The Dinosaur Feather (39 page)

Birgit and Nanna Helland were standing beside the coffin. Anna watched Mrs. Helland. She smiled feebly, she hugged some mourners, put her hand on her daughter’s neck, smiled again, spoke to someone. Suddenly she looked straight at Anna. For two seconds. Deeply into her eyes, eyes filled with pain, before she quickly averted them. Mrs. Helland never looked at Anna again. Not once.

Søren appeared next to her.

“Good to see you,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder as though she were a prisoner who had been allowed out on leave and who had defied everyone’s expectations by returning to the prison on time. Anna nodded.

“Hello,” she sulked.

Søren glanced at her.

“Any news?” His eyes scanned the church restlessly. Did he think she had solved his murder-mystery overnight? Anna leaned toward him.

“The butler did it,” she whispered. “In the library.”

Søren glared at her. His eyes were cold. Without a word, he walked to the back of the church and sat down. He didn’t look at her again. Not even when Anna tried to catch his eye a little later. Honestly. Had he no sense of humor? The organ started.

Anna was bored stiff during the sermon. She spotted her flower arrangement and was relieved flowers and cards were delivered separately. This meant Mrs. Helland would never make the connection between her card and the pathetic-looking bunch of flowers she had bought. She struggled to keep her sweaty feet still. The church floor was mired in dirty water and gravel, and the room was steaming up. They sang. Anna tried to focus on the coffin, tried to reflect. Nanna’s ponytail bopped up and down in the front row, and when the music paused, the girl’s heart-rending sobbing could be clearly heard. Anna looked at Professor Freeman several times. She couldn’t help it. At first, she tried to be discreet, but as he started shifting in his seat and looking around; she stared at him openly. The trouble that man had caused! A small, insignificant old-timer in an oversized parka. If the world’s scientists could simply let everything he said go in one ear and out the other, Freeman’s scientific position would have dried up and dropped off like an umbilical cord. Anna would have written her dissertation on another subject, she would have had a different supervisor, and might barely have noticed that Professor Helland had died. She would merely have read his obituary in the university newsletter, and Johannes might still be alive. She shuddered.

Dr. Tybjerg! Shit! Anna jerked so violently that the man sitting next to her raised his eyebrows. She clasped her hand over her mouth. Jesus Christ, she had forgotten about Dr. Tybjerg. How could she? She had seen him last on Thursday and today was Saturday. He had been on his own for two days. How could she be so thoughtless? She kicked the pew in irritation. Fortunately, the organ was playing at full force. The man next to her gave her a look. She was surprised at how contrite she felt. The image of Tybjerg’s helplessness burned onto her retina, the way he had wolfed down the sandwich she had brought. She meant to bring him more food, a clean towel, a blanket, ask him if he wanted her to wash his clothes. But she had forgotten him. Then again, it was hard to remember other people’s existence when you were so busy contemplating your own navel. She kicked the pew again. This time, the woman in front turned around and glared at her, and the man next to her made no attempt to disguise his disapproval. The organ played on. Then there was silence. Anna was mortified. She turned to catch Søren’s eye. He ignored her deliberately. Even Freeman was looking away, first at his hands, then at the stained glass window above the altar. Nanna rose. She was sobbing and her ponytail swung youthfully while she spoke, her voice faint, but composed. Her eulogy was fumbling and a little banal, but then again how old was she? Eighteen? Suddenly, it all hit Anna, and she rested her head on her knees.
Why am I so self-centered?
she thought. I would never give my dad such a eulogy. I would never stand up and say something banal, youthful, and very loving to him if he died. I would be far too busy feeling sorry for myself in the front pew, furious he had had the audacity to leave me, how dare he? Nanna stood tall and proud, looking vulnerable. Anna sat in her army jacket with gall in her veins. She couldn’t even take care of Tybjerg. The coffin was carried out. Nanna was one of the pall-bearers, Mrs. Helland another and behind them were four men around Helland’s age. When the coffin had been placed in the hearse, the church bells began to toll. People stopped and bowed their heads. When the crowd dispersed at last, Anna made herself scarce. It was only a little past two o’clock. She caught a local train and got off at Nordhavn. She shopped at Netto, tossing groceries into her basket. She’d rarely been so angry with herself. She had forgotten Tybjerg. For two whole days.

The university was quiet. She swiped her keycard and entered. It was nearly 3:30 p.m. and she was meeting her father in an hour. Their meeting now seemed a picnic compared to this one. What if Dr. Tybjerg had died? She shook her head. Of course he hadn’t. You couldn’t starve to death in two days and, besides, he had probably left his hideout to forage. She unlocked the door to her study and hung up her coat. She didn’t encounter a living soul when she walked from the institute to the museum. The building was hushed and the corridors dark, but the light was on in front of the collection. She stopped cold. Had someone just left or recently arrived?

