The Seventh Child (33 page)

It would be quite easy—but also drastic, it seemed to me.

Of course I’d been naive.

His voice sliced through my thoughts. “In the second half of 1961 and into the spring of 1962, there were only the seven of you in the room
…
and it’s those very seven sets of biological parents we can’t locate in the files
…
or anywhere else.” His summary of the problem was entirely accurate. “Of course, it’s the five boys we’re interested in.”

I looked up. “Tell me, what was so special about the Elephant Room in those months?”

This was a question I’d longed to ask of Magna, and now it paradoxically flew out of my mouth as I sat right across from the man who frightened me most. My question seemed to render him speechless, a silence that lasted several seconds.

“What is all this really about?” I insisted.

Malle found his words again. “You’ve had access to the records.”

I froze. “No, of course not.”

My answer was so flat it could suggest anything, and Malle reacted instantly to this provocation. “Fiddling with confidential documents is a criminal offense, Marie Ladegaard.”

“And why would I fiddle with those papers? An adopted child who wants to find his or her roots, that makes sense—it sounds quite likely—but I’m the only one from the Elephant Room who we know for sure arrived without papers, and hence without roots.”

For a moment he was impressed with the obvious logic of my point, and I exhaled slowly.

Susanne leaned closer, in all her reddish-brown glory. “There’s no reason to torment Marie. She has never had any reason to steal anyone’s papers,” she said.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Malle was caught in our crossfire; he put his fist on the teacup, and it was a miracle it survived.

“I’m very grateful for the help you gave me once, Carl,” Susanne said. “And you know my story as well as anybody. There’s nothing in this world that would cause me to accept any activity that could damage Kongslund, if I were able to prevent it
…
”

Her statement was made in a devilish hypothetical subjunctive form. Carl Malle had been played into a checkmate. If he sensed any illogical point, he wasn’t able to articulate it.

“Once there was a break-in here at Kongslund,” Susanne offered, “way back in Magna’s days. The entire second-floor office was ransacked, everything turned upside down. Maybe the papers disappeared then. Maybe you’re not the only one interested in them.”

Malle stared at her, and for a second I feared that Susanne would take the next step and implicate him directly:
Perhaps you were the one who turned it upside down?

But thankfully she didn’t.

“The only place those names might be is with Magna,” she said, thereby passing the buck to her predecessor. But Magna could take care of herself, and Susanne knew that.

I could have named yet another place: many of Kongslund’s children would be listed in the files at the National Hospital’s church. They would have been baptized in a rush, because they were weak and might die—or their mothers had hesitated and postponed the final separation, insisting on a baptism before they departed. But likely
he’d
already looked there in vain. Without a name on the birth certificate—and a date of birth—it wouldn’t be easy for Malle to find his way around those church records.

Malle nodded. He must have sensed that we were in cahoots without being able to prove how or why. With a visible strain he pulled himself together. The cup lay there like a little white baby bird under his big hand. “I’m in the process of tracing all the adoptive parents from that period,” he said slowly. “And through that, the current whereabouts of the children.” He paused for at least five seconds before he continued. “The letters to the ministry and the newspaper were mailed from the post office in Østerbro. I’ve found three stores in all of Zealand that sell the kind of envelopes that were used. One is at Østerbrogade.” He paused again. “There are many adopted children in the Copenhagen metro area, of course, but it narrows down the field somewhat.”

In other words, he must have cleared Asger Christoffersen from suspicion, since he lived in Aarhus. For now, the tall astronomer had been crossed off Malle’s list of suspects.

“But I can’t see how that leads anywhere,” said Susanne Ingemann,
who’d
recovered her color and her deep-red glow, holding her head high as usual. “Not until you find a motive that separates the innocent from the guilty.” There wasn’t a hint of a smile on her face. “Not that I think it’s so wrong to write people who have once been in an orphanage—maybe to help them.” She gazed at him calmly across the table, across the no-man’s-land and the decades that had passed. Then she concluded the conversation with a rare harshness, “But I suppose that’s not a sentiment you’re too familiar with.”

When he left he had, in spite of his apparent shock, been on the verge of asking to see my room. To search it. Look under the bed and in the closet and in my locked drawers. I could tell from his eyes.

But he kept it to himself.

Again I felt my own fear. He probably considered his next move and wanted to be sure of his decision.

