The Seventh Child (28 page)

Peter thought about the blue envelope with its peculiar contents.
He’d
removed it from his desk drawer after his spat with the Professor and for a split second considered showing it to Susanne Ingemann. Let distress plant itself in her green eyes. He would have liked to see her reaction.

He shrugged. “No, I just thought
you’d
be curious. It’s strange that a former Kongslund orphan received that kind of letter, isn’t it? I’m referring to Orla Berntsen.”

“I can’t comment on that.” Her answer was surprisingly formal.

“
And
, on top of that, he works for a man who has been the primary supporter of Kongslund for decades.”
That was clumsy
, Peter thought.

“Do you have had any idea what kinds of coincidences occur in a small country like ours?” Susanne Ingemann said, smiling. “Children from Kongslund have met each other later in life in the most peculiar places—without knowing of their shared pasts and without us being able to tell them on account of confidentiality. In some cases, adoptive parents have lived very close to the biological parents without knowing it. People with connections to the orphanage have run into one another in supermarkets and in department stores without having any idea. They’ve played in the same badminton clubs; they’ve greeted one another and thought: what an interesting person, I’d like to get to know him. They’ve even fallen in love, become engaged, and married one another. And never realized a thing.” When she smiled, her green eyes gleamed. “It’s fascinating, isn’t it? Like in the fairy tales?”

“In the world of media, our job is to
eliminate
coincidences.” He heard how stilted he sounded.

She laughed. “Are you serious? Well, in that case it’s a big tragedy
…
You probably ought to read more Hans Christian Andersen and not waste so much time arranging your material.”

“I don’t think the anonymous letters were a coincidence—they were sent to certain people for a reason. Nor do I think it’s a coincidence that Kongslund’s name came up. We just haven’t found the connection.” He felt like touching her.

Instinctively, she drew away.

“I understand that Magna’s foster daughter still lives here?”

“I don’t understand what that’s got to do with anything. I don’t want her filmed.”

“No, we wouldn’t do that. But I remember she was
…
disabled. I met her when I visited as a boy, and I wonder if I could say hello to her.” It sounded just as wrong as everything else
he’d
said that day.

“She doesn’t speak to people. Unless it’s a special occasion. She knows you’re here, so she must have determined that this wasn’t such an occasion.” Susanne Ingemann had closed herself off once more.

He’d
filmed a single blue elephant in the infant room with a handheld camera, while his crew stood outside in the fading light, waiting for him.
He’d
picked one that seemed to march over the headboard beside a sleeping child’s patch of dark hair;
he’d
zoomed in and followed its trunk to its wide mouth, the small tusks, and the black eyes.

That was how he planned to open his segment.

Immediately after that, the camera would pan in an arch downward and to the right, capturing the little child in the bed, a cheek, a pillow, a headboard, the window in the background, before fading into darkness.

He sat in the van reviewing the day’s recordings. The crew sat on the stairs, smoking. The production assistant whispered to the others, as though afraid to wake the sleeping creatures in the vicinity.

Peter considered calling his segment “The Children from the Elephant Room,” if it didn’t sound too much like a Tintin story, and opening with the words: “The room with the blue elephants has housed thousands of children, whose lives didn’t start out in the best way.”

He stopped, let go of the edit button, and leaned back. It was too trite.

Sitting motionless for a long minute, his hands resting on the audio console, he felt uneasy about his own involvement in the story. His fingers resembled small branches, like the ones from the linden tree that vengefully reached out to him in his dreams for the past thirty years. When he slowly lifted his hands, it felt as though there were blisters on his palms, like he had clutched a piece of glowing iron.

He heard his own desperate cry.

The crew watched him burst from the van and run into the woods, under the cluster of tall beech trees. They heard what sounded like someone throwing up. They didn’t understand what was happening, because they couldn’t remember their boss ever getting drunk on the job. They stared into the green darkness and imagined they saw the outline of an abandoned, windowless house right where he stood.

