The Seventh Child (76 page)

34

THE PRIME MINISTER

July 4, 2008

Every newspaper and television station declared the Almighty One the most celebrated father of the nation the people had ever chosen for the top job—and he hadn’t even been elected.

But in their exhilaration, the editors and commentators considered that a special distinction, because it meant something important had happened, namely that Providence had placed him where the Danes most needed him—right now—in a world that seemed to grow larger and more frightening by the minute. Responsibility for the terrible fate of the Tamil boy was attributed solely to the unbalanced chief of staff, whom the police were searching for.

At long last, Ole Almind-Enevold’s desire had been fulfilled: he had become the absolute ruler of the kingdom, and no one in his right mind would ever think he would abdicate of his own free will.

With a small army of aids, officials had converted the prime minister’s office from a sick bay to its proper place as the beating heart of the nation. They had done so in record time, because Ole Almind-Enevold wanted to assume leadership immediately.

They had brought his most important papers and personal property from the Ministry of National Affairs to the Ministry of State in four brass wheelbarrows that rumbled along the fine hallways, up and down elevators, and across manicured courtyards laden with their precious cargo. The wheelbarrows were a somewhat unconventional mode of transportation, but they’d been close at hand; a construction crew was working on yet another expansion of immigration services in the west wing of the National Ministry (paradoxically, as the actual number of immigrants declined, the services afforded them had increased), and the Almighty One wanted to get going right away. He had his reasons.

The last wheelbarrow had just been emptied when the newly crowned ruler held his first meeting. There would probably never be a more important one.

Nor would there ever be another meeting whose participants
he’d
be less reluctant to receive. All Knud Taasing had needed to say on the phone to secure the coveted appointment was: “
We’ve found him
.”

Almind-Enevold had immediately cleared his calendar for that morning, including the rescheduling of an important meeting to review his plan to remove the current female director of the Ministry of Gender Equality and replace her with a younger man of his choosing who would swiftly implement the Children’s Right to Life law and its new restrictions on abortions.

That too would have to wait.

When we arrived, broad-shouldered Carl Malle appeared surprisingly calm at his boss’s side. I’d been hoping to glimpse a nervous—or even outright fearful—expression in his brown eyes, but as always he was unflappable. And that worried me even though I couldn’t identify any flaw in the plan that Taasing had outlined, and which
we’d
quickly agreed to.

The formal greetings were dispensed with as quickly and perfunctorily as possible. I saw the astonishment in Almind-Enevold’s eyes when he shook Nils Jensen’s hand. Taasing and I were well-known troublemakers, but Jensen’s presence completely baffled him.

Malle didn’t even bother to shake hands. He simply nodded at each of us once, a look I couldn’t decipher on his face.

Then the Almighty One took his seat—the one
he’d
waited so many years to occupy—behind the prime minister’s desk; it was actually much smaller than his old desk at the National Ministry. Malle sat in a chair to his right, and we sank into a couch several feet away, the position of which had been deliberately determined to instill a sense of vulnerability in guests.

Nonetheless, Taasing clucked his tongue, and the loud noise seemed especially vulgar in such a posh office. It was certainly a gesture no one had expected, and Nils Jensen (who was sitting between us on the sofa) flinched. The lanky photographer was by far the most nervous one in our small crowd, and that was hardly surprising.

“We found John Bjergstrand,” Taasing said, confirming his earlier statement on the phone.

No one moved, but Ole Almind-Enevold studied his old adversary with narrowed eyes. The clear but unspoken question was:
Who?

“He’s sitting right in front of you.”

I felt Nils’s slender shoulders tremble.

Malle raised his brows and turned his gaze on the man who was the only possibility—since I was a woman and Taasing was clearly just the messenger.

The prime minister sat silently for a moment. Then he said, without raising his voice, “That’s impossible.”

“It is possible.” Now Taasing did his usual trick, retrieving the damning evidence—seemingly from nowhere—and slapping it down in front of his prey. The birth certificate from the old night watchman’s drawer now lay on the nation’s highest desk.

“We found this
…
at Nils Jensen’s father’s house. Anker Jensen has confirmed that it’s genuine, and that Magna Ladegaard gave it to him. That means,” Taasing said, “that his son, Nils Jensen, was adopted—from Kongslund—under the name”—he tapped the birth certificate—
“John Bjergstrand.”

At that moment, I could’ve sworn that the mightiest man in the nation was about to slide off his throne. He made a concerted effort to stay upright and seated, leaning close and studying the document while holding his marble-gray forehead in his hands. Was he going to faint?

Malle must’ve had the same thought, because he stood—ostensibly to read the document, but also to be at the ready if his boss lost his balance.

A full minute of silence ensued, and I had to admire the old man’s self-control. He blinked several times but finally straightened his back and said in a whisper, “I need
…
proof.” This was the kind of thing power afforded. Making demands from an untenable position. “A DNA test,” he said. He still looked as though
he’d
been punched in the gut. The Black Square photographer was probably the child he was least willing to recognize as his own. He had dreamt of Orla—or perhaps Peter, whom he respected after all—he could have even lived with Asger.

