The Dinosaur Feather (43 page)

“Kay?”

“Call me tonight, Clive,” she said, suddenly sounding tender. “I can’t talk now. I’m going out with Annabel. But tonight I’ll be . . . in our house. You can call me then.” She hung up.

A flash of jubilation exploded in his chest. It wasn’t too late! Kay loved him!

He went back to the hotel. Michael had left three messages. Clive left one for him. If he didn’t get the meaning of that one, he had to be an idiot. He went to his room and switched on his computer. He wanted to book a trip for Kay. She had never been across the Atlantic and had often mentioned how much she would like to see Paris. It was sixty degrees in Paris, nothing like the raw cold that dominated Copenhagen. He checked flight departures and began to plan. There was a departure from Vancouver, via Seattle, over London and onward to Copenhagen the next day at 1:20 p.m., arriving at Copenhagen Tuesday morning at 6:20 a.m. Clive could meet Kay here and together they could fly on to Paris at 12:35 p.m. He paid for the ticket with his credit card. Almost two thousand Canadian dollars for a return flight. It was a lot of money. But then he remembered he hadn’t bought Kay a present for their silver wedding anniversary. He also remembered he didn’t want to be alone. He tried to call her at Franz’s, but no one answered. He imagined she would like some time to pack. Soon afterward he fell asleep. He slept heavily and only surfaced a couple of times, when the telephone in his room rang angrily, but he slipped back to sleep the moment it stopped. At first, he dreamt about Helland, about Kay, about the boys, about Michael and Tybjerg. They all apologized to him. The dream changed and became about Jack. Jack stood close to him, smiling, as he said something. Clive couldn’t hear what it was because there was music playing. Clive asked Jack to repeat himself, but when he did, Clive could still not hear it. Suddenly, Clive realized that Jack’s face was that of a child. He was as tall as a grown man and wearing a grown man’s trousers and thin sweater, but his face was a boy’s; the sharp upper lip, which had pointed at Clive for nearly forty years, his eyes filled with a child’s admiration. Clive’s groin throbbed. Jack smiled and nothing felt wrong. You’re allowed, Jack said. The music had stopped. It was very quiet. Clive knelt in front of Jack and carefully pulled his trousers down over his slim hips.

Clive woke up with a start and sat bolt upright in the bed. He was dripping with sweat. He dried himself furiously with a towel and tried to rub away the stains on the sheet. His watch on the bedside table glowed fluorescent green. The alarm would soon go off to remind him to call Kay. Clive showered and when he sat, clean and refreshed, in the chair by the telephone, he called Kay. She answered after four rings.

“Hi,” she said gently. “I’m glad you called.”

Clive breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want to be alone.

“Do you know what you’re doing tomorrow?” he said.

“Looking after Annabel. She has tonsillitis,” Kay replied.

“No, you’re going to Paris!”

“Paris?”

“Yes, I’ve bought you a ticket. If you check your e-mail, you’ll see. Your flight leaves tomorrow afternoon at 1:15 p.m. from Vancouver, via Seattle and London, and on from there to Copenhagen. I’ll meet you at the airport, and we’ll fly to Paris together.” There was silence down the other end.

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean?” Clive was flabbergasted.

“I can’t. I have plans tomorrow.”

“But I’ve already bought the ticket,” Clive protested.

“You should have checked with me first.”

“Can’t you cancel your plans? What are you doing, anyway? You can look after Annabel some other time.”

Pause.

“Kay?” he said.

“I don’t want to,” Kay said quietly. “You should have checked with me first. I want to go to Paris, but I’m looking after Annabel tomorrow. It’s important to me. She’s looking forward to it. You should have checked with me first.”

When their conversation had ended, everything around Clive went black.

Chapter 15

In 1975 Søren’s parents, Peter and Kristine, had rented a vacation cottage on the North Sea coast. Søren suddenly remembered the cottage. It was wooden and painted pale blue, situated in the corner of a vast plot, surrounded by tall trees. The beach lay a little further away with the fishing village beyond it. The accident happened one week into their vacation. Søren’s father was busy fixing the car and had stripped it of everything: wings, bumper, silencer. The sun came out and it was time for ice cream. The stand was only two miles down a tiny road, but they took the car because Søren’s mother wanted to come, and she couldn’t ride her bicycle because she was heavily pregnant with Søren’s baby brother or sister. They only had one major intersection to cross. They would be fine.

The car was squashed into a cube when it hit the truck. Søren didn’t die. His face was badly cut, he broke several ribs, and he suffered a concussion. It took the emergency team more than an hour to cut him free. Søren remembered nothing. Not the drop of sweat trickling down the nose of one of the ambulance men, the smell of coffee, the golden wheat swaying in the summer heat. Nothing. Blackout. His parents had sat in the front of the car, which was squashed flat.

At the hospital, no one knew who Søren was or where he came from.