One of them thought he saw—he would later say—the silhouette of a hunched figure near the stump of a giant tree. Was that Trøst?

A short time later, he emerged from the trees and nodded at his colleagues without a word. They found their seats in the van and drove off.

During the stretch through the Jægersborg woods, Peter sat halfway turned, staring out the rear window into the darkness. A single set of car lights followed them. “Turn left up here,” he finally said. The sound technician signaled, turning off Skodsborgvej and driving onto a side road.

“Take a right here,” he ordered. And they made another turn, into an even deeper darkness along Damsvej, a tunnel formed by the enormous beech and chestnut trees that lined the road. Trøst continued to stare out the rear window.

After a minute, headlights appeared in the bend—a couple of hundred yards behind them.

“Damn,” he said.

“Do you think we’re being followed?” The cameraman asked, trying to keep a light tone, but he fell silent when he saw Peter’s expression in the dashboard light. Next to him, the production assistant sank into her seat as if she feared a precision shot through the rear window like in some American television series.

“I didn’t think—” Peter stopped in the middle of his sentence.

People working in television often thought they were being followed and wiretapped and surveilled; it had become a bit of a joke in the business, but it was always said with a note of self-importance. Peter was no doubt not the only one to be reminded of the mysterious accident that occurred when a member of the Blekinge Street Gang crashed on a similar deserted forest road after having been shadowed by the secret service. Those with a conspiracy-theory bent claimed the car had been forced off the road.

Not until the pair of headlights blended in with a hundred others, becoming a golden stream on the southbound freeway, did the tension lighten in the van. The production assistant sat up straight and the sounds of measured breathing returned to the cabin. Likely, they were all a little embarrassed by their overreaction.

Southeast of Roskilde, when the oval silhouette of the television tower appeared through the mist, the cameraman, in the same lighthearted tone, said, “There was another house up on that slope, wasn’t there?”

“Yes,” Peter replied. “But it’s been empty for many years and is completely in ruins. I think the owner lives in the US.”

“But it looked as though
…
as though a small figure was running around up there.”

Trøst sat for a while without speaking. Then he said, “You must have been hallucinating, Jesper.”

“A little girl in a white dress
…
”

“In that case, you must have seen a ghost. A little girl did once live in that house—many years ago, people around here say—but she wasn’t
running
around
. She had cerebral palsy and used a wheelchair!”

They all laughed, and there was a tinge of relief in the laughter.

Under the glow of the Cigar, none of them could comprehend what they might have seen. And, of course, no one had perceived the wordless messages swirling among the gables of the old villa, which, to really discern, you would have to have lived your entire life at Kongslund.

Peter drove home to his apartment in Østerbro after traveling aimlessly through the Podunk towns, with their strange names, that he could see from his window.

On Holstein Street he parked his blue BMW between a black Jaguar and a white Renault and let himself through the gate. The building was home to a newspaper editor, two well-known social commentators, and a high-ranking attorney from the state administration, whose greatest ambition was to make the acquaintance of a famous TV journalist. But Peter never had the energy for long political discussions about the influence of the People’s Party on the immigration debate, the irresponsible salary demands of the leftist electorate, or, even worse, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

He remembered the Professor’s advice to his eager employees during his first year: “With us, feelings are described through images, and in the world of television, there are only seven feelings: well-being, Schadenfreude, sentimentality, shock, outrage, disgust, and anger. Nothing else.”

He would follow the Professor’s recipe point by point for this story as he had for all others. He would describe Magna’s difficult upbringing, her heroic efforts during the Occupation, and her struggle against the snooty bourgeoisie, which finally brought victory and nationwide fame to Kongslund. Then he would introduce a nagging doubt in the middle of the triumph, describing the persistent rumors that the finest clientele on Strandvejen had found a use for the orphanage that no one had imagined—and with the help of the party to boot.

It was this dark story that the anonymous letters had revived in a time when even the smallest scandal could destroy a politician in the media.