For some reason Asger’s acquittal as the letter writer had made me uncomfortable. Malle might change his mind when his Copenhagen trail came to an end. I had followed Asger at a distance; it had been easy, because he was frequently in the papers whenever he offered accessible explanations for the mysteries of the cosmos. I,
who’d
grown up with a view of Hven and a secret crush on the old, silver-nosed astronomer Tycho Brahe at Uraniborg, had read most of them. Asger had visited Kongslund in the summer of 1975, right before he was to start eighth grade, and a few years after his parents, in a bizarre scene, had revealed his life’s secret to him.

I knew that Susanne knew the story;
she’d
once known him far better than I.

They had arrived at Kongslund around noon. Asger and his parents had traveled halfway across the country, through a heat wave that had Danes gasping at the sun and forcing them to the beach in droves.

He was fourteen and didn’t remember anything from his early years—not the house, not the water, not the large woman with the motherly embrace, and not the Japanese pull-along elephant or the young girl who curtsied so nicely, squeezing his hand in greeting that day. I had changed over the course of a few years and become fairer. With silly flattery my foster mother would sometimes call me beautiful.

Nonetheless he asked, “Have we met before?” These were formal words, especially from the mouth of a fourteen-year-old.

I shook my head, and he didn’t ask again. Asger’s father looked pale and said he would take a walk along the beach. A little later I saw him squatting at the very edge of the water as though he had heat stroke. His mother had drunk green oolong tea with Magna in the sunroom.

I showed Asger to the infant room, letting him stand there and take in the surroundings. The blue elephants trudged along the walls all around us, but he walked directly to the patio door and observed the sound.

“The elephants have always been here,” I said to catch his attention.

“Is that Hven—that over there?” he said.

I followed his gaze, but he wasn’t looking at Hven at that moment. All the way down by the water’s edge, his father continued to crouch with his back to us. Then Asger suddenly pointed to the sky over his father’s head, and said, “Tycho Brahe believed the earth was the center of the universe. Throughout history, scientists have believed that they understood everything. But they always discover how little they really know, and how many mistakes they’ve made—so why would we have complete knowledge today? Someday, even death will be considered nothing more than a limitation of the medieval age.”

It was an audacious statement, especially for a fourteen-year-old, even one as smart as Asger. I nodded without knowing what
he’d
meant; he was the most mysterious person I had ever met.

“Some researchers believe there is no such thing as time,” he said. “And if time doesn’t exist, maybe space doesn’t either. If there’s no space, then all movement must be an illusion as well.”

They were peculiar words in a place like this (but I wrote them down carefully in my journals when I was alone).

Down on the beach, his father leaned forward all the way to the water as though he were studying his reflection. Asger stepped away from the window, and I remember he had tears in his eyes, though I didn’t understand why.

“I wish it was like that,” he said dreamily.

“How?” I asked foolishly. Suddenly, I had a feeling he was talking about his parents. But if that was the case, his response was even more distant and peculiar than his other statements.

“That one’s
thoughts
were the only force in the world,” he said.

Then he ran out of the infant room, leaving me standing alone among the marching blue elephants.

There were 2,973 in all.

17

THE PROFESSOR

May 13, 2008

“Here at Kongslund
,
we’ve never needed the help of neither
God nor the Devil,” I often heard my foster mother tell visitors from abroad, who came to Kongslund to study her impressive work as well as her governesses. One delegation came all the way from Tokyo, bringing the pull-along elephant as a gift, and no one doubted that the entities she was referring to were men—men of the worst kind.

In Magna’s world, everything unforeseen and twisted could be straightened out and put in working order, and her own daughter was the embodiment of that belief. For that reason alone, she overlooked the obvious, failing to see the shadow looming above, which Magdalene in her diaries referred to as the Great Master, the king of all of life’s seeming coincidences, always on the lookout for human folly, patting your cheek, ingratiating, irresistible, nonchalant, unpredictable—and entirely ruthless.

Naturally, it was from here destruction would come.

Everyone sensed that it was a very special morning. You could tell from the minister’s step, from the chief of staff’s sniffling, from Bog Man’s huffing, and from the Witch Doctor’s unusual silence.

It was Tuesday, May 13, 2008. The sun shone through a cloudless sky, making everyone in the ministry think of wide beeches and green groves, in spite of the growing fear that marked the last few days.

Eight top executives had gathered in the department head’s office. Most would attend the anniversary celebration at Kongslund later that morning, because when Kongslund’s legendary matron was honored for her sixty years in the service of Goodness of Heart, the ministry wanted to turn out in large numbers, of course.

