The Seventh Child (75 page)

“The
boy
?” the old man said.

“Yes. You said, the boy
…
you always said, the boy who trod on the loaf—but it wasn’t a boy. It was a girl.”

“Oh. That’s possible”—his father shrugged—“but that doesn’t change the story.”

“Yes, it does. Because I’ve always thought it was
me
who
…
” Nils could say no more.

“You, who what
…
?” His father’s eyes became inquisitive, as though once again inspecting a deep, dark alley for shadows.

“That it was me
who’d
end up down there in the darkness, underground
…
if I were ever mean to
…
my parents.”

His father closed his eyes but didn’t speak.

“Who is my real father?”

The old man slowly leaned forward.

“Who is my mother?”

No answer.

“They say I was adopted from Kongslund.”

The old man raised his head and looked at his son. Tears formed in his eyes. “We did what the matron told us to do.”

Nils considered his father’s significant admission.

“You’re not my real father then?”

“Yes, Nils. I’m your father. There’s never been anyone else.”

“What did she tell you
…
the matron?”

Nils could see a trace of fear cross the old man’s face. “There was a reason,” he said.

“A reason?”

“That’s all you need to know.”

“You’ve lied to me my whole life. Tell me.”

“It isn’t important anymore
…
It doesn’t mean anything.”

Nils waited.

“We couldn’t adopt. We were too poor. We lived in a slum tenement at Nørrebro. They would have never given us a child. And that’s what she told us, Ms. Ladegaard, I mean. But then
…
”

Nils thought of all the fairy tales—and then his father—the man
he’d
thought was his father. Magna had allowed him to grow up in this way, in darkness and in back alleys, never knowing the truth.

“They’d gotten a child
…
a child that she couldn’t place with one of the approved families
…
” He stopped; twilight had descended on the room.

“Yes?”

“It all happened so fast. Suddenly we were approved. In just a few days we had clearance, and you arrived and we loved you from the minute we saw you. But because it happened in such a strange way, I was suspicious. So I demanded to see the documents. I wanted proof that you were a healthy child, and to see your biological parents’ records.”

The old man rose and walked to the oak bureau that had been standing in the corner next to the window for as long as Nils could remember.

“Yes. There’s an explanation that no one knows. Except for me and your mother.” He pulled out the top drawer, and Nils saw him carefully flip it over, pulling the veneer bottom up and retrieving a large brown envelope. Even at a distance he could see his father’s name handwritten on the envelope:
Anker Jensen.

“It’s all in here.” He held the envelope toward his son.

For a moment Nils was frozen in place. In an instant his expectation of a shameful and humiliating confession—one that would be embarrassing but tolerable—had transformed into something much more terrifying. Now it was about him—and him alone. There was no escape. The old man held the envelope in an outstretched hand. Nils couldn’t let it fall. He couldn’t reject its contents. Just as he had when
he’d
heard the story of the child under the ground, he felt something akin to panic.

“She said that your biological mother was incarcerated indefinitely—in a prison—and that your father was unknown. He might be another convict.”

Nils took the envelope from his father’s hand.

“She gave us the papers—so we could see for ourselves—and we promised her we would burn them afterward. ‘There are some things,’ she said, ‘that children don’t need to know.’ ”

The envelope contained only one sheet of paper.

“I told her that all we wanted was to give that kind of child a good life, but that I would keep the documents—especially the birth certificate—until I was completely sure that my son was healthy. And
then
I’d burn them.”

Nils looked at the paper.


“But I never did.”

It was a birth certificate, with just a single line written on it.

“It’s probably because in my line of work, I was the one who made sure that everything
…
that everything was handled properly.”

John Bjergstrand, DOB 04/30/1961. Mother: Eva Bjergstrand. Father: unknown.

“Yes. It’s you.”

Nils closed his eyes, and a wave of nausea followed. He managed to throw the form on the table before falling to his knees and vomiting. His father grabbed him by his quivering shoulders and held him close. “Nils, Nils, Nils, we love you. I’m sorry, so sorry
…
I thought it was best for you
…
for us. I’m sorry.”

