My mother nods. Despair is written across her face. I can only feel for her. What comes back to her now is of course the trauma of the time Bermuda Seagull talked her into singing that very song in front of the annual meeting of the North Jutland Clergymen’s Association.
“On the pathway of spiritual development,” I tell her, “none of us can avoid making sacrifice.”
As I speak the words, I sense everything falling into place inside my mother. And I sense that the last few days have precipitated a shift in what I think is called the division of responsibility between the two of us.
My mother turns toward the exhibition case. And then she begins to sing.
She performs only the first few bars, and then I feel a slight vibration beneath my feet. Perhaps my mother, my father, and Tilte and I are the only ones to notice. But I know for certain that the security box in the vaults is now on its way through the tunnel with Henrik’s bomb attached to it.
There’s one final concern. How will the sensitive souls here assembled, among them the Pope and the Dalai Lama and the seventeenth Karmapa and Her Majesty Queen Margrethe II of Denmark, react when the bomb goes off in just a few seconds?
And then an idea occurs to me. It would be too immodest to call it divine inspiration issuing directly from the Holy Spirit. But it’s a solid and sustainable revelation nonetheless.
I turn toward the assembly.
“Your Excellencies,” I announce in a suitably loud voice, “I am from the island of Finø. And there we bid our guests welcome by means of the famous Finø Salute.”
At this juncture I pause briefly to allow the interpreters to catch up.
“Originally, this had military significance. But these days it means May the peace of God be with you!”
And then comes the explosion. At first it’s a flash of light at the boathouse, then white smoke pouring from its windows and doors. And then its roof is raised a meter into the air, upon which the timber building collapses like a house of cards.
There’s a moment of silence in the former chapel. Then comes the applause.
I lean back against the wall so as not to fall down. The next moment, I’m surounded by security, and I get the feeling they’ve abandoned the theory about my being a ball boy from Wimbledon and are now more inclined towards the hypothesis that I’m some sort of religious hooligan who needs to be torn apart discreetly.
But no sooner do they grab me than they let go again and step aside, and now Conny stands before me. And though she addresses the assembly, she has placed her hand on my arm.
“Thank you indeed for this marvelous greeting from the island of Finø,” she says. “And now I would like to present a song about love. I imagine love to be a rather important concept to a conference such as this.”
I raise my head. The nape of Conny’s neck is less than half a meter away.
“In all the great religions, love is a keyword. What everyone agrees on is that although it may be hard to find and we must suffer along the way, love is what all of us are looking for. It is the natural state of every human being.”
I look up and she gazes straight into my eyes.
I cannot walk away, because I am unable to walk. I seep away, like some diluted liquid. Behind me, Conny says some more words, and it sounds like she is bidding welcome to heads of state, to religious leaders and to the queen, but I can’t make out exactly what she’s saying, all I can do is pray that my footballing legs will carry me into the hall, and my prayers are heard, because when I get there I collapse onto a convenient sofa.
67
Had there been a doctor around, he or she would have ordered five minutes’ rest to get myself together again. But there’s no time for that. Because as I slowly come around I see a handful of individuals already seated on an adjacent sofa, and these individuals are Thorkild Thorlacius, his wife, Vera the Secretary, and Anaflabia Borderrud. Moreover, Anaflabia has Black Henrik seated on her lap. Next to them stand Lars and Katinka. All wear the empty look of people who have just been reminded that the end of their days may come at any moment.
Katinka rattles a pair of handcuffs. It’s obvious they’re here to take Henrik away.
Not surprisingly, Anaflabia is the first to recover control.
“Does the Administration of Justice Act allow for sentences to be served at home with Mother?” she asks.
“Maybe the tail end,” says Katinka. “If the psychiatrists are in agreement.”
Everyone looks at Thorkild Thorlacius, who appears to be less than pleased.
“He was going to blow us all up,” he says. “The man must be stark raving mad.”
“He’s a good boy deep down,” says Anaflabia. “He got lost, that’s all.”
She draws Henrik to her bosom. He rests his head on her shoulder.
“We shall have to discuss the matter,” says Thorkild Thorlacius. “Take his behavior in prison into account. There’s always a chance.”
His gaze now falls on me. It may be that I am still in shock. But the look in his eyes could almost be confused with kindness.
“Your part in all this is not entirely clear to me, young man. Professionally, however, I believe there to be indications that with time and the proper care you might leave this life of crime and drugs and return to normal society.”
“Thank you very much,” I say.
“The mood in this building,” Thorlacius goes on, “is rather peculiar. Time has not permitted any thorough analysis, but my feeling is that whatever is going on in that room requires consultation with the upper echelons of the Department of Neural Research.”
I feel I’ve now regained sufficient strength to advance fifty meters. As I get to my feet, the party is suddenly augmented by the presence of Alexander Flounderblood, who comes staggering across the floor to slump down on the sofa.
“I fear for my mental health,” he says.
