The Seventh Child (78 page)

Not once during the conversation had he looked at Nils.
He’d
received a son and denied a son—all in less than a minute.

“And Dorah
…
the old woman at Helgenæs?”

The Almighty One looked almost perplexed. “Dorah
…
?” he said.

Malle waved his hand dismissively. “I know who you’re talking about. What about her?”

“She was the third
…
inexplicable
…
death. And we know you talked to her, Malle, right before she died—trying to intimidate her and prevent her from talking to us. She told me.”

“Think, Taasing. I didn’t even know she was dead. What threat would she provide anyway? She couldn’t even find her own shadow if she tried. But she was causing confusion, and it messed up the investigation, and that’s why I told her to shut up.
Nicely.
Not by shoving her down her basement stairs.”

Taasing sat for a moment considering Malle’s statement, and I could tell he didn’t know how to respond. Of course the old lady could have simply fallen down the stairs after losing her balance. Even compact, earthbound types like her might do that.

“What’s the second condition?” Malle was impatient to get to the more practical part of the meeting.

“You’re going to put a stop to the Children’s Right to Life legislation,” he said. “In no way should this insane affair result in an absurd limitation on women’s rights to make decisions about their own lives.”

Apparently Taasing decided to let the deaths go for the moment.

“The lives of
others
…
” the Almighty One practically shouted.

“Put an end to that bill, Ole, or we’ll end your career. And you know we’re capable. It’s quite a nice office you’ve got for yourself, by the way.”

I saw Almind-Enevold slump down in shock; he now faced a choice he never imagined having to make. In these few seconds, the very reason for his lifelong ambition to take the nation’s highest office was being denied him.

“Okay.” Malle had now used the expression of defeat for a second time, and for some reason, I didn’t dare look at the Almighty One. It was almost as if I feared feeling sorry for him—but of course that was absurd.

Taasing presented his final condition, contained in a short imperative.

This one wasn’t met with hesitation either. “Okay,” Malle once again replied. I sensed that this condition pleased him, though of course he tried to hide it.

We left the ministry in single file, like the three members of the Olsen Gang—a trio of scoundrels from old Nordic films. Taasing was only missing a chewed-up cigar, but he lit a menthol cigarette instead.

“How did Carl know Dorah fell down the basement stairs?” I said.

For a second the other two stared at me, puzzled—clearly they’d been thinking of other things. They didn’t have an answer, and I let it go.

Along the canals they were building shiny, tall silver and gold tribunes. The late prime minister,
who’d
been laid out in a fancy cedar coffin—not exactly a mighty Egyptian sarcophagus—would be driven around the small island of Slotsholmen seven times before the final memorial service was held in Prins Jørgen’s Courtyard.

It would be a celebration the likes of which no one had ever witnessed.

We hailed a cab outside the stock exchange and rode back, along Strandvejen, to Kongslund.

Newspaper Files for Bankruptcy.

Those blinking words lit up the screen above the Professor’s head. Alone in the Concept Room in the Big Cigar, he probably didn’t realize how just that one message buried the former party organ.

Independent Weekend
had stopped making its payments. The few remaining investors—including one major union—had given up on it.

“The newspaper’s last two major stories, which were supposed to blow new wind in its sails, went unresolved,” said one of the Professor’s last remaining reporters up on the screen, but the Professor paid no heed. “I refer to the Kongslund Affair and the Tamil boy scandal,” the reporter continued. “Now, probably no one will ever know what actually happened in those cases.”

Only ten minutes earlier, the Professor had been accompanied by his right-hand man, the Concept Boss. Together they’d tried to impose some order on the many stacks of printed plans and program proposals arrayed on the giant conference table. Other piles had fallen to the floor, and no one had bothered to pick them up; many even had footprints on them from employees
who’d
thoughtlessly trampled them in their haste to exit the room.

The final, awful message arrived by telephone—a direct call from the ministry—and it was Malle himself
who’d
uttered the simple, terrifying word.

No.

No?
All the color drained from the Professor’s face, down to the last blue glow on the crown of his head. It all just seeped away.

And no, the Professor couldn’t talk to the prime minister—and, in fact, he should make no further attempts to contact him. A prime minister was also the minister of the press, and as such, he couldn’t discriminate between the various actors in the media world. He couldn’t selectively intervene to save a particular outlet—it wouldn’t look good.

Without a word, the Professor hung up. No, there wasn’t any more to discuss. It had sounded like a snigger from Hell. His chest pounded so hard it felt as though his heart had worked itself free and now beat against his ribcage.

“The prime minister isn’t going to help us
…
?” the Concept Boss surmised, staring hopelessly at the chairman.

Shaking his head, the Professor breathed deeply until the hollow rattle in his chest ceased. He straightened up. “We haven’t tried this proposal yet.” He pulled a green folder from an enormous pile. But he didn’t get any further than that.

“I’m leaving,” the Concept Boss announced, observing with pity the broken-down old man.