In the slipstream of the scandal, the television news and tabloids would ask the inescapable questions:
Had Kongslund survived merely because powerful men protected it for immoral and selfish reasons? Were thousands of orphaned children sacrificed on the altar of silence, with the help of the party that had always emphasized solidarity and presented itself as the protector of the weak?

Hearing voices in the courtyard, he drew the curtain aside. It was a Saturday evening and a young woman was sitting on the lawn, talking to the guys who shared an apartment on the second floor. Her hair was red like Susanne Ingemann’s, and she wore three gleaming gold earrings. He opened the window as quietly as possible, but he couldn’t make out their words. She really did look like Susanne, the way she appeared in the photo in
Independent Weekend
.

It was unthinkable that he could sit down next to her on the lawn and enjoy the warm summer evening. She would take one look at him and say,
So, what do
you
do?
And the guys, who looked like him at a younger age, would laugh out loud.
Oh, I know
, and the smile would disappear.
You’re the one who makes those news reports that no one watches
.
She’d
study the wrinkles and furrows in his face.
Your name is Peter Trøst or something like that, isn’t it?
And the entire group would burst into laughter with all their youthful vigor, ignoring his genuine grief.
He’d
respond,
Yes, I’m the one you turn off every night
. And
she’d
say,
No, you’re the one we never even turn on.
She’d
laugh like the pictures in the editing room, without sound.

He closed the window, leaned back, and looked at the old Cuban revolution poster that hung over his bed depicting a kneeling guerilla fighter: one knee bored into the dark soil, the left arm pulled back as far as possible. A grenade held steady in one hand, waiting to be hurled.

Peter had had this poster since he was young.
He’d
never considered what was outside the edge of the frame.
He’d
never worried about who the enemy was.

14

THE GUARDIAN ANGEL

May 11, 2008

During these days, I think the case about the little Tamil boy and the Kongslund Affair combined to unleash problems that not even the smartest spin doctor could manage. We’re a small country, after all, and a people raised on fairy tales about children who have been unhappily chased away: the little match girl, the lonely child down in the darkness, the ugly duckling, and the little mermaid.

Conjuring up such visions was sure to trigger shock, sentimentality, outrage—perhaps even rage—and that’s precisely what reporters like Knud Taasing and Peter Trøst sought to do, whether consciously or unconsciously.

Defending the children was time-honored proof that Goodness of Heart still resided somewhere deep in the nation’s psyche.

The prime minister coughed—yet again. His face was so sharply outlined against the windowpane that the minister of national affairs was certain his mere profile could cut right through the glass. Ole Almind-Enevold smiled but immediately covered his mouth with his hand and coughed along with his boss, in solidarity, like in the old days when the party was young and leftist.

The only man in the kingdom with more power than the Almighty One set his white handkerchief on his desk. Where his lips had touched the cloth, there were red spots. Putting the hanky down—both men knew beyond a doubt—was the precursor to the embrace the otherwise shy head of state could not avoid. It would only be a matter of weeks before the red spots became blotches and his barking cough slowly lost its vigor. That’s how it would end. The dying man had never named the disease that afflicted him, but it seemed to his second-in-command that there was something immensely old-fashioned about it, from the blood that came from his mouth, to the relentless hollowing out of his chest—and this slow languish was a perfect match with the ruler’s view of life, which, behind all the pleasant social democratic slogans, was solely comprised of the patriarch’s dream of eternal rule.

“Before we move on, tell me about this, eh, this case about the anonymous letter and all that hullabaloo about the orphanage. What’s it called again?”

“Kongslund.” The minister of national affairs had called for this meeting, and Kongslund hadn’t been on his agenda. It was Pentecost.

“I see,” the prime minister said casually. “But why does the press care about it?”

“It’s one of our finest orphanages, you know
…
and there’s a rather unfortunate accusation that it has run some sort of secret business.”

“Is it true?”

“No. But regardless, we’re trying to find the person who wrote the letter—and other orphans from back then. We’ve budgeted funds to Kongslund and set up a special fund.”