Half of the group noisily browsed the newspapers that had been set out for them, which included reviews of the in-depth mini-documentary about Kongslund that Channel DK had broadcast the night before.

According to the morning papers, Channel DK’s anchorman, Peter Trøst, had criticized the ministry for its “undemocratic inaccessibility” and cast a dark, mysterious sheen over the entire affair with the anonymous letters:
Had Kongslund participated in a secret arrangement to cover up the extramarital affairs of powerful men in order to maintain a good relationship with the authorities in the 1950s and 1960s? Had the home established a secret alternative to the then risky and illegal back-alley abortions, taking children from their mothers at birth and funneling them into a clandestine adoption system that erased all trace of the biological parents?

Both the TV station and the morning papers had called for the aid of individuals who had been put up for adoption during the period between 1950 and 1970 and who had been unable to find their biological parents. They were reportedly getting a lot of calls. Surprisingly, many had incredible stories about their own mysterious past, even though most could not be verified. Indeed, editors were swamped with fairy-tale-like reports from Danes who thought they might be the offspring of rich and famous people—counts and barons—possibly even the royal family itself, because surely someone had given in to the temptations of the flesh.

At today’s briefing the minister had expressly banned his closest staff from publically discussing the story. Nothing, certainly not the tabloids, would prevent him from participating happily in the anniversary at Kongslund. That much was clear. So Bog Man turned instead to the case of the little Tamil boy. The eleven-year-old boy had come to Denmark as an unaccompanied refugee—before his asylum application was determined to be unfounded—and had been routinely dismissed by a caseworker, who knew little about Sri Lanka other than that it was very far away.

On older official had attached to the case file a couple of newspaper stories with headlines that read: “Orphaned Tamil Boy to Be Deported” and “A New Hard Line: Even Young Children Denied Asylum.”

Orla Berntsen studied the backs of his hands but kept his fingers calm. “Red Cross protests,” he said. His face was pale, aside from a faint belt of freckles across his chubby cheeks and piglike nose. “And Søren Severin Nielsen represents the boy.”

The name alone caused involuntary twitches around the table, because this particular attorney always litigated his cases in the press—regardless of how hopeless they were.

“Is there anything for him to return to?” Bog Man asked, gazing out from behind the gray bags under his eyes, and then added uncharacteristically, “After all, he’s only a little boy.”

Orla Berntsen inhaled deeply before replying. “As we all know the age criteria for an automatic grant of stay has been decreasing over the last couple of years, and now the council and the board have established a new practice according to clear signals from the administration. We will now deport children ages eleven and up.” He tapped the file. “This case is a test for the council and therefore also for the ministry and the administration. The deportation will deliver the intended signal.”

“Don’t send them to Denmark,” one clerk said.

There was an awkward silence for a minute, as though something untoward had been said, or at least spoken too loudly.

Bog Man glanced at his watch, which year after year hung more loosely from his bony wrist. His eyes had sunken into a fold as far down his cheek as was physically possible. His face was expressionless.

“I see,” he said. “So we’re going to have the fight about that principle now?” Bog Man looked at Orla.

The chief of staff held Bog Man’s gaze. “Since we haven’t taken such a hard line before, an unswerving execution of the deportation may seem
…
unpleasant,” he said. “However, it would be most unfortunate if we gave in only to have it used against us in future cases. And that would no doubt happen. Kids from all over the world would suddenly flood Denmark
…
” He let the sentence hang threateningly in the air for a moment. “And that’s not what the parliament, or the people, want.” This was how even the most irresolute avoided feeling any responsibility for the destinies they handed out. The decisions came from the people and were carried out by parliament, but neither of these groups saw the consequences up close. Nor did the officials in the Ministry of National Affairs. In other words, unpleasant images did not enter the system anywhere. That’s how it worked, and it worked exceptionally well.

“Simply put,” the chief of staff continued, studying the expressionless faces around the table one by one, “if we deal with the controversy now, it’ll have the additional benefit of diverting attention from the ridiculous matter of the anonymous letter that the opposition hopes will discredit the party and, through that, the administration.”

He was willing to risk sharing this part of the plan with his tight inner circle, and he did not need to hide the quick, triumphant flash in his eyes.

Everyone instantly understood the position of the chief of staff’s office.

