The Seventh Child (3 page)

Everyone bowed, closing their eyes tightly, as if only darkness could erase the visions released by that sound.

When at long last silence descended on the corridors, the midwife called Carla into her office, offering her a cup of jasmine tea. “I realize seeing what that girl
…
the one who gave birth on Tuesday
…
went through must have made a strong impression on you,” she said, placing a reassuring hand on Carla’s arm.

Head bowed, Carla listened to her superior, whom she knew was childless and lived alone.

“I know it’s
shocking
for a woman to see another woman reject her child like that. But it’s also shocking for the child.” The midwife lowered her voice to a whisper. “You feel so distinctly the child’s need to nestle against someone—it feels the exact same needs we do, perhaps even more powerfully. The warmth of another body
…
”

She let her last sentence hang in the air, offering no further explanation, and years later Carla still recalled the light tremble of the woman’s fingers on her wrist.

Then, as if to drive away the evil that had just passed through their usually life-affirming world, she clutched at Carla more fiercely. “But we can’t do anything about it, Carla. When Fate has so decreed, it is best the mother not see her child at all. That’s why we do it.”

Carla nodded silently.

After her shift the following day, she walked up to the postnatal ward, where a couple of nursing mothers pointed her to the right room. But the bed was empty, the young woman gone. Almost as though it had all been a dream.

Then she heard steps behind her, and a deep voice. “Hello.”

This was the final detail she could clearly recall all these years later. In the middle of the room stood a woman with a baby in her arms; she was so tall that Carla only reached her chin.

Confused, Carla curtsied.

“I haven’t seen you before,” the tall woman said. “What’s your name?”

Carla saw a tiny face bundled in the woman’s wide embrace, eyes shut tightly. “Oh,” she replied, “I am just a midwifery student here on Ward B.”

“Not
just
, my dear. No woman is
just
anything
…
and certainly not
just
a midwife. You are the very welcoming committee of life!” The woman’s booming laughter caused the baby in her arms to shake.

Carla blushed. “No, I just meant
…
” She forgot what she was going to say.

“You wanted to see if the child you brought into this world was still here,” the tall woman said, serious once more. “It is. And now we are going to find a good home for it. The best home it could possibly have. I can promise you that. My name is Ms. Ladegaard. I am the matron of Kongslund, the orphanage run by Mother’s Aid Society in Skodsborg.” And then the tall woman added, as though talking to the baby, “The children call me Magna.”

Carla recalled the faint scent of sweet flowers, mixed with a sharper smell of something she perceived to be cigar or cheroot smoke.

The matron smiled and turned toward the door.

The little child, snug in her arms, puckered its lips. A tiny, almost invisible, rosy red slit in a sleeping white face. Then they were gone.

A week later, a few miles to the north, the city is about to awaken. The woman has turned on a single lamp in her apartment, but it barely illuminates the room. She’s a little older than the girl from the Rigshospital, but her child was also born there, only a few days earlier.

She has invited her visitor to take a seat on the sofa and wait until she has woken the baby in the bassinet. But her guest remains standing by the window, as though the sight of Østerbrogade—between the apartment and the Svanemøllen train station—is the real purpose of her visit.

There are no trams on the street. It’s too early.

Then her guest turns. “I brought some new clothes,” she says authoritatively, leaving no room for discussion. She is thin, with a pale, narrow face that reveals no hint of what is to occur.

She places a white paper bag on the dining table.

The woman nods. When it comes down to it, what does it matter to her? The agreement has been made, and she will get what she wants. There will be no evidence of the mistake she has made. Life can go on—and no one will ever know.

That is all she really wants.

“I see,” the woman stammers; her voice conveys her hesitation. It’s her child, after all, at least for another few minutes. But she is exhausted after the hardest few days of her life.

Her guest approaches and hands her a small bonnet and a bright red romper, which isn’t very thick. Though spring has warmed the air, it seems strange to put away the woolies—they will not be going with her. Instead, the woman helps her visitor put the baby’s arms into the sleeves of a jacket; they exchange no words.