“Good.” The prime minister coughed into his white handkerchief again, leaving another spot of blood. “You have been a supporter of that place for many years, isn’t that right?”

Ole Almind-Enevold sat up stiffly. The hint was so subtle and the threat so understated that
you’d
have to have been the second-in-command for more than a decade to catch it. “I’ve asked Carl Malle to help us find the letter writer. Malle has helped us before. He’s close to making a breakthrough in the case. We’re sure it’s someone who was at Kongslund either as an employee or as a child up for adoption.”

“Good,” the head of state said again, putting the bloodstained handkerchief on his blotting pad.

Ole Almind-Enevold stared at it for a second. Then he said: “I wanted to bring you up to speed on the Tamil case.”

“The Tamil case?”
The prime minister coughed even harder than before. These three words could frighten any politician.

“Yes. I’m referring to the case of the eleven-year-old boy that has been circulating in the press over the last few days. We’ve got to bury it. Now. According to my sources, a vicious faction is behind it all, and we can’t give him residency regardless of what the media say.”

“I’m staying out of it. As minister of national affairs, it’s entirely your decision.” Even in his final days, no prime minister would get involved in the delicate refugee question, especially not when children were involved.

“The boy is the spearhead in a large-scale scheme whereby scores of unaccompanied Tamil children are sent to Denmark to gain asylum as minors; then they demand family reunification with their Sri Lankan parents,” Almind-Enevold said. “I’ve been told that people with insight into these matters are planning to contact the Danish government to stop this abuse of the asylum system.”

“Excellent.” The nation’s leader coughed again and then abruptly changed the subject. “At any minute, I may become too weak to carry on. You’ll have to be ready of course.”

Almind-Enevold bowed his head like a prince beside the throne. “Naturally. But I’m older than you, and I’d be the oldest sitting head of state in our nation’s history.”

Between coughs, the prime minister chuckled. He appreciated an honest assessment. “Yes,” he said. “But we have to ensure a smooth transition to the next generation, and in a moment of crisis”—he tested the words for a moment before changing them to something more powerful—“in a force majeure situation, we can’t be blamed for installing our most experienced man, for a transitional period.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

“Look around, Ole. The world wants strong, aging rulers. Who was more popular than President Reagan or Chairman Deng Xiaoping? Compared to them, you’re a spring chicken. You still seem young, and you’ve never had any children to sap your energy and age you prematurely with worries. Consider that a happy coincidence. You still have your strength
…
On the other hand, look at me.” The invitation was followed by another coughing fit. He didn’t even have the energy to lift his handkerchief.

This time his successor did not cough along with him.

Red in the face from all the exertion, the prime minister waved at his closest advisor. “Now go, Ole. The next time the two of us meet, we’ll have far more important matters to discuss.”

He coughed again, and there was blood in the corners of his mouth.

Peter Trøst had drunk too much wine after editing the footage from his visit to Kongslund.

He left his apartment in Østerbro midmorning, without having slept more than a few hours. Still in his first set of clothes for the day, he sat on the sixth floor of the Big Cigar thinking about Magna, who had once stood in the driveway smiling and hugging him as though
he’d
never left. Now she didn’t dare answer his calls.

The telephone rang just as he reached for it.

“This is Asger Christoffersen.” The voice was unusually deep. “From Aarhus. You left a message for me.”

The name seemed familiar but he couldn’t quite place it.

“From far away
…
hello
…
is this Peter Trøst?” The words had a jokey undertone to them.

“Yes,” he stammered. Perhaps it was a symptom of stress that his brain had frozen up, refusing to function.

“You left a message. I’m one of the
small blue elephants
.” He laughed briefly. “Just like you.”

Peter returned to his senses then and there. But the man’s accusation rendered him speechless.

“Marie told me long ago,” the deep voice said reassuringly. “Marie from Kongslund.”

“You talked to her?”

“Not since I was a teenager. And if you don’t want it publicized, I won’t say a thing.”

Peter didn’t comment on the offer. Instead he said with unintentional stiffness, “I’d like to meet you, Christoffersen
…
as soon as possible.”