And with that, the Professor was alone. Some force had pulled the very foundation out from under Channel DK, and the bunker closed in around him.

The Professor, hunched over, locked the door to the world.

35

FAREWELL

September 2, 2008

In the photos the magazines published about Kongslund during the great adoption years, the entire nation could see for itself that it was a home populated with flocks of smiling children animated by a shared will to live that no human hardship could break.

That’s not how it was in reality, of course.

I think most Kongslund children kept their acquaintance with Darkness in a little chamber of their soul, where no one could enter. Nobody wants to show wounds that are so deep not even the land’s finest mechanic could heal them.

For some of us, the outer façade collapsed, suddenly and without explanation, and there was no longer any protection against what we had hidden.

I’m standing on the edge of the grave, quite literally, and without tenderness I observe the mound of soil beside the black hole at Hørsholm Cemetery.

Fittingly, there is also no mildness in my assessment of the act that has brought us here.

At last I turn and follow the others into the impressive church, which stands on the spot where kings and queens spent their decadent lives in a grand palace that King Frederik the VII finally tore down to protest his terrible childhood.

I’m the last to arrive. Predictably, I slide unnoticed into the very last pew. Here no one can study me with barely concealed glances.

The smell in this church reminds me of the one in Søllerød the day we buried my foster mother.

Maybe not quite as powerful, but it’s strong enough to trigger scattered allergic reactions among the many hundreds of guests. An abundance of freesia has been arranged in small, white vases along the pews, and there are even more sprays of freesia atop the coffin, which rests on a platform before the altar.
You’d
almost think Magna herself had a hand in it—and if anyone asked me, I wouldn’t rule it out. This was an occasion
she’d
hate to miss.

To the right of the altar is a small tree in a beautiful, rust-colored flowerpot, and of course I recognize it from the most beautiful garden I’ve ever seen. It’s a Japanese cherry, and I know who has put it so carefully at the place of honor in this grand ceremony.

On the coffin lid, half-hidden beneath a white and yellow bouquet, those sitting close by can see a long, gnarled branch with a few green twigs. Those with a good understanding of trees may recognize it as a linden—but no one can explain its presence there.

One of the distinguished guests in the first row sneezes powerfully several times. And then complete silence follows as we await the pastor to turn toward the congregation. I can’t help but imagine the man in the casket, who, in one way, I’ve known all my life. If they sat him up straight and powdered his pallid cheeks, he could probably appear on the screen without anyone at first noticing any real difference. I have no doubt that the conscientious undertakers from the city’s choicest establishment have spent hours prepping his body—as is appropriate for a man of such stature—even dressing him in one of his most expensive suits. Maybe they’ve even put an extra suit in the casket so that he can change his clothes for a journey of who knows how long.

Now the pastor steps to the altar, and again there are a few scattered sneezes. For a moment, he waits for an especially loud one to end. I can tell from his posture that he’s irritated by the repeated interruptions.

To my surprise, I’m suddenly the one who’s sneezing—a very loud series of them—I, who grew up amid a cornucopia of flowers.

My eyes are watering heavily, and my rather macabre vision of the adult man in the casket bobs under a stream of tears, disappearing in a whirlpool before resurfacing as a very different image: a beautiful young boy sitting on a white bench under a very tall elm in a shady garden—Paradise itself, you might think. I close my eyes and wait for the visions—and the tears on my cheeks—to disappear, and hope that no one turns around to discover the foundling from Kongslund in such a state of despair.

Finally the pastor steps forward and takes command. “We have gathered here to bury Peter Trøst Jørgensen, born Peter Troest Jochumsen,” he says. “We have come to share the grief, but also to rejoice in a rich life.”

His parents occupy the left front row; after their last meeting, they never reconciled with their son—and this time the tank commander cannot hide behind his armor, leaving the world’s agonizing interruptions to his wife.

Behind the immediate family, the church is packed with people from the upper echelons of society: ministers, executives, chief doctors, media stars, prize-winning journalists; only the Professor, the once celebrated chairman of Channel DK, Bjørn Meliassen, is absent, and that has many wondering. Whispers passed between the pews, both before and during the tolling of the funeral bells, about how he’s locked himself inside a special command center deep within the Big Cigar, refusing to open the door to anyone. No one knows exactly what he is doing there, but the Roskilde Fire Squad has not yet been able to break down the steel door with its three lead-encapsulated locks.

Personally, I am more curious as to why Gerda Jensen is nowhere to be seen. Even though the Kongslund Affair has frightened her (and I know almost beyond a doubt that she possesses knowledge she hasn’t divulged), she should be in attendance when one of her beloved children marches over the last, dizzying chasm, stepping away from the fine web—falling, falling, falling. Down into Darkness.

“Let us have a moment of silence,” the pastor says solemnly. And everyone is quiet for an entire minute before he turns toward the casket and breaks the silence. “All honor to your memory.”

