working in Athens called Anita Tørå. He was quite sure and claimed that he knew all the models here – at any rate, all the foreign ones.’

  I must have looked like a grey winter’s afternoon, and on this particular day it was raining. I felt the tears press against my eyelids. Dad quickly added, ‘I showed him the picture from the fashion magazine, and suddenly there was a lot more life in the Greek. He told me she was called Sunny Beach, and no doubt this was her modelling name. He said she has been one of the most-sought-after models in Athens for several years.’

  ‘So?’ I said, staring searchingly into Dad’s eyes.

  He threw his hands in the air and said, ‘I have to call tomorrow after lunch.’

  ‘And that was all?’

  ‘Yes! We’ll just have to wait and see, Hans Thomas. We’ll go up to the roof terrace this evening, and tomorrow we’ll drive to Piraeus. There’s bound to be a telephone there as well.’

  When he mentioned the roof terrace, I remembered something. I gathered my courage and said, ‘There’s just one more thing.’

  Dad looked at me with a puzzled expression on his face, but maybe he already knew what I was going to say.

  ‘There was something you were going to think about, and we agreed that you should think about it quickly.’

  He tried a manly laugh, but it didn’t quite work.

  ‘Oh that!’ he said. ‘Like I said, Hans Thomas – I’ll think about it, but today there have just been so many other things to think about.’

  I had a good idea – I dashed over to his travel bag and dug out a half bottle of whisky that was stuffed between his socks and T-shirts. Within a couple of seconds I was in the bathroom pouring it down the toilet.

  When Dad followed me into the bathroom and realised what I had done, he stood staring into the toilet bowl. Maybe he was debating whether he could bend down and lap up the remains before I flushed the toilet. But he hadn’t sunk that low. He turned towards me again, and couldn’t decide whether he should rage like a tiger or wag his tail like a puppy dog.

  ‘Okay, Hans Thomas. You win!’ he said in the end.

  We went back into the bedroom and sat down on a couple of chairs by the window. I looked at Dad, who was staring at the Acropolis.

  ‘Sparkling drink paralyses Joker’s senses,’ I muttered.

  Dad looked at me in astonishment.

  ‘What are you babbling about, Hans Thomas? Is it the Martini Rosso from yesterday?’

  ‘Nope! I Just meant that a true joker doesn’t drink alcoho
l, because he thinks better without it’

  ‘You really are crazy, but it’s probably hereditary.’

  I knew that I had attacked his weakest point, because any vanity Dad had was associated with being a joker.

  However, when I thought he might still be thinking about what was down the toilet, I said, ‘Now let’s go up to the roof terrace and sample every kind of soft drink that they have on the menu. You can have cola or Seven-Up, orange juice, tomato juice, or a fizzy drink with a pear flavour – or maybe you’d like to try all these at once? You can fill your glass with freezing ice cubes and stir them with a long spoon –’

  ‘Okay, thank you, that’ll do,’ he interrupted.

  ‘But we have a deal?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and an old sailor always keeps his word.’

  ‘Great! In return I’ll tell you a wild story.’

  We hurried up to the roof and sat at the same table as the night before; it wasn’t long before the same waiter appeared.

  In English I asked what kind of soft drinks he had. We ended up ordering two glasses and four different bottles. The waiter shook his head and mumbled something about father and son wanting wine one day and then drinking themselves silly on fizzy drinks the next. Dad replied that it kept the balance and there was justice in everything.

  When the waiter had disappeared, Dad turned to me and said, ‘It’s quite incredible, Hans Thomas. We’re sitting in a city with millions of people, and there’s just one ant we want to find in this enormous anthill.’

  ‘And it is the queen herself.’

  I thought this was a pretty smart comment, and Dad obviously did too; he unleashed a wide grin.

  ‘But this anthill is so well organised you really can find ant number 3,238,905,’ he said. He sat philosophising for a moment before he continued: ‘Athens is really just a smaller chamber in a much bigger anthill which is home to over five billion ants. Yet you can nearly always contact one particular ant among those five billion. You just have to plug a telephone into a wall and dial a number, and you know this planet has billions of telephones, Hans Thomas. You find them high up in the Alps, in the deepest African jungle, in Alaska and Tibet – and you can reach all of them from the telephone in your front room.’

  Something suddenly made me jump in my seat.

  ‘The sticky-bun man shouts down a magic funnel, so his voice carries hundreds of miles,’ I whispered excitedly, and in a flash I understood what the sentence from the Joker Game meant.

  Dad sighed wearily. ‘What is it now?’ he asked.

  I didn’t know how to explain, but I had to say something.

  ‘When you mentioned the Alps, I was reminded of the baker who gave me the sticky buns and the fizzy drink in the little village we visited. I remember he had a telephone, too, and with that he can contact people all over the world. He just needs to ring the operator and he can get the number for anybody on the whole planet.’

  He clearly wasn’t satisfied with my answer, and sat for a long time staring at the Acropolis.

  ‘So it’s not that you can’t tolerate philosophising, then?’

  I shook my head. The truth was, I was bursting with everything I had read in the sticky-bun book and was having difficulty keeping it to myself.

  As darkness started to creep over the town and the floodlights on the Acropolis were switched on, I said, ‘I promised to tell you a story.’

  ‘Go on, then,’ said Dad.

  So I began. I retold a great deal of what I had read in the sticky-bun book – all about Albert, Baker Hans, Frode, and the magic island. I didn’t think I was breaking my promise to the old baker in Dorf, because I presented the whole thing as though I had just made it up on the spot. I did have to make a bit up myself, and I tried not to mention the sticky-bun book.