It’s a fear many would consider to be well-founded. But something has changed within me now. Perhaps on account of my seeing the nape of Conny’s neck at such close quarters, or because of what she said, or simply just ordinary relief. Whatever the reason, I suddenly feel a great affection for everyone. And to give you an idea of the scope of this feeling I can tell you that at this moment I would most likely even spare Karl Marauder his life if he were with us. And this affection extends so far as to include Alexander Flounderblood.
“Because of this slime,” Alexander says, endeavoring to remove some of what still adheres to his face, “my vision is impaired. So when I sat down just before to tidy myself with a napkin I inadvertently elbowed the woman seated on the bench next to me. Whereupon to my consternation she slumped to her side. I addressed her but received no reply. I reached out to touch her and found her to be dead! And all I can think is that this is the third time in twenty-four hours! Am I stricken by a curse, perhaps? Am I such a person who causes others to wither away at the very sight of me?”
“Alexander,” I say, “you are not such a person at all. I would say that you are the kind of person whose appearance gives a lot of people a great deal to think about, especially the way you look right now. But the lady on the bench was already dead, as indeed were the others you mention.”
Alexander stares at me.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says, “that perhaps I haven’t been entirely attentive to the positive aspects, limited though they may be, of working professionally with children.”
I take a step. My legs are rather steadier now. I need some air.
68
The hall is empty apart from security, but then I detect a movement between two pillars: it’s Tilte and Jakob Aquinas, and they haven’t seen me.
“Tilte,” says Jakob, “these past hours have changed me. I have seen things in myself and in your family. I have come to the conclusion that I am unsuited to the priesthood.”
And then Tilte kisses him.
I consider it impolite to remain standing and watch one’s sister snogging her boyfriend. What roots
me to the floor, however, is that Jakob’s rosary has become idle in his hand.
“Jakob,” says Tilte, “if you want to move ahead to the door, especially if you choose to dive headlong into this secular life again, it’s important you keep up your Hail Marys, even when we kiss. Should we try again?”
This time I wrench myself free and steal away.
I cross the courtyard outside. Jakob and Tilte come up alongside me. Hans and Ashanti and Basker are right behind them. Without speaking, we walk over the causeway, pass through the barrier, glancing through the window of the Portakabin to see Finn Flatfoot asleep with Titmouse on his lap, and continue along the lake.
A car is parked on the road. A Maserati. The path leads away into the bushes, then opens out onto a clearing, and on a bench sits Poul Bellerad, the shipowner, with a pair of binoculars. At his side stand the two bald bodyguards, one of whom is drying the ship owner’s eyes with a handkerchief, the other massaging his shoulders.
He turns as he hears us approach. His eyes light up hopefully, only then to grow dim when he sees it’s only us. He was hoping for Henrik.
“Poul,” I say, “there’s something I want to ask you.”
He stares emptily.
“Finø’s undertaker, Bermuda Seagull Jansson. She’s a friend of our family and in demand throughout the country, famed for laying people to rest as though they were going to a palace ball. She says only three things can make people draw up truly despicable plans, and those things are religion, sex, and money. I can understand religion and sex. But money …”
We’ve got company now. Behind the bench, Albert Winehappy appears with Lars and Katinka. Katinka has three pairs of handcuffs in her hands. She must have a stash somewhere, because the past twenty-four hours she’s kept them coming like halftime hot dogs at a football match.
The shipowner gets to his feet. He studies my face.
“You’re the one with the flowers,” he says. “Who are you in all this, anyway?”
“A victim,” I say. “A victim of circumstance.”
The handcuffs snap shut.
“Money may not be the best of motives,” says Bellerad, “but it’s the purest. Think about it.”
And then they lead him away.
Albert Winehappy remains. He’s in the process of unwrapping a dozen open sandwiches from an emergency lunchbox.
“It’s no use,” he says.
All we can do is give him a quizzical look. Perhaps he means it’s no use eating his sandwiches, because in five minutes he’ll be hungry again.
“These arrests. Court proceedings. Prison sentences. None of it’s any use. There’ll always be others to carry on the work. We haven’t got it right yet …”
Mostly, he’s talking to himself.
“The queen would like to thank you,” he says. “I’ll give you a lift, when I’ve finished eating.”
The others walk on ahead. He and I remain standing.
“Albert,” I say, “I think it’s important Tilte and I are afforded some assistance so as not to give too much away to all the journalists who are going to be upon us in a very short while. We might accidentally tell them a story that could give the general public the impression that the police and the intelligence services have been fast asleep on duty and given the runaround by a schoolboy and his sister.”
He stares at me blankly and stops munching.
“What could keep our mouths sealed would be if you were to swear, cross your heart and hope to die, that my mother and father will be let off the hook.”
He swallows what’s in his mouth. Then draws an X against the blubber of his chest.
“Cross my heart and hope to die,” he says.