“They say I am the son of a murderer.” Nils cried. And his father cried with him.

When the crying stopped, Anker described the first years to him: How they’d changed his name from John to Nils; how
he’d
burned all the papers except for the birth certificate—just as the powerful matron had wanted. There had been a declaration from Prison Services documenting that the girl was incarcerated, but that she was otherwise entirely normal. She was neither physically nor mentally ill. In addition, there’d been a notebook containing the most important information about Little John’s arrival at Kongslund and his stay in the Elephant Room.

Everything seemed to confirm what the matron had told them, his father had said.

“To us, that was a closed chapter. We loved you and never thought it would come to mean anything. We’ve been so scared these last few months.”

His parents had seen the article in
Independent Weekend
, and of course they’d recognized the name. They had agreed that it must have been a mistake or a misunderstanding that had nothing to do with them and certainly not with the old adoption form that no one knew existed. They’d tossed out the subsequent newspapers, unread, and carefully turned off the television when the case was discussed on Channel DK and other stations.

They had literally shut their eyes—the way parents often do—as they waited for the entire ordeal to blow over.

And to their immense relief it suddenly seemed to have blown over, when Channel DK and
Independent Weekend
stopped covering the case, in favor of the story of the eleven-year-old Tamil boy and other matters. They’d been certain that their grotesque secret was once again safe.

Nils would have never been told the truth if I hadn’t told him he was adopted.

33

ANDROMEDA

July 2, 2008

We’d
reached the end. That’s what it looked like to all of us
who’d
been implicated in the Kongslund Affair.
We’d
found John Bjergstrand.

Personally, I had awaited a sign from Magdalene during those days—because if she still harbored the least bit of curiosity about the living, the resolution should have triggered some kind of reaction.

But there was none, and that worried me more than I’d imagined.

“I just don’t get it.”

It was Knud Taasing who once again went straight to the heart of the matter. Like the last time
we’d
gathered, we were sitting in the bright sunroom with a view of the sound.

“I just don’t understand why
she’d
run the risk.”

I could tell that Nils had been crying—even these many hours later—and I could feel how his presence affected us. Not just because
we’d
finally found the one
we’d
searched for, but also because
he’d
been transformed overnight. His normal, absentminded expression, a characteristic trait of his, had been replaced by something dark and vigilant that he couldn’t hide. The faintly dreamy look I’d always seen in his eyes had been replaced by a kind of emptiness. I wasn’t too concerned. I knew relief would eventually replace this fear. He would come to appreciate the certainty I had given him access to, and which I myself had never experienced: the knowledge of his own origins. I had made a necessary repair, and it had hurt, but there was no other way.

“Why?” Taasing repeated. “
Why
would Magna hand out those papers to a Nørrebro tenement family who, when viewed from her much more fashionable place in society, must have seemed rather wanting? I understand that she was in a pinch and couldn’t afford to be picky—but
why
would she run the risk of letting them keep the papers without ensuring that they would destroy them as they had promised?”

This was the fourth time
he’d
said the word
why
, and for some reason it annoyed me. Beyond this living room, no one had heard of our discovery, and Taasing had often underscored the importance of keeping it a secret.

“But nothing
happened
as a result. They didn’t reveal the truth to anyone,” Peter Trøst said. Right after his arrival,
he’d
told us he no longer worked for Channel DK. Something had occurred that he didn’t wish to discuss, and no one had asked any further questions.

“No,” said Taasing. “But Magna had no way of knowing that.” He turned to me. “Does it fit with your knowledge of her character, Marie?”

I considered his question for a moment. “She might have been under pressure—or felt forced
…
” I looked at Nils, whose entire existence I’d completely altered. “Your father might have been a tough customer when he was younger, and, of course,
he’d
held the long end of the stick. What
she’d
done was clearly illegal.”

Nils—John Bjergstrand—said nothing. I assumed he agreed with me.