For the last time, the woman considers her decision. Two weeks have elapsed since she first made contact, and she has considered the peculiar method—and the possible risk—time and time again. She has gone over it countless times, because she realizes that something could go wrong, something unsaid, something she hasn’t anticipated. But no matter how long she thinks about it, she cannot put her finger on anything. Regardless, it’s no longer her responsibility. This is what she tells herself, because this is how it must be.

In the end, she puts the child into the small blue carry-cot herself and carefully tucks the duvet into the sides, placing a pink blanket on top, all without looking at the little one.

The visitor carries the cot into the hallway. “I’ll be leaving then,” she says, and with her free hand, she opens the front door.

The woman nods. “Well, thank you,” she says, absurdly, as though the woman has done her a personal favor. She can’t rid herself of the feeling that it’s the other way around.

For a few minutes, she stands gazing toward Svanemøllen Station to see if the woman appears with the child. But there’s no movement down there. It’s as though they’ve disappeared into thin air.

A few miles to the north, in the houses on Strandvejen, merchants and executives, chief medical doctors and high-court justices enjoy their well-deserved slumber in beds so soft that only an earthquake—or possibly the pea from the fairy tale—could disturb their dreams.

No one is stirring except for the woman with the blue carry-cot. Moving sideways, she makes her way down the slope by Skodsborg Hill, concealed by the half light of the trees’ shadows. At the bottom of the slope, the trees and bushes become few and far between, giving way to a narrow wedge of grass, which the woman, bent low, crosses in short, fast, soundless steps.

Near the shore is a large brown villa. She crosses the villa’s driveway. If the thick layer of gravel crunches underfoot, only she can hear it. Then she edges carefully along the wall of the house, holding the cot away from her body.

Though thin, she is evidently strong; despite the cot’s weight, her hand does not tremble. She steps up to the house and sets the little cot on the front stoop. Then she stands, straight and motionless. Slowly, she turns in a full circle, inspecting each direction before she withdraws, soundlessly, disappearing within the shadow of the beech trees.

Less than three minutes is all it took.

Had the light been a little brighter, the woman with the carry-cot might have seen the old path between the broom bushes at the foot of the slope, and maybe she would have thought to follow it through the beech forest and up the hill to the neighboring house, with its white northwest-facing façade.

But it likely wouldn’t have caught her attention, because the house didn’t seem to be surrounded by anything except dense shrubbery, nettles, and low-hanging branches. And even if someone had seen her, the distance would have been more than 150 feet, much too far for anyone to register details or facial features.

Only a dreamer would think that Fate could camouflage its presence so perfectly and leave its canopy bed so early in the morning to notice such an insignificant occurrence.

For a second, the thin woman imagines she sees a shadow between the tree trunks. But maybe it’s merely a bird hiding under the bushes. A moment later, it seems as though no one has walked that slope for centuries.

PART II

THE HUNT

2

THE LETTER

May 5, 2008

In my foster mother’s world, only one task was really important: to protect the abandoned beings arriving at Kongslund until the ten-member Adoption Council in Vesterbro found them a new family.

“Kongslund is their home, Marie,” she said before adding an almost mystical declaration, “And remember: all the best homes are by the water.”

When the children departed, she would sing the old song with its seemingly endless string of verses: “One elephant goes a marching now, two elephants go a marching now, then three, then four, then five, then six” until at last I would fall asleep “as they marched off across the spider’s fine web.”

And then silence again, until it was replaced with the nestling sounds of new children, which would be replaced by another silence. And so the seasons changed, and all the children around me left, one by one, until one day it became clear to me that I was the only one who would be staying.

The Danish prime minister was seized by a terrible coughing fit. In just a few months, his face had grown more gaunt and pale than anyone would have thought possible. Before long it would hang suspended in the air, like a narrow slip of white paper fluttering in a wind blowing from the slightly puckered lips of Death. For a moment he sat with his head bowed like Hamlet: afflicted by a deadly ailment that might have been tuberculosis had the land
he’d
ruled for fifteen years not been declared free of that contagion.

Ole Almind-Enevold, the minister of national affairs, was the only other person present in the nation’s most powerful office. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

When the prime minister looked up, he tried to smile at the sole minister in the nation’s government he more or less trusted. Not unconditionally, and not naively—there wasn’t room for naïveté in the strata where illusions about ideas and principles could destroy a career in the time it took to broadcast a news segment—but rather because he knew the fingers of Death were drumming on his throat, and wouldn’t abate.

