The Seventh Child (36 page)

He pauses for a moment, as if he wants to underscore a particular point. Then he continues: “ ‘In all of my years, I’ve hoped for a miracle. Not in the form of physical mobility or more words than those I’ve been given by Providence. Not in the form of Great Love—others have been able to tell me about that. Instead I dreamed of seeing a sign of the Divine in me, the way the Bible says the Divine resides in every single one of us. A glimpse of the selflessness that reaches beyond the spirit and the body. For many years, I believed such a miracle could only be experienced in a distant place, far from myself, or on a journey I was unable to make—or in books I would never be able to read. But the miracle was right here. Right in front of my eyes, here in the garden under the beeches. I found the miracle in the loneliest person I’ve ever met.’ ”

The minister grows silent. The wind doesn’t stir. Then he reads the final lines: “ ‘This is what I’ve always wanted to tell you, Marie, but didn’t have the courage to when I was alive. You were the love God gave me. You were the opening in my immobility. You were my light. It’s not until you grow old that you see all the simple things clearly. I know the answer now: Every time a human being sits alone in the dark crying for another human being, the miracle comes. And releases us.’ ”

The powerful minister raises the notebook and turns its handwritten pages toward the audience on the lawn—as if to celebrate an unknown triumph. “A foundling.”

The gesture has great effect, and every single guest on the lawn stands frozen—even the youngest photographers, some with tears in their eyes. Being ceremonious is a part of the minister’s popular appeal; only Magna’s blushing signals another feeling—perhaps anger that her foster daughter has been described, in public, as the loneliest person in the world—but if that thought strikes anyone else, they will tell themselves that he hadn’t intended that.

He speaks again: “But how about you, Magna? Have you left souls who now feel the longing? Yes, you would probably say, because all people long for something. And nobody is perfect.” He takes a small step back and looks at her. Her lips part as though she is struggling to breathe. From a distance it might appear to be a shy smile, but it isn’t.

“I think this is the lesson we can draw from your life, Magna—that longing exists and can never be entirely removed, but it can be soothed. I, too, have a longing. You and I know where it comes from, and that it will take a miracle to soothe it. Magdalene’s miracle arrived in the end. Perhaps it will for me too. I hope so.”

The words are mysterious, but they are delivered in a deliberately light tone before he raises his voice: “And with that wish, I ask you all to lift your glasses and join me in a toast for Magna—Kongslund’s Guardian Angel for sixty years.”

One of the ladies on the white bench under the beeches whispers, “He just told her he loves her, and that he has always lived with that longing
…
how beautiful.”

The other ladies nod, like sunflowers in a rain shower.

On the patio, Ole Almind-Enevold continues to face the retired matron of Kongslund. Susanne Ingemann now stands between them, as though she intends to split them apart. Orla Berntsen approaches the minister with a glass in one hand, and at that moment, Nils steps onto the patio with his camera. “I’d like a photo of the celebrant with the minister,” he says with the self-confidence he’s earned after five photography prizes and many more successful installations depicting the world’s misery.

Magna stares at the photographer, her hand to her mouth, as if just managing to stop a word from leaking out. Then Orla Berntsen reaches them. “There’s a call for the minister, in the office—and it’s urgent
…
” He slips his hand under the minister’s elbow and takes a soft step away from the photographer.

Behind them the Witch Doctor emerges like the rustling wind, but he pauses on the stairs, and for once leaves things the way they are.

The old matron stares at Susanne Ingemann, who shakes her head almost imperceptibly, signaling to Magna to get back into the house. The catastrophe creeps in slow-motion among the guests, crawling up the patio stairs, and nestling at the epicenter of the quake.

Nils feels a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Put that camera away!” The shutter sounds like a gunshot, and an arm sweeps the camera out of his grip. Then a fist strikes him on the side of the head, and a large hand pulls at both the strap and the camera. Two stumbling steps, another pull, and the heavy digital Nikon crashes against the glass patio door, which smashes to pieces at impact. Two hundred guests stare in shock. Believing they’ve been shot at, three officials from the ministry dive forward (it is, after all, the age of terror, and they’ve all attended a survival seminar). A large fist smacks Nils in his gut and forces the air out of his lungs.

Knud Taasing leaps in front of the giant man who holds the camera strap. “What the hell are you doing?” His voice is shaking.

“That damn photographer!” Malle yells.

Susanne Ingemann squeezes between them and calmly says, “Stop!”

Orla Berntsen clutches the minister’s elbow, now with both hands, and it seems both comical and awkward. The minister stands isolated on the patio, a stunned look on his face. Five or six feet away, Peter Trøst is momentarily confused because he can’t see his cameraman anywhere and doesn’t understand what is happening.

“Get them out now!” Malle issues the order like a police officer during a street uprising. Loud cries come from the infant room, and the white patio curtains flap in the wind.

Peter Trøst steps close to Malle. “Those children may have received a shock that’ll take months to recover from,” he says, and the statement sounds oddly out of place in this bizarre situation. But the security advisor takes a step back; the women and the minister must understand his signal, because a moment later, they disappear through the broken patio door. Orla is still standing there, though the look on his face suggests that he would have rather fled with them than obey whatever silent order was keeping him in his place.

Trøst puts a hand on his arm. “What is going on, Berntsen? Why the hell can’t we take a picture of the celebrant with the minister?”

The chief of staff doesn’t reply. The Witch Doctor crouches like a shadow behind his left shoulder.

“Why can’t the public see them together?”

The minister’s protégé stares at the TV journalist: there are small drops of dew or sweat on his large glasses.

“What is happening with the anonymous letter? Have you even reported it to the police?” Knud Taasing asks as he sidles next to Trøst.