As is my habit, I glance at the high ceiling, the way I know others do when they’re wrestling with unmentionable thoughts.
Is He even here? Is He keeping an eye on us? Will He discover that at this moment, despite all our pious and timely precautions, our own dread dwarfs the compassion we feel for the deceased and their next of kin?

For my part, I make a little addendum to the notion of heavenly surveillance that has terrified generations: if Principal Nordal has gained access to this memorial service, he must be smiling cruelly about what has, at long last, happened to his slayer—not to mention
how
it happened.

The long since decomposed principal was interred in the very same cemetery.

Now the pastor is reading from the book of Psalms, reciting the Song of David with a surprisingly light voice, as though trying to exorcize all the demons that for the past few days have surrounded the TV star’s mysterious death—including the nearly unmentionable possibility of suicide itself.

O Lord, you have searched me and you know me
…

For good reason, I’d been the first at the site of the accident, along with Asger, while Orla and Severin had stayed behind to call for the ambulance. The car was at the bottom of the slope.
We’d
recognized it immediately.

If I go up to the heavens,you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there
…

The preliminary investigation indicated that Peter had been driving down Kongslund’s driveway, as he had so often before, when he suddenly—for whatever reason—had taken a sharp turn to the right, driving along the edge of the slope at an insane angle. When the car’s point of gravity changed, the whole vehicle rolled to the left and down the steep drop. It had literally tumbled the same way the People’s King had when he fell from the top of the hill in 1847; the car slammed against the same tree stump that had stopped the king, and with such a force that Peter was flung through the windshield.

If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,” even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you
…

Maybe
he’d
suffered a sudden attack of numbness in his weakened legs and hadn’t realized how hard he was accelerating—after which
he’d
frantically angled onto the slope. That was the most plausible theory I could come up with, but I could tell from their eyes that the police didn’t entirely buy it.

The Apostle writes in his Letter to the Romans: “For none of us lives to himself, and no one dies to himself
…
”

Peter Trøst Jørgensen’s body had been caught between the strong branches of one of the twelve beeches, and
he’d
dangled there, grotesquely, head down as though someone had dropped him to Earth from Heaven itself. A terrifying sight. Apart from the paramedics, Asger and I were the only ones to see the macabre scene up close (they cut him down and covered him up before the police arrived), and now we must live with the image for the rest of our lives: both of Peter’s legs had been cut by the smashed windshield glass, nearly slicing them in half.

As surely as I live, every knee shall bow to me
…

I threw up among the butter-fertilized plants the navy captain had planted so lovingly in the ground. Through my tears, it seemed to me, I saw a small girl between the trees, standing still, observing me. When I moved she disappeared in the direction of the empty white house, where my best friend had lived, and that was a detail I shared with neither the police nor the paramedics. Or anyone else.

Amen
…

They found a receipt from an inn located in a town no one had ever heard of before, Gøderup. No one could explain what Peter had been doing there on the last night of his life. It didn’t make any sense.

All rise
…

The pastor had returned to a more earthly plane.

They carry out the casket; Asger is in the left front, Susanne the right. In the middle are Knud and Nils, and at the back, the two lawyers, Orla and Severin. They bear the coffin to the edge of the grave. There’s a green iron fence with narrow bars encircling the gravesite.

The gate is open.

Praise to the Lord, the Father of our Lord, Jesus Christ
…

They lower the casket. Asger blinks back tears, like many of the guests and the three wives who stand among the mourners, all giving in to the pathos of the moment. None of them really knew Peter, though; I know that better than anyone.

Who according to his abundant mercy has begotten us again unto a living hope by the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead
…
for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.

Accompanying his words are the dry, hollow thumps of three shovelfuls of dirt, and it occurs to me that all interment throughout the history of humankind has aimed for only one thing: the dream of never dying, never ever
…
for Heaven’s sake.
The ritual seems to be a signal to all the magazine photographers who have, until now, kept their distance. The swarm approaches the grave, surrounds us, and snaps pictures of the celebrities and the mourners from every possible angle.

Let us sing “On your way! Be brave and true.”

We stand and sing beside the grave. Some of the photographers even sing along as they snap close-ups of the tall white marble headstone.

Peter Troest Jochumsen.

Around us in the enormous enclosure lie men and women with extremely distinguished family names like Lehman, Spreckelsen, Federspiel, Hasfeldt, Hinzpeter, Falkenskiold, Warburg, and Wedell-Wedelsborg. There’s not a Jensen to be spotted for miles around—nor a Jørgensen.

As soon as we returned to the villa, the two lawyers went up to pack their belongings. Orla Berntsen and Søren Severin Nielsen had slept in the same room—Ms. Nielsen’s old room in the southern tower—and that was a source of humor for the rest of us: the two former enemies
who’d
been cut off from one another’s lives for decades over a nation’s handling of the immigration question had, in only a few weeks, practically become as close as when they were children. It seemed both banal and fantastic. Even Asger Christoffersen gave up trying to explain the new bond between them.