“Well, I suppose that’s all then,” Bog Man said, standing. “We’ll continue the casework as we have, including the Sri Lankan ones.”

At that, the eight officials rose.

Bog Man remained standing by the window looking down into the courtyard, where the elegantly chiseled snake held its neck back, spewing water into the sky. The Terrarium was what some wise guy in the second immigration services office had called the courtyard. Perhaps he was referring to the entire ministry.

Peter Trøst had read three of the reviews of the previous night’s broadcast while brushing his teeth in the executive suite on the ninth floor and putting on the first suit of the day. And
he’d
read two more before he stepped out of the elevator on the sixth floor of the Cigar.

The phone lines were buzzing, and he sensed the Professor’s presence even before he spoke.

“Trøst?” Bjørn Meliassen’s voice emerged from the loudspeaker like a faint buzzing from an electric kettle: nasal, almost whispering. “Trøst, goddamnit
…
Trøst, pick up
…
I need to see you. Immediately.”

Three floors up, the chairman of the board would be bent over his large desk with the newspaper coverage of last night’s program laid out in front of him. Presumably the minister of national affairs had already called him, furious.

Peter stared at the landscape below, mere shadows in the morning mist: Gadstrup, Viby, Osted, Kike Hvalsø
…
small towns, small people
…
the ordinary life. He hated that phrase.

“
Goddamnit, Trøst!
”

The Professor’s voice left no doubt about the subject of his call. The very notion of a follow-up on Kongslund had to be stopped. Any editor with a modicum of sense would follow orders, because it was easier to back down than take on a fight that would inevitably result in a reputation for being a provocateur with a secret political agenda. No one wanted to risk that label anymore. Those battles, which Peter and his fellow reporters had fought in the eighties and nineties, and which they’d referred to as idealism, had become meaningless with the explosion of competing entertainment outlets. Instead, they’d all made an about-face, like an armada that retreats when met by an invincible fortress. Over the years, most of them had come to chastise everything that resembled the views they had once held, and they were merciless in their clashes with anyone
who’d
not abandoned those same bastions. It had made Channel DK a success, and for seven fat years things had been going well. But now the ratings were dropping inexplicably month by month.

“Trøst, answer the phone
…
now!” Meliassen’s voice was now so nasal that his consonants crackled through the intercom.

Peter disconnected his boss and then picked up the phone and called the Ministry of National Affairs instead.

He asked the secretary to be patched through to the minister, and to his surprise he was, without hesitation. At that moment, the May sun broke through a passing cloud and bathed the distant buildings in a blinding light. Peter swung his legs onto the desk and pressed the red “Record” button. The tape started rolling.

“Enevold.”

For months, reporters had joked about how the minister no longer gave his full name because
Almind
was too close to the Danish word for
ordinary
, and the boldest among them jested that the future prime minister—at an unheard-of old age—would change the election rules in favor of the party and of himself, so that he could become the first democratically elected dictator on the planet—for life.

“It’s Trøst. I’m calling about Kongslund. We’re airing a follow-up, with news from the anniversary where you’ll be giving the speech. And of course the case itself.”

“I would imagine.”

“I’d like you on the program. It wouldn’t have to take long. We can do the interview in Skodsborg—today—whenever it works for you.”

“Have you made these plans with the Professor’s blessing?”

Peter sniggered. The conversation sounded like something out of the age of absolute monarchy. “No, of course not,” he said. “He’s chairman of the board, not an editor.”

“Freedom of the press?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll avail myself of my own personal freedom—to not participate.”

“You won’t participate?”

“No, and you already know the reason why. And don’t call me again about that case. It’s filth.” The last words were nearly lopped off as he hung up.

Peter took the elevator to Ninth Heaven and prepared for the second inevitable confrontation of the day. For some time, the Professor had considered all critical journalism undesirable because it entailed mental activity no one was capable of any longer: “You can’t educate people via TV!” he roared to the Concept Lions. “It’s like asking a piano to mow the lawn—it can’t be done!” The lions had simply nodded.

The Professor sat behind his desk, aglow from the blue light emitted by the many TV screens. One was on his desk, one was built into the ceiling, one hung above the door, and a couple others rested on two low mahogany tables set on casters in the western portion of the office. The man was crouched forward, and he had a scowl on his face that made him look like the black vulture from the nature film
The Living Desert—
which Peter had seen as a child—as it bent over its prey, a chunk of heart in its beak.