69
From fairy tales I know that when you have the honor of standing before the queen so that she might thank you for something you’ve done, you may ask her to grant you a wish. But right now the only thing I can think of is to invite her to become one of my personal sponsors when I turn professional. Yet in view of our having saved a billion kroners’ worth of jewels and Conny having spoken to me about love while gazing into my eyes, such a wish seems rather small-minded, so all I can do is stand there in silence, rocking on the balls of my feet. Tilte, however, goes straight to the point.
“Your Majesty,” she says, ‘I have an acquaintance. It’s entirely likely that he’s nobility without him actually knowing for sure. Could we perhaps provide him with a title?”
The Queen considers Tilte pensively for a moment.
“That would be a matter for the Association of the Danish Nobility and the State Archives to decide,” she says. “Not the Court.”
Tilte steps up closer.
“Your Majesty’s word carries weight,” she says. “If I were to get my hands on some documents. Printouts of church records, for instance.”
I sense the queen soften. Tilte has her in her grasp.
“You shall have my private number,” the queen says. “Call me at the palace. We could pool our resources.”
We’re seated in the old chapel again. I gaze around the room at the costumes and the hats. And at Conny, who has sat down beside me. In the row in front of us sit Mother and Father. We haven’t really looked each other in the eye yet. I lean forward.
“Mother and Father,” I whisper, “I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to land this thing. It might not work. There are loads of examples of children being unable to forgive their parents. But we could take a small step in the right direction if we knew whether or not it was a coincidence that Ashanti here was in possession of Hans’s number in order that she might book him and no one else to pick her up from Blågårds Plads.”
My father turns and squirms.
“Your mother and I ran into her in the planning stages. We both considered that if Hans should ever have a chance in life it should be with someone like her.”
“I’m devastated,” I tell them. “By the two of you once again having a hand in it all. But I appreciate your honesty.”
The room falls silent. The Grand Synod is about to begin. So many people gathered, dancing in and out of the door as if it were an open gate. Conny takes my hand. I look around at the people in my presence, at Hans and Ashanti, Tilte and Conny. And at Pallas Athene, who thankfully is seated, because a moment ago I saw Tilte say something to her that clearly swept her legs from under her.
Perhaps it’s the mood in this great space. But all of a sudden I see the elephants that reside inside them all.
Beautiful animals, each and every one, though difficult to keep. Requiring much care and attention. Not to mention the amount of food they eat.
I feel the joy of knowing them all. And gratitude for being only a boy of fourteen without an elephant of his own, but with legs made for football and a natural, albeit somewhat inflated, tendency to modesty. Not forgetting a small fox terrier. I stroke Basker’s fur.
“Basker,” I whisper, “can you feel the door?”
70
We have never returned to Finø.
It may be that we’ve returned technically to the island, living here, and eating and sleeping at the rectory. But we have never returned home.
It has to do with what I was talking about before, about how when you change inside, those around you change, too, and vice versa.
When we came back from Copenhagen we were no longer the same. And the island to which we returned was no longer the island we knew.
I shall begin with the most obvious changes. The ones you can see with the naked eye.
Alexander Flounderblood has left the island, having taken on a more prominent position abroad, and Einar Flogginfellow has been reinstated as head of Finø Town School, though initially for a trial period only.
The whole school followed Alexander down to the ferry to see him off. And it wasn’t to deliver him the final coup de grâce that might relieve him of his suffering; it was to wish him a proper goodbye. For Alexander, too, was changed. Following the events I have related to you here, he was n
ever the same again. The last three months of his time at the school he spoke to the pupils as though they were human beings, and often one would find he had begun to daydream, standing at the window and gazing out upon the Sea of Opportunity as though scanning for something he had once glimpsed but that now was gone, something he could never forget.
Moreover, he had brought Vera back with him. She was standing by his side with one foot on the gangway when he caught sight of Tilte and me and came up to shake our hands. It was like there was something he wanted to tell us but never got the chance, because Vera called out to him and he turned and we waved, and then he was gone.
Tilte doesn’t live at the rectory anymore. In August she moved to Grenå to begin life as a boarder at Grenå High School, which Jakob Bordurio now also attends, and to begin with they lived in student accommodation at the Grenå Kollegium.
But not for long. Only for a month or so. After that, they moved into a swish apartment overlooking the beach.
Reliable sources inform me that it’s paid for by Tilte’s collaboration with Pallas Athene.
Pallas Athene came to Finø in the summer. Though we are accustomed to the finest vehicles—horse-drawn carriages and golf buggies and Mercedes Benzes and Maseratis and Bermuda’s armored wagon—members of the Finø public still paused to stare when the red Jaguar pulled up in front of the rectory and Pallas Athene climbed out in stilettos and a red wig, though thankfully without her helmet.
When she and Tilte withdrew to Tilte’s room, I thought at first that I was meant to go with them, Tilte and I having always stuck together through thick and thin. But this time she shook her head, though I could tell that Pallas Athene was surprised, too, seeing as how I was the one who discovered her.
“In Peter’s presence,” Tilte said, as though speaking of a person absent, “one sees the world conjugated in a multitude of ways. Yet there’s no getting away from the fact that he only just turned fifteen in May.”