The Seventh Child (73 page)

Later, I sat with Asger on the dark mahogany sofa. The wind had picked up from the northeast, and the gusts made the villa creak and shake as though an underground demon were pushing its shoulders against the very foundation of the house.

I got the sense that there was something he wanted to tell me—or ask me—and I didn’t feel at ease in my own narrow section of the small sofa.

“You were born with a physical handicap, limping, almost a cripple, yet you had the courage and strength to
…
travel about
…
and visit all of us, though we didn’t know it,” he said.

I couldn’t tell where he was going with this, so I kept quiet.

“We’ve shared it all, the light, the darkness, everything
…
back when we were in the infant room, exchanging little particles of life. Of course we were too young to understand.”

He almost sounded like Magdalene.

“You know what, Marie
…
none of us will ever find our real parents; they’ve been erased from our lives forever. In a strange way that’s a good thing. It’s precisely how it ought to be.”

He reached out and put his hand on my left arm; he had to crane his long body toward me to do so. Maybe Magdalene was right after all: if you were patient enough, a determined man would someday dare to walk past the two Chinese stone pillars and up the driveway to ask for even the most insecure and crippled hand, like a miracle.

I pulled my arm back.

That night I dreamed that I made love to a man, and that was in and of itself quite a feat, because I had no experience with that. A fate I shared with Magdalene.

In my dreams, it wasn’t Asger that I desired—as I would have expected—but a man whom I never would have imagined. I moaned his name again and again, and I screamed it in my sleep louder and louder each time, until finally I awoke with a jerk. Everything under me was wet, the sheet, my skin, my fingers, and that shook me more than anything else I’d ever encountered.

I sat up in bed and cried in the darkness, like an abandoned child.

I, who had lived so invisibly for so long, had—when given the opportunity, in my dreams—chosen to make love to a man who was the very embodiment of visibility. In that moment I clung to the delusion that the most unknown person would be desired by the most known, and that in this way dark and light would meet.

Everyone knows those kinds of things don’t happen.

But perhaps that’s how it had been with Josefine from the cape. Susanne had been quiet for most of the evening, and I knew her well enough to know what that meant. Her visit with her parents had been a disaster. Final and irreparable. The grief in her eyes told me as much. Her mother had lived a secret life of longing, which Anton had completely overlooked in his efforts to perform his daily chores. In reality,
he’d
let her down immensely, because it had been his duty to free her from despair.

It struck me that all the women
who’d
adopted the children with whom I’d shared the first months of my life had been married to this kind of man: men who never discovered what was really going on around them and who, for that reason, were unable to help.

In the darkness, I pictured the seventh child sitting on the bench at Våghøj, beside Josefine. Both gazed toward the south. I understood why: south is the ordinal from which all longing originates.

32

THE THREAT

July 1, 2008

Susanne Ingemann understood that the Kongslund Affair had deep layers
she’d
never been able to access before. With the sixth sense
she’d
developed growing up on the cape, she knew that even the smallest obstacle could trigger an entire series of events that seemed coincidental but weren’t.

When Dorah died in the low-slung house in Stødov, the mystery of her role in the Kongslund Affair deepened; we couldn’t explain the mysterious boy
who’d
arrived in her home.

Sitting alone in the King’s Room, I had no doubt as to who was responsible for her death: Almind-Enevold and Malle. I just couldn’t answer the simple question: Why?

When a story has been blown up and then suddenly collapses, it affects everyone at a place like
Independent Weekend
.

The entire newspaper building trembled under the weight of what could only be described as a collective sense of guilt, mixed with copious amounts of aggression, confusion, and fear. Doors slammed, feet stomped, voices shouted: these sounds merged, becoming a continual hum that encircled the main editorial conference table, where a desperate crisis-management plan was quickly being put together in a final attempt to stave off disaster.

That morning, it wasn’t the Kongslund Affair that prompted the middle managers and the editorial chiefs to rush about frantically, holding short confabs every five or six minutes; no, it was the story of the deported eleven-year-old Tamil boy that suddenly exploded, ricocheting back on everyone
who’d
touched it, and in a way that no one could have predicted.