He’d
ruled out Severin from the get-go—and had never seriously considered Nils, the poor boy from the tenements, even though he too had been in the Elephant Room during Christmas 1961, and Malle had kept his eye on him from a distance in the years that followed.

Now it looked like
he’d
gotten a son who was the best friend and colleague of his nemesis and whose only professional accomplishment was capturing light and dark in small squares and selling the results to glossy magazines and sensationalist papers. His disappointment was palpable.

“There will be no DNA test. The evidence is here—right in front of you.” Taasing shook his head as if to underscore his refusal. “We’re the ones holding the power in this matter. You can’t run the risk of any negative publicity, and to avoid that, you need to accept three unyielding conditions.”

It was clear that Taasing had prepared his ultimatum down to the last detail, and that he was reveling in the presentation of it. “And I
only
make this offer because Nils has expressly asked me to. He is just as shocked as you are. He doesn’t want anyone else in the world to know the connection you two share.”

The Almighty One fixed such a hateful gaze on Taasing that I couldn’t believe he kept his composure. But he did.

“I’ve told Nils that there’s only one way to realize his wish, and which will enable me to look myself in the eyes as a journalist when I
don’t
write about the story. That is for you to fulfill all three of these conditions. If you refuse, I will go public with all of it. And I’ll be delighted to do it.”

“And what are the three conditions?” Malle said. For some reason he looked at me, not Taasing, and the old fear settled in my belly; I felt my left shoulder sink even more. If I’d attempted to speak, no one would have understood a word, and Magdalene, by comparison, would have sounded like a speech therapist. Even in utter defeat, Malle could scare the wits out of me.

“The first condition is that Ole explains to Nils exactly what happened when he met Eva Bjergstrand.”

“And the others?” Malle asked, ignoring the obvious disrespect Taasing was showing the prime minister by addressing him by his first name.

“We’ll get to that. First the explanation.”

Finally Almind-Enevold spoke, and it was as though the enormous shock had purged the arrogant and aloof tone from his voice. “But Taasing—if it remains a secret, all of it—then you’ll
never
get your big scoop. The one that would give you the honor and dignity you’ve never possessed.”

It was a strangely bold statement to make in his position, and I imagined the chaotic thoughts swirling through his sharp politician’s mind: Not twenty-four hours in the office he’s coveted for so long, and he’s already in jeopardy of losing it all and becoming the center of a scandal that would destroy him—even, presumably, being sent to prison. Now, offered a way out, he examines all corners for any possible trap, while insulting his executioner as he does so. Reluctantly, I had to admire his audacity.

His son sat across from him, but neither paid any attention to the other. In mere seconds, a whole life’s worth of longing for a child he never knew was all erased by something as utterly mundane as fatherly disappointment.

“I’m not working for the paper anymore,” Taasing said. “And you know what, Ole?”

No reaction.

“I don’t give a shit. Tell us your story. It won’t go beyond this room. If you keep your end of the bargain, that is.”

“What are the other two conditions?” Malle asked.

“They’re things you can fulfill with a wave of your hand, I promise you. The boy’s origins are the most important thing. Nils is entitled to hear the story.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Even Malle nodded—slowly, but unambiguously. No doubt he imagined the other conditions had to do with special favors, maybe even money—perhaps a generous allocation to Kongslund in the next budget.

I practically smiled when I thought of the surprise Taasing’s last two demands, diabolic as they were, would trigger.

“Okay.”

It was a word Malle rarely used, a word indicating acknowledgment. Defeat. He hated it.

Then he turned to his ally from the resistance movement and said, “Tell them, Ole. All that’s left are the details anyway.”

At first he spoke hesitatingly, traces of shock still in his voice, but then it was as though telling the story steadied him and even afforded some relief, which I couldn’t bear for him to feel—because the details were so grotesque that he should have broken down long ago. He didn’t deserve redemption, didn’t deserve the bittersweet sensation that revived his old passion to find his son.

The room was square, and it had been provided by the prison warden: about ten feet one way and ten the other. There was a low, plank bed with a narrow blue mattress, a yellow-lacquered wooden table, and two chairs. There’d been a sink with a rusty faucet that worked reluctantly, producing a thin, irregular stream of water. That’s what he remembered in broad outline.

The girl in the room had—the day his nightmare began—seemed a little sadder than usual, but sadness was in any event the emotion
he’d
always associated with her. And
she’d
had plenty of reason for it.

It would be an exaggeration for him to call her beautiful. And to think of her as the love of his life would be ridiculous; no man in his position—and as young as he was then—would allow himself that conceit.

He remembered her the way she actually looked: not beautiful, not striking, but nearly as transparent as a Hans Christian Andersen papercut. She carried a silence about her, which was a paradox when he considered her violent past.
She’d
never denied committing the crime
she’d
been sentenced for—
she’d
never justified or explained it either—and
he’d
never before met a girl like her. He didn’t say that, but I could tell that was true from his voice as he recollected events.