The premier placed a light-blue handkerchief to his mouth, and Ole half expected blood to seep through, as though on clean, heavy blotting paper.

Slowly, the premier’s persistent cough ebbed. The handkerchief remained unblemished. The conversation resumed.

“They think I’ll survive a year,” the prime minister declared in a surprisingly strong voice.

The desk he sat behind wasn’t large, but it was a treasure from his childhood home, constructed in fumed German oak, lavishly ornamented with dark carvings. In front of him was a copy of
Independent Weekend
. He read aloud from the front page, his voice once again dry and raspy: “Ministry sources anticipate that the prime minister will step down within a year. The official announcement may come as soon as the Party Congress convenes this fall. Due to health concerns, the prime minister and his advisors are discussing his possible successor.”

The prime minister accepted this statement without batting an eyelash; he even tried to laugh. But that brought his cough back, and he doubled over so far in the upholstered chair that Ole feared the nation’s leader might capsize.

Once the fit had subsided, he resumed reading aloud: “Since the successor appears to have been found already, a power struggle leading up to the congress is not anticipated. In spite of his advancing age, it is expected that Ole Almind-Enevold, the experienced minister of national affairs and a true patriot, will be tapped. He enjoys unparalleled, nonpartisan public support.”

The prime minister eyed his friend and colleague of many years. “You’ve already been elected,” he said.

Ole didn’t know how to interpret his tone. It was well-known how exacting a boss the prime minister was; he didn’t forgive colleagues their mistakes. Quite a few had been deceived by his seemingly friendly smile and bowed confidentiality. This was no doubt still the case, in spite of his weakened condition.

“Unless you screw up, it’s a done deal,” he said, adding, “But you don’t make mistakes, do you?”

His meaning was clear. The prime minister was loath to hand over his scepter to a man
who’d
bring shame upon it. That would, no doubt, disturb his eternal slumber.

“You never had any children
…
” he said, as if in simple observation, but the questions were implied:
Any skeletons in the closet that I should know about? Mistresses, love nests
…
?

All the minister of national affairs could do was smile reassuringly.

“You didn’t want to adopt—many people do that.” The prime minister already knew the reason for this decision, but he continued, “I understand your wife never liked the idea of adopting a child, so
…
well
…
yes, not much to be done about that.”

The prime minister was clearly trying to provoke his subject. Everyone knew that the leader of his country would never have kowtowed to a woman—only four served in his entire administration—nor would he expect any different from his cabinet members. He suffered the women’s presence, reporters joked, merely to placate the electorate.

The premier tossed the newspaper onto his desk and suppressed another cough. “In this office—and at your age—it is likely only an advantage
…
” he concluded, referring to the man’s childlessness, his voice dwindling to a whisper. “You will have to maneuver the actual successor into place
…
the next generation. That will be your task. To bring the party into the next great era.”

There was nothing left to say.

The two men shook hands. And it was a handshake they both knew committed them unto death.

That morning—just a few feet from the dying prime minister’s office—the so-called Kongslund Affair began, though it revolved less around the house that was identified as the scandal’s point of origin than it did around a group of individuals: high-ranking politicians, career officials, and media personalities.

The day was May 5, 2008—the sixty-third anniversary of Liberation Day.

The letter had arrived at the Ministry of National Affairs, or National Ministry as it was called for short, by regular mail in the wee hours of the morning. The long blue envelope was placed in the stack of mail in the enormous reception room, which since olden days (back when the National Ministry was still called the Ministry of the Interior) had been known as the Palace. And there it remained until 7:30 a.m. when the office manager arrived.

She didn’t have long to consider the letter’s peculiar appearance—it bulged, as though a piece of cloth or a deflated ball were inside—because her boss, the chief of staff, was already turning on all the machines in the office.

Orla Berntsen usually began his mornings with a few moments of meditation, breathing calmly in the half-awake ministry. The office manager wondered if this ritual was simply a way for him to catch his breath after bicycling through Copenhagen traffic—or perhaps because he was thinking of his wife and two daughters whom
he’d
not seen for nearly two months. But because he never talked about himself, no one knew.