Orla stares at his old nemesis and sniffles.

“I’ve recorded the minister’s speech—but, honestly, I didn’t understand what he was talking about. Can you clue me in? Did you help write it?”

Orla sniffles again. It is hard to say whether it is out of fear or contempt—or both. He stands completely motionless before his two enemies, as though he was hoping to blend into his surroundings—and for a moment he is almost invisible.

“What are the celebrant and the minister covering up?” Knud says.

The chief of staff sniffles for a third time.

“What was all this talk about
longing
?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” Orla takes a step back, awaking the Witch Doctor from his trance, and he floats between Orla and his pests, pulling his boss toward the half-open French doors of the infant room.

“Someone has got some sort of business going on here at Kongslund!” Knud shouts rather theatrically. “And we’ll find out what it is!” For a moment he has fallen out of his objective role, Peter thinks, and sounds like an amateur detective in a serial magazine. Nils Jensen is still sitting on the stairs, more shocked than injured by the punches Malle landed.

“Can’t we behave like adults?” the Witch Doctor whines. A second later he manages to get his boss to safety behind the fluttering curtains and then closes the patio doors.

At that point, every camera on the lawn is pointed at the last remaining characters in the dramatic scene. They are all members of the press.

Too late, they realize the impact the images will have when they appear in every single newspaper the following day.

Of course it was called a scandal. A very considerable scandal, even.

Competing media gloated. Mystery was the sensation-hungry companion of the scandal. No one could explain what the clash on the patio had been about, since the security advisor’s attack had been completely unexpected—and since
he’d
quickly disappeared.

No one was able to locate him later.

At
Independent Weekend
, the brawl had one result. “The story is over,” Taasing’s editor declared, and every single reporter around the long conference table nodded in unison. As was the norm these days, they were in total agreement with their boss. The next day,
Independent Weekend
published a two-column article in section two, page seven. There wasn’t even a photograph. The story was as dead as a doornail. Only the scandal—the brawl—remained.

None present, including Nils Jensen, suggested reporting Malle to the police. In the Big Cigar, the Professor moved his jaws as though
he’d
just finished a big meal, and he felt the same satisfied purring in his stomach. “Exit Kongslund
…
my dear Trøst. That kind of personal involvement is absolutely unacceptable for a reporter, but you know that already.” You could hear his laughter rumbling through the high-ceilinged rooms all the way up to Ninth Heaven and the Garden of Eden and down to Counseling Services on the sixth floor. It was clear to everyone that the threat against Channel DK had vanished, and that the outlandish story had gone too far. The evening’s coverage of the anniversary celebration had been cut to a very short clip with a terrible recording of the minister’s speech on the patio of the orphanage. That night the three reporters met in Peter Trøst’s apartment in Østerbro. Taasing studied the poster of the soldier with the hand grenade and teasingly cocked his head but said nothing. Nils Jensen had a small Leica camera strapped around his neck, and he seemed as short of breath as he had after the brawl.

“For my part, I intend to continue my investigation,” Taasing announced smugly. It was getting dark outside. Of course
he’d
continue. If the case ended,
he’d
be fired soon after. There was already considerable pressure to get rid of him from
Independent Weekend
’s board of directors.

“Regardless of what
you
intend to do, I want you to see the results of my latest investigation.” Taasing opened his battered bag.

It was full of magazines.

Peter turned on the lamp above the dining table.

“Look at this
…
” Taasing tossed a magazine on the table. It was a surprisingly well-kept issue of
Out and About,
dated May 25, 1961. The cover featured a little girl in a white lace dress holding a bouquet of yellow freesia in her arms. Surrounded by a smart blue background, the girl smiled playfully from under her long dark tresses. “We Take a Look Inside the World’s Best Orphanage—25 Years,” the headline read.

“Haven’t we read enough magazines?” Peter snapped.

Nils flipped through the first couple of pages, noting that the paper was surprisingly thin. “The photo lottery with prizes of up to half a million Danish kroner continues,” one advertisement announced, followed by the coverage of the twenty-fifth anniversary: “Foundling Discovered on Special Day.” There was a view of the grounds from the garden—and if it weren’t for the women’s dresses and hairdos, you might think it was taken just the day before at Magna’s anniversary.

“Incredible,” Nils said. “I took a photo from almost the same angle.”

“Yes. Some things never change,” Taasing replied. “But what’s interesting here is the text—in particular this bit about the foundling. And one more thing,” he said, pausing triumphantly, “this magazine was definitely printed in the same font as the anonymous letters.”

The three men fell silent.

Nils and Peter leaned in closer to read the words Taasing had underlined in red pen:

“However, it was no ordinary celebration for Ms. Ladegaard and her staff, because early that morning an unexpected guest announced its arrival. When one of the governesses heard noise by the southern annex and peered out, she saw a small baby cot with the most darling child you can imagine. A little foundling! The governess, Agnes Olsen, tells
Out and About
that no one saw the little boy being dropped off. He was in remarkably good shape, but the police still do not know who his parents are.”

“The little boy?” Peter said, puzzled.

Taasing clenched his hand in a fist like the soldier on the poster. “Exactly. Elsewhere the foundling was reported to be a girl, Marie Ladegaard. That’s what we’ve always been told.”

“It must be a typo,” Nils said.

“That’s not a typo,” Taasing replied. “But of course, after a little legwork, I located Agnes Olsen, who now, almost five decades later, lives in Brønshøj.” He smiled. “I got hold of some old acquaintances from the union I thought she might belong to, and, bam, I found her. She’s now retired and living on disability. She has no children. Perhaps she had enough of them at Kongslund.”