  Dad was clearly impressed.

  ‘You have a damn good imagination, Hans Thomas,’ he said. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t be a philosopher after all, maybe you should try your hand at being a writer first.’

  Once again I was being praised for something I didn’t really have anything to do with.

  When we went to bed later that evening, I was the first to fall asleep. I lay awake for quite a while before I dozed off, but Dad stayed awake for even longer. The last thing I remember was him getting out of bed and standing by the window.

  When I woke up the next morning, Dad was still fast asleep. I thought he looked like a bear who had just begun his long winter hibernation.

  I found the magnifying glass and the sticky-bun book and read more about what happened on the magic island after the great Joker Banquet.

  QUEEN OF DIAMONDS

  … And then the little clown

  broke down and cried …

  The large circle broke up as soon as the Joker had beaten his chest and said a few formal words in praise of himself, and then the festivities were under way again. Some of the dwarfs helped themselves to fruit and others poured themselves some of the sparkling drink. It wasn’t long before they started to call out all the names of all the flavours in the strange drink:

  ‘Honey!

  ‘Lavender!’

  ‘Kurberry!’

  ‘Ringroot!’

  ‘Gramines!’

  Frode sat watching me. Even though he was an old man with white hair and wrinkles, his eyes still shone like polished emeralds. I thought what I had so often heard was true: that the eyes are the mirrors of the soul.

  The Joker clapped his hand again.

  ‘Do we fathom the depths of the Joker Game?’ he shouted across the hall.

  When he received no answer, he started to wave his arms around impatiently.

  ‘Don’t you see, Frode was the sailor with the pack of cards, and we are those playing cards. Or are you as pigheaded as he is?’

  It was obvious that the dwarfs in the hall didn’t know what the little fool was talking about. They didn’t seem very interested in finding out, either.

  ‘Ugh, what a troublemaker,’ exclaimed the Queen of Diamonds.

  ‘Yes, he is absolutely unbearable,’ another dwarf blurted out.

  The little Joker sat for a few seconds looking thoroughly miserable.

  ‘Does anybody understand?’ he tried again. He was so tense his bells tinkled, although he was trying to sit completely still.

  ‘No!’ a choir of dwarfs sang in harmony.

  ‘Don’t you realise that Frode has fooled us all and I am the fool?’

  Some of the dwarfs now put their hands over their eyes and ears, while others hurried to gulp down as much Rainbow Fizz as possible. It was as though they were doing their utmost not to understand the Joker.

  The King of Spades walked over to one of the tables and fetched a bottle of the sparkling drink. He held it up in front of the Joker and said, ‘Have we come here to solve riddles or have we come here to drink Rainbow Fizz?’

  ‘We have come to hear the truth,’ replied the Joker.

  Frode grabbed my arm and whispered into my ear, ‘I wouldn’t like to say how much of what I’ve created on the island will be left by the time this is over.’

  ‘Shall I try to stop him?’ I asked.

  Frode shook his head. ‘No, no. This game of solitaire must follow its own set of rules.’

  The next moment the Jack of Spades had run up to the Joker and pulled him off his throne. The other Jacks joined in. Three of them held the little fool down while the Jack of Clubs tried to force a bottle into the Joker’s mouth.

  The Joker tried to keep his mouth shut as tightly as possible at the same time, he spat out what they were trying to pour into him, so that it spurted across the hall.

  ‘Joker spits out the sparkling drink,’ he said, wiping his mouth. ‘Without the lie-nectar the little fool thinks more clearly.’

  With that, he jumped up and wrenched the bottle out of the Jack of Clubs’s hands, before throwing it to the floor. Then he ran to each of the four tables and started to smash bottles and decanters, so that the whole hall tinkled wi
th the sound of breaking glass. Even though glass shards rained down on the dwarfs, none of them was cut. Only Frode was cut slightly. I watched a drop of blood trickle across one of his hands.

  The sparkling liquid ran across the floor and gathered in big, sticky puddles. Some of the Twos and Threes lay down on the floor and began to lap up the Rainbow Fizz among all the shards of glass. Several of them got splinters of glass in their mouths, but they just spat them out again unharmed. Scandalised, the other dwarfs just stared.

  The first to speak was the King of Spades.

  ‘Jacks!’ he said. ‘I order you to chop off that fool’s head at once!’

  He needed to say no more; the four Jacks drew their swords and marched over to the Joker.

  I couldn’t just sit and watch, but as I was about to intervene, I felt a firm hand hold me back.

  The Joker’s little face crumpled with dejection.

  ‘Only Joker,’ he mumbled. ‘No … nobody else …’

  And then the little clown broke down and cried.

  The Jacks stumbled backwards; even the ones who had been covering their eyes and ears looked up in confusion. No doubt over the years they had witnessed many kinds of pranks from the mischievous clown, but this must have been the first time they had seen him cry.

  Frode’s eyes were shiny, and I understood then that there was no figure he cared for more than the little troublemaker. He tried to put his arm around the Joker’s shoulders.

  ‘There, there …’ he said comfortingly, but the Joker just shrugged his arm away.

  The King of Hearts now joined those gathered around the Joker and said, ‘I must remind you that you are not allowed to chop off a head which is crying.’

  ‘Bother!’ exclaimed the Jack of Spades.

  The King of Hearts continued: ‘Another very old rule says that you are not permitted to chop off a head before it has finished talking, and seeing as not all the cards have been put on the table, I command that the Joker be put on the table before we do away with his head.’

  ‘Thank you, dear King,’ sniffed the Joker. ‘You are the only one in this whole solitaire with thirteen good hearts.’