The guard at the gate had informed him that morning that the minister of national affairs was at the Ministry of State but that, as always, he would assume his place at the table at precisely 9:00 a.m. As usual, the chief of staff dropped his bike clips in the round ashtray that bore the ministry’s monogram, and, wetting his fingertips, flattened the creases of his pants before sitting down.

He wasn’t a morning person, and he wasn’t an athlete: his obsession with cycling was a result of the government’s environmental PR scheme meticulously designed by the Witch Doctor (the nickname given the newly minted PR chief in the afterglow of the unexpected and legendary 2001 election). “We need to demonstrate our concern for the earth’s climate and for the Danish environment in concrete ways!” he had said. And within a few months, the fervor gripped every top politician and high-ranking official, whether voluntarily or not. Throughout the spring of 2008, the faint odor of sweat and deodorant hung in the air, especially early in the morning, and, in the case of the chief of staff, especially around his shoulders and neck.

As evident by Orla Berntsen’s rare media appearances—rare because he detested such appearances—he was cut from a large, square gray cloth. Thickset, wearing a gray suit and a gray checkered tie, he wasn’t much to look at when hunched over his vast Brazilian rosewood desk. Out his window he had a view of a gorgeously landscaped courtyard in which the gardener had erected a small fountain. A beautifully carved snake rose impressively from the fountain’s center in the shape of the letter
S
, spouting a blue cloud of water into the sky. In calm weather, the column of water reached so high that it caught the rays of the sun and formed a rainbow spanning several rooftops, and gave the illusion that the various wings of the ministry were connected via a colorful bridge.

The chief of staff turned away from the window. The view reminded him of days he didn’t care to think about now, days sitting under the rain-drenched trees in the neighborhood
he’d
hated as a child.

Instead he turned to the stack of mail that had been placed on his desk. On the top of the pile was the odd blue envelope that would come to cause so much harm. The moment his fingers touched the envelope he sniffled involuntarily, as though anticipating events impossible to imagine.

Given the acts of terror unleashed on New York, Madrid, and London, the letter probably should have been handed over to a bomb squad. But in its ongoing confrontation with the many terrorist and fundamentalist forces threatening Denmark, the administration had constructed an important and effective image of fearlessness.

For seven years, the National Ministry had efficiently enforced refugee and immigration policies, in addition to upholding its mission to preserve Danish identity and the national character. It was in this same spirit that the office manager decided to perform a cursory inspection of the strange envelope before placing it on her boss’s desk.
She’d
held it up to the light, assuring herself that it contained neither explosives nor the flattened body of a rat—the latter having actually happened to a former minister (the symbolism self-evident).

The envelope bore none of the stickers or slogans generally favored by critics of the administration. According to the date stamp, the letter had been mailed in Copenhagen on May 2, 2008 from the post office in Østerbro. With his letter opener, he flipped the envelope over—found no return address—and then flipped it back again.

Cautiously, he pressed the bulge. It was soft, giving a bit at his touch.

He turned his attention away from the envelope for a moment and poured coffee into the mug his daughter had given him for his forty-sixth birthday, their last celebration together. On the mug were the words
W
ORLD
’
S
B
EST
D
AD
. He used it only when he was alone.

Most likely, he thought, the envelope contained an angry message from a concerned Dane fearful of all the foreigners streaming into the country; in exchange for the electoral victories in 2001 and 2005, the National Ministry had pledged to keep immigration under control.

That’s the kind of letter it could have been. And were it not for one little detail—the address—that’s what he certainly would have thought.

The address hadn’t been written in pen or typed with a computer. Instead, the sender had gone to the trouble of cutting letters from an old magazine or newspaper—one by one, in different sizes but from the same cheap gray-white paper—neatly affixing them to the envelope, letter by letter, without wasting any glue. For a long time, he stared at the impressive handiwork, before pressing a button to call the Fly—
she’d
earned her nickname at a Christmas revue for buzzing about completing her tasks. As a personal secretary and office manager, though, she was unmatched.

As she settled in a seat behind him, he felt a puff of air. He handed her the blue envelope. Her lips moved, and he realized she was counting each of the letters.
He’d
done the same thing. There were sixty letters all in all. A few of them were red, but most were black, and some of those were bordered in white, including the
l
in Orla and the
l
in Pil.