“But why wouldn’t she safeguard herself against that very thing? Why not find a family that was easier to manipulate?” Taasing objected.

Nobody had an answer.

“He actually did keep the birth certificate. Why?”

For a long time everyone was silent. Then, because the others ought to know whether they understood it or not, I said, “Because instinctively he understood that erasing the last shred of information about a child’s roots is the one of the greatest sins any human being can commit.”

All eyes were on me, though nobody spoke.

Finally Asger turned to Nils. “In any case, you’re the son of a minister. Who is now the mightiest man in the country!”

This remark was delivered with an uncharacteristic lack of empathy, and I could tell it stung Nils, who had just discovered a past he had no idea existed. For once he was unencumbered by his beloved equipment, and his hands lay balled in his lap. “Yes,” he said. “But I don’t want that to go public. I don’t want to be known as
her
son—or
his
.”

Taasing nodded. He seemed confident and satisfied, the way
we’d
all grown used to seeing him over the last few days. “That’s certainly understandable. We didn’t expect you would. And that’s why I have a plan.”

He told us what he had in mind. And without exception, we agreed, because if we were to face the real villain of the Kongslund Affair—and live through it—
we’d
have to do it as a group. That was the only possibility. One for all, and all for one.

Once again Asger remained after the others had left, and once again we decided to end the day in the King’s Room.

As usual his presence made me a little nervous, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“He
didn’t
believe in a major coincidence,” he said pensively, “and he didn’t believe for a second that God was playing dice.”

I understood that he was speaking about Einstein again and his famous dispute with the Danish atomic scientist Niels Bohr. Still, I felt there was something he wanted to say, without being able to articulate it.

“Marie, if the most brilliant scientist in the world can be wrong, then all scientists can be wrong—and in the end, it might be that Einstein was right. That’s a pretty amazing thought, isn’t it? The possibility of perfect symmetry, a completely flawless puzzle where every single piece can be calculated, explained, and predicted.”

Thankfully he didn’t try to touch me again.

“Andromeda.” The nine-letter word was spoken in a rather darker tone than his earlier outburst. Perhaps he was unconsciously thinking about UFO-Ejnar at the bottom of the black hole in the woods near Moesgaard. “Why is it that the wounds we are afflicted with early in life don’t disappear? Whether they are caused by abuse or humiliation or loneliness?”

His sudden change of topic reminded me of my own ability to talk past people, but I didn’t understand the connection that Andromeda had with early childhood and his own parents letting him down.

“It’s because those events never really become wounds or scars on the surface, but parts of you deep down inside,” he said, answering his own question. “You can’t see them with the naked eye, but they nevertheless shape the way you move and everything you say and do—until the day you die.”

“Like my deformed feet. Even though the doctors have long since declared them healed and you can certainly see them?” I replied teasingly.

“Yes.” Asger laughed without noticing the sarcasm. “And like my hip that healed a long time ago but which nonetheless makes me limp whenever I’m a little tired.”

He sat next to me on the bed, and like the previous times, I edged away from him, toward the end of my bed. My fear of touch was like an electrical engine that fired of its own accord.

“It’s the loneliness that really matters,” he said. He was hunched over.

For a moment I dreaded him wrapping his arms around me, but he didn’t.

I saw him smile, from the front and from the side, in the mirror across from the bed, and even though the old mirror no longer intruded in my private affairs, I easily heard the taunt from the Darkness inside it.

Kiss him, Marie!

I moved a little farther away from him.

“Isn’t it, Marie?”

I sensed what was happening and reacted instantly—I stood. “It’s important that I get some sleep,” I said and opened the door. “As you know, I’ve been asked to go to the most important meeting in all of Kongslund’s history early tomorrow morning.”

The remark was so matter-of-fact that it instantly brought him back to reality. But after I closed the door behind him, his words about loneliness—and about all of Einstein’s practical calculations—lingered in my room for the rest of the night. I wondered whether
he’d
really told me what I thought
he’d
told me—or whether it was my own hopeless, distorted imagination that caused me to dream when I was awake.