The paper’s two apprentices had just returned from Sri Lanka, where they’d searched for the infamous boy. They had received financial support for their trip from an array of charities hoping to dig up information that could deliver a fatal blow to the anti-immigrant administration. Everyone had expected big things from the trip, most of all
Independent Weekend
,
which hoped for information that would lead to a sensational exposé—once and for all placing the newspaper square in the middle of the new media landscape.

The first report they’d called in—from the airport in Colombo—had sent waves of excitement through the newsroom. “He’s dead,” they’d said. No explanation.

The editor in chief had stretched his arms into the air and screamed, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” It may have seemed rather cynical to an outsider, but everyone present understood their boss’s reaction: nothing could salvage this administration now, and the most prestigious journalism prize would land here, on this news desk, at this paper everyone had written off.

That joy couldn’t be dampened even by the news of the boy’s passing—and it was too late to do anything about that anyway.

Then one of the apprentices added a word that no one understood, and of which the editor in chief hadn’t managed to get an explanation before the connection was lost.

“But
…
”

But?
No one could fathom what this might mean. So the journalists looked at each other reassuringly: they were only apprentices, after all, the only ones the editor could spare for a case that might linger for weeks.

This little mystery only heightened the enthusiasm for the apprentices’ arrival at Kastrup Airport. The two young heroes would be brought swiftly back to the exalted editorial bureau that awaited them.

“It’s a
fantastic
story,” the editor in chief shouted as he welcomed the two apprentices home. “Fantastic: ‘
Danish Government Drives Eleven-Year-Old to His Death
.
Despite All the Warnings and Critical Reportage, Including by This Paper!
’ ” He was yelling in headlines.

Oddly, however, one of the apprentices looked as though he were about to cry—an unanticipated reaction to such unreserved and effusive praise. A shudder passed though the editorial offices, where almost fifty staff members, including Knud Taasing and Nils Jensen, had gathered.

Bravely, the second apprentice came to his colleague’s rescue. “It wasn’t quite like
…
that.”

“What do you mean it wasn’t like that? He’s not
dead
…
?” The editor in chief tried to ward off the disastrous revelations that were sure to follow.

“Yes, but
…
” That terrible word
but
lingered again, trembling, in the silent newsroom.

The first apprentice spoke again. “Yes, but the thing is
…
he was killed by soldiers
…
government soldiers. Because
he’d
joined the Tamil Tigers, the separatist movement.”

“Ah,” the editor in chief said, eyeing the miraculous save ahead. “But so what? The Tigers force everyone to fight for them, children especially—the boy can’t be blamed.”

A wave of relief washed over the room; clearly the two apprentices didn’t understand half of the reality of what they’d been sent to cover.

“But it didn’t happen like that
…
” the first apprentice began and then stalled.

The second apprentice picked up where the other left off. “He was killed
…
because he tried to blow up a school—as a suicide bomber.”

A long silence ensued—perhaps the longest silence ever to take place in that particular room. And Knud Taasing understood why: shock. Suicide attacks weren’t forced on anyone. Only the most trusted, hard-core Tigers were allowed the “honor” of carrying one out. That kind of thing was voluntary—and fanatical.

The braver of the two apprentices said, “His father was one of the leaders of the movement, and he was recently killed. The son volunteered for the mission.”

His voice trembled as he spoke. The last vestiges of hope drained from the room.

The other apprentice added, “They’d sent him to Denmark to spy on the Tamil refugees at the asylum centers here—the Tigers considered them traitors.”

“No, no, no!” the editor in chief screamed. He collapsed in his chair, as pale as a corpse.

“He wasn’t part of the network in the way the administration claimed,” the braver of the two apprentices said, no doubt aware of its irony. “Yet because he was a full member of the Tamil Tigers and was able to operate in that network here, he nevertheless was.”

“No, no!” the editor in chief repeated.

The international editor leaned forward. “But are you absolutely sure about this
…
bizarre information, boys?”

“Yes,” they said in unison. And the braver one continued, “We have sources for everything, cross-checked sources—documents, confirmations from the Sri Lankan police, and from UNHCR in Colombo, the UN’s own department of refugees, that is.”

“No,” the editor in chief whispered.