She unlocked the door to the collection. The smell took her breath away. She switched on all the lights. The ventilation system whirred. She walked past the display cabinets and called out for Dr. Tybjerg. There was no answer. She ignored her fear. She called out again. “Erik?” She had never called him by his first name before. “I forgot about you. I’m so sorry! Where are you? If you’re here, please would you come out?” Her voice was loud and she wondered whether she was talking to herself, to him or both. She peered between the rows of cupboards.

Suddenly, he stepped out into the central aisle and Anna jumped. He had long, black stubble and his eyes looked just as dark. He stared at her shopping bag.

“Did you bring food?” he croaked.

“Yes,” Anna said, trying to compose an apology, but had no idea what to say without revealing Johannes had died. So she said nothing.

“He was here,” Dr. Tybjerg whispered.

“Johannes?” Anna’s eyes widened.

“No. Clive Freeman. He was here for hours. I hid in the back.” Anna saw a drop of sweat trickle down his forehead. “Why did he come? He pretended to be looking at the moa skeleton. He fiddled with the bones. Then he left. What did he want?”

They walked back toward the light.

“Er, to have a look at the moa skeleton?” Anna ventured. She turned around so they were facing each other.

“Erik,” she said. “Professor Freeman is a wizened old man. He’s not going to kill you. What would he gain from that? Honestly? It wouldn’t help him win the argument.”

But he would shut up his most vociferous opponent, Anna thought. Helland had been permanently silenced. It was very convenient. She checked her mobile. No signal. It was 3:50 p.m. and she was meeting Jens in forty minutes. She had run out of ideas and rubbed her head in frustration.

“Erik,” she pleaded.

“I’m staying here. I’ll come out when he has left. Call me stupid; call me paranoid. I don’t care.” Tybjerg looked defiant.

“Has Helland been buried?” he asked.

“Yes,” Anna replied.

“Did you send flowers from me?” Dr. Tybjerg asked.

“Yes,” Anna lied. “A beautiful bouquet from both of us. Freeman attended the funeral.”

Dr. Tybjerg nodded.

“There you are,” he said, enigmatically.

“I need to go,” Anna said. “But I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“All right,” Tybjerg said, sitting down at one of the small desks. Anna grabbed his arm.

“Listen. I’m on your side!” she exclaimed.

Suddenly Dr. Tybjerg looked at her with great insight and said quietly, “Research is my life. It’s what I live for. If I can’t research, then nothing matters. I’m staying here. Please let me know when he’s gone. I’ll come out then. Then I’ll talk to the police. But not until then.” He turned back to the desk.

“When I get tenure, I’ll build up a new vertebrate department from scratch. A dynamic research unit, a young team,” he vowed.

Anna was close to tears. So she left.

Jens lived in Larsbjørnsstræde in central Copenhagen, on the top floor of an old printing works, through an archway and a backyard. He had lived there since leaving Odense and divorcing Cecilie when Anna was eight years old. There used to be a garage in the backyard, and some unkempt trees and scrubs. Anna would visit him often.

These days she hardly ever saw her father. On rare occasions, she picked him up from Larsbjørnsstræde and they would go for lunch at Sabines or to Magasin to buy a Christmas present for Cecilie. Now the backyard had been renovated, smartened up and shiny new cars were parked there. The old printing works looked decidedly out of place, surrounded by trendy advertising agencies, architects’ offices, and bicycle messengers delivering sushi or props for photo shoots. They would never believe that anyone actually lived there. Anna walked up the wooden staircase and reached a dilapidated walkway. Jens’s front door was at the far end. Socks were drying on a clothesline. She rang the bell. Jens emerged from the kitchen. She could see him through the window. His hair stood out on all sides, and he looked like he had the mother of all hangovers.

“You look awful,” Anna blurted out. She gave him a quick hug and noted to herself she had been right. He reeked of stale booze.

“I had a late night, and when I finally went to bed I couldn’t get to sleep.”

“It’s an old wives’ tale that booze helps you sleep. It prevents it, in fact,” Anna said.

“I would have preferred a bad night’s sleep to no sleep at all,” Jens mumbled. They sat down in the living room. The sofa frame was made from varnished bamboo, and the cushions were ancient. A low coffee table, piled high with newspapers, stood in front of it. The apartment had a sloping roof and consisted of a large room divided up by a wall that reached all the way to the ceiling. On the living room side, the wall was covered with books from top to bottom; an ingenious contraption consisting of an iron pole and a ladder enabled Jens to reach the top shelves. Anna caught a glimpse of the open-plan kitchen on the other side, a loaf of bread half out of its bag, a stick of butter. A lumpy patchwork rug lay on the floor.