“I doubt I can be of any assistance in this case, but I’m happy to meet.”

“We’re filming a segment about Magna Ladegaard’s anniversary. I think I’d like to do a follow-up later.” He hesitated for a moment. It sounded vague. “It’s important.”

“No problem. I live at the Ole Rømer Observatory in Højbjerg. You can’t miss it—it’s in the center of the Milky Way.” The astronomer let out the same short laugh as before, like four little grunts. Then he added, “By the way, the man in the ministry isn’t the only one who got the letters, but I haven’t told anyone else either. And I too found it unsettling.”

For the third time, the TV star was speechless.
He’d
been entirely unprepared for this information. For some reason
he’d
thought an unknown man in the provinces was beyond reach of the letter writer. Of course he was wrong, but that only deepened the mystery. Who would know how to locate a handful of children who had only one thing in common: that they once, almost fifty years ago, lay side by side in a particular room in a particular orphanage north of Copenhagen? Asger Christoffersen must have registered the surprise on the other end of the line, but he didn’t point it out. “A group of students is about to join me. We’ll be studying the Andromeda Galaxy.” Trøst could almost hear a smile in the man’s voice again. “It’s far away, so I gotta run. But give me a call in a day or two before you come—if you come.”

Peter dialed Magna’s number again. She didn’t answer. As he waited for the elevator he tried a second time, and then, walking over to the Concept Lions—who, as always, sat hunched and scowling behind their giant cups of Coke—he tried a third time.

In a booming voice, the Professor outlined his plans for the launch of the station’s new “Wonder Dane,” a philosopher who postulated that
he’d
solved the puzzle of time and who in the test recordings had leaned into Camera One to say, “Time doesn’t really exist at all!” The Wonder adeptly mixed an array of concepts from physics, philosophy, and cosmology; he even tossed in a sprinkle of speaking in tongues for good measure. “This may really catch on!” the Professor exclaimed.

“There is only space!” said the Wonder from the screen behind the conference table. He had an enormous full beard that hid a craterlike harelip, and he was surrounded by a small band of loyal disciples, each and every one of whom were short and stocky like him; three of them maintained full beards, and four of them also had harelips. Peter noted that the one tall man in the group was treated like a dog by the others. Nothing ever changed, Peter thought to himself; television, politics, and religion all share a common denominator: conformity. All that was required was a constant stream of deviants that could be displayed to one’s disciples to their horror and rage. Condemnation—and that alone—was the glue.

The Professor jumped from his seat at the end of the table and shouted, “When they were young, the ’68ers revolted against everyone and everything—even their own parents—but now they find their greatest satisfaction in saying things they never dreamed they would:
Bomb the Afghans
.
Deport the refugees
.
Lock up all the criminals
.
Eliminate aid to the developing world
.
Invade Iran!
It’s incredibly satisfying to them and gives them an additional benefit
…
” He paused a moment. The lions all craned their necks, ready to shout, in unison, for the answer. The Professor did not disappoint: “It makes them feel young again!”

And with that, the Professor waved his hand, and the meeting was over. Chairs clattered, and the little army retreated from the room. The Professor signaled to Peter to sit down with him. “Have you thought about what I said?”

“About Kongslund?”

“Yes. I’m not trying to hide anything, Trøst. This isn’t about my acquaintance with the minister—I couldn’t care less about Kongslund. This is about broadcasting stories that are more than forty years old and people don’t understand!”

The Professor angled his head toward Peter. He had a strange, sly look in his eyes. “It’s really wonderful that you believe in the myth of the free news stream—all these roaring swirls of images and messages—but it’s all a lie, and you should know that by now. In reality, the news stream became a new flood that has drowned
us
; we’re all just dead divers bobbing in the water, our heads submerged.” The Professor smiled, satisfied with his peculiar metaphor. “We’re all just dead divers, drifting along the current. It may seem as though we’re going someplace, as though we’re in control, but it’s just an illusion.”