A collective sigh of dread passed through the room. This case would be the end of them. For weeks the paper had run a smear campaign against the administration and the national minister in the firm conviction that all the rumors and undocumented claims would, in the end, be confirmed. No one had doubted that.

“But
…
we can’t write
that
, for Christ’s sake,” the editor in chief whispered. He hadn’t been hired to handle controversial situations. His specialty was streamlining business, organization, efficiency, cuts—the very demands that caused the paper to launch a high-profile exposé on the Tamil boy without much research, long before it had been investigated and confirmed in Sri Lanka.

“It’s absolutely void of concrete evidence
…
!” The editor in chief grasped at the only straw that he could see from his seat at the conference table: the story was too improbable for anyone to believe.

Several of those present nodded eagerly. If the story were too far-fetched and unspecific, with many loose ends, it would be entirely unprofessional and rash to publish it. Naturally.

“But it’s all right there—in the documents,” the first apprentice said. “In the documents
…
” He rummaged in his bag, and Knud Taasing shook his head in pity. The apprentice had no idea what was about to happen.

“You!”
the editor in chief cried. “Don’t try to teach us anything, you little
moron
…
!” He leaped from his chair and pointed threateningly at the young man who, just a few minutes earlier, had been celebrated as a hero by the grateful newspaper.

The unfortunate man slumped to the ground and looked as though he were about to cry.

“This is such a serious case that we simply have to delve into the specifics, before we commit to one thing or another,” the editor in chief said. “If one interpretation has proved wrong, so might another.” Without knowing it, he used exactly the same logic as the Professor when
he’d
shot down Channel DK’s coverage of the Kongslund Affair.

But it worked. All the assembled journalists mumbled approvingly. The paper was on the verge of collapse, and this kind of scandal would send them all to the end of the unemployment line. The whole story would backfire terribly, and they’d be the subjects of ridicule among their colleagues at other newspapers.

“Are you suggesting that we just suppress the fact that the Tamil boy is in fact
dead
?” It was Knud Taasing’s voice that sliced through the room.

“No, Taasing.” The editor in chief turned to face the reporter. “Of course not. Naturally we’ll report that he is dead, because that is true. But we’ll also write that there are so many conflicting details in this bizarre story—which the administration itself was the first to mess up so awfully—that we now have to make a concerted effort to unravel all the threads: Was he forced into the Tamil Tigers movement? Had he volunteered? And, if so, why? How did he actually get to Denmark, and so on and so on
…
We don’t know anything about any of that yet. It could take months to find out. But
Independent Weekend
will not relent until the truth is brought to light.”

Everyone knew what those words meant. The story would slowly peter out. In time, readers would forget the paper’s promise to pursue the matter.

“But that means we’re no better than those we accuse of such behavior—the administration and anyone else who suppress information.” Taasing had made his way to the conference table and now stood directly in front of the editor.

“But, Taasing, do you think we should write a story as complex and important as this one—
before we’re completely sure
?” This dig at the former star journalist’s fatal mistake in the case of the murderous Palestinian was so tangible you could have sliced it into chunks and stacked it in piles on the conference table.

Once again an approving mumble arose from the crowd. Everyone understood the editor in chief’s reasoning. This was exactly the kind of rationality and accountability he was paid to maintain.

Taasing knew the battle was over. He could return to his desk like the others and accept the new reality, or he could choose a more heroic and dramatic course, such as leaping from the triple-thermo window directly into the harbor basin (he had a feeling his colleagues would relish the latter, such a glorious and sensational action).

He did neither. Instead he uttered the words he never thought
he’d
have the courage to say: “I quit.”

He packed his things in silence and exited the building without another word. He didn’t see Nils Jensen anywhere.

When he stepped into the fog on the quay, he expected to hear the photographer’s steps behind him. Yet he heard nothing but his own footsteps.

He stopped and listened for a moment. Then he shrugged and continued toward the city.

The nation’s leader lay exactly where his little army of doctors and nurses had been ordered to position him, which is to say right in the center of the Ministry of State—a position that satisfied all his dreams of a final, glorious send-off.

Once again the national minister had been summoned t
o the La
zaretto
, as the cl
everest among the lower-ranking officials had dubbed the office, and once again the summons had come before eight in the morning.