“Why don’t we go out,” Jens suggested, apologetically. “I don’t mind. I could buy you a hot chocolate?”

Anna stared at him in disbelief.

“Are you trying to wriggle out of this?”

Jens gave her a weary look.

“Yes, I suppose I am. Let’s stay here. Do you want some tea?”

“No, thanks,” Anna said. “All I want is an explanation.”

Jens looked haggard. Then, all of a sudden, he began to sob. Anna was shocked. She had never seen her father cry.

“We never meant to hurt you, Anna sweetheart,” he said. He stood with his arms dangling, looking lost and lonely in his jeans and shirt; his stomach had grown too big and he needed a haircut. Anna gulped. Jens sat down on a worn armchair, facing her. For a long time he stared at his hands which now rested in his lap.

“Cecilie doesn’t know you’re here,” he began, with trepidation. “I spoke to her yesterday, but I didn’t say anything. I thought the two of us should talk first . . .”

“That’s all right,” Anna said, calmly.

Jens looked momentarily relieved.

“But you can’t shut me up.” Anna’s eyes flashed. “You’re going to tell me who Sara is, where she is, and why I’ve never heard about her. I’ll listen to what you have to say, and I’ll try my best to understand.”

Jens gave her a frightened look.

“And if you ever lie to me again,” her voice was trembling, “you’ll lose me. I’ll count to ten, Jens. I mean it. You have ten seconds to start talking.” When she reached three, Jens cleared his throat.

“Everything was fine while Cecilie was pregnant. We were in love; we were looking forward to the baby. I couldn’t believe my luck. I had yet to turn twenty and this wonderful, attractive, older woman had chosen me. I had moved into her apartment, she went to work, I was studying, the summer seemed endless. We decorated the nursery. Your mom put up a Che Guevara poster above the changing table and made a giant, foam-filled snake for you. Her belly grew; the sun was shining. Then you were born. It was winter and pitch black. I was there at your birth. It was a long labor; Cecilie fought hard, and finally, out you came. It was minus ten outside and the sky was full of stars the night I came home to Brænderup. I remember standing in the conservatory, gazing at it. I was a father. You came home five days later between Christmas and New Year.” Jens clutched his head. “And I knew instantly that something was wrong.”

Anna realized she was tense all over.

“Mom’s back?” she asked.

Jens gave her a dark look.

“She had postpartum depression. She didn’t want you. We made up the story about her back.”

Anna was dumbstruck. Jens’s revelation hit her like a thunderbolt that went in one eye, across the roof of her mouth, down her throat, and into her stomach, where it lodged itself like an anchor on the sea bed. She wanted to throw up.

Jens looked away.

“I didn’t want to admit it. But I could see it. She wouldn’t look at you when she fed you. You looked at her. You could barely open your eyes and yet you were trying with all your being to get her attention. But she looked out of the window, at the birds on feeder. When she had fed you, she would put you down quickly. In your crib or on a blanket on the floor. She would sit down to read. I’m just tired, she would say whenever I summoned the courage to challenge her. After only a short time, Cecilie said her milk had dried up, and I believed her. But then I saw her in the shower one day. Her eyes were closed and the water jet was aimed at her face. I happened to be in the bathroom to fetch something. And the milk was running down her belly, dripping into the drain. When we went to bed that night, I confronted her. It was mid-January, you were about a month old, I think, and she freaked out, like I had never seen her before. She screamed and she shouted and slapped her own face. ‘I’m a bad mother. Is that what you’re saying?’ You were in your crib, crying and crying. In the end I took you to my study. It was awful. I settled you down, but you woke up in the middle of the night, hungry. I went back to the bedroom where Cecilie was sleeping, but she didn’t want you. Take her away, she said. I didn’t know what to do. I ended up feeding you milk with a spoon. We had nothing else. No bottle, no formula. Cecilie had been looking forward to breastfeeding you all through her pregnancy. The next day I went shopping for everything, bottles, nipples, and formula. I left you at home while I did it; it was still freezing cold outside. Cecilie was sitting by the window, staring at the garden, when I left. You were lying on a blanket with your blanket over you. I remember asking Cecilie if she wanted to pick you up. ‘Not now, she’s asleep,’ she snapped. I drove into town and bought what I needed. I was gone an hour, maybe. You were still asleep when I came back, but Cecilie wasn’t there. I looked in all the rooms; I called her name. She returned two hours later. Covered in powder snow, her cheeks flushed. She was in a slightly better mood. I prepared a bottle for you and asked Cecilie if she wanted to feed you, but she preferred to have a bath. ‘You do it,’ she said. ‘I already know how.’” Jens breathed in deeply. “A few days later I went back to work.”