The doctors and nurses asked him over and over, but he said nothing. He was in the hospital for nearly three days and didn’t utter a word. Something terrible had happened, he was alone, and he was five years old. It was important to be very quiet. Knud and Elvira hadn’t come, either. No one loved him.

Knud and Elvira had no idea what had happened. They were attending a seminar in Finland. They weren’t at home when they heard the news, nor did Knud go out into the garden to tell Søren about the accident, like they had told him. It was a lie. They were in Finland.

After three days, Søren said: “My grandfather’s called Knud Marhauge, he lives in a red house outside Ørslev in Denmark.” After that, everything happened very quickly, a telephone call was made, a friend housesitting for Knud and Elvira answered it, another call to Finland, and Knud and Elvira flew back to Denmark to pick up their grandson.

When Vibe had finished her story, she looked anxiously at Søren. His arms hung helplessly by his sides, and he stared at the candles in Vibe’s white ceramic candleholders, burning infinitely slowly on a bookcase in the living room. Søren had been playing in the garden when the accident happened! At the far end. Knud had come down to tell him. He remembered it, though he was only five years old and had moved to Copenhagen soon afterward. The house outside Ørslev had been red, there were three apple trees in the garden, and Elvira had a large barrel for collecting rainwater into which Søren would tip tadpoles he found in a nearby lake. Peter and Kristine had been on their way to Ørslev to pick him up when the accident happened. His grandparents had been looking after him for the weekend, and he had been playing with a red car when Knud came down to him at the far end of the garden. Later, they had had ice cream. It wasn’t like Vibe had said.

“Why did you keep it secret?” he asked. His sweater was sticking to him, something was howling inside his head.

“I’ve known since I was seventeen,” Vibe said. “I’ve known it since the summer I saw the wedding photograph on the sideboard and discovered that Elvira and Knud were your grandparents. I was shocked your real parents were dead. Dead! It was the first time I realized you can lose someone you love in an accident. When I went home, I was beside myself. That night, when my mom said goodnight to me, I burst into tears. You had lost your parents, and I was terrified of losing mine. I was seventeen years old,” she defended herself. “I told my mom what Elvira had said. How awful it had been for Knud to find you in the garden and tell you about the accident. She had stayed in the house, slumped against the wall in grief. My mother hugged me and promised not to die.

“The next time I was at the library, I couldn’t help myself. I looked up the accident on a microfilm. I wanted to see a picture of your parents, read about the accident, mourn the terrible fate my boyfriend had suffered, wallow in it a bit, I suppose.” Vibe looked down. “I had almost given up when I found a newspaper clipping. ‘Tragic vacation mystery solved’ was the headline. ‘The five-year-old boy from Viborg, who miraculously survived the car crash that claimed the lives of his parents three days ago, has finally been identified and reunited with his grandparents.’ I stared at the photo that accompanied the article; the police had released it in an attempt to find out who you were. It had been taken in the hospital and it was like a bad joke. You were black and blue, swollen, and unrecognizable. With bandages around your head. The caption read: ‘Five-year-old Søren has finally been reunited with his family.’ I ran out of the library, terrified and furious. That night, I called you. Knud answered the telephone, and I told him what I knew. They had lied and they must tell you the truth. Knud asked to meet me the next day, by the embankment behind our school.

“He was sitting on a bench staring at the water in the moat when I got there. It was windy and I was cold. He hugged me. Elvira didn’t want Søren to know, he said. She was adamant that you had suffered enough and didn’t think you needed reminding of the tragedy, if you couldn’t remember anything yourself. If it ever surfaced some day, they would be there for you, explain it to you and support you. But until that happened, they would keep their mouths shut. Suppression is the body’s way of protecting you against the unbearable, was her opinion.

“Knud had serious doubts that this was the right thing to do, he told me, and I got the impression that it had driven a massive wedge between them. Knud was convinced that children were survivors; they healed quickly; they adapted and compensated like plants that wither in the shade and thrive in the sun. But Elvira said no. In the end, Knud reluctantly gave in, however, he did so in exchange for Elvira’s promise that if ever any scrap of your memory returned, they would put their cards on the table. That was the deal. They shook hands on it.

“‘Dear Vibe,’ Knud whispered to me. ‘Please don’t tell him. Leave it alone. We have peace at last.’ He beseeched me. I said I would think about it. Elvira knew nothing, neither did you, but in the days that followed, Knud looked at me, observed me, hoping and praying. All of a sudden telling you seemed pointless. You were seventeen years old and at high school. You were head of the student council, sporty, clever, popular, and easy-going. Why would I reveal a secret that appeared to have had no ill effect on you? I asked you about Peter and Kristine. You never wondered why; after all, I had just learned that your parents were really your grandparents, so you answered me willingly. You said, of course you thought about your parents from time to time, especially when Knud and Elvira mourned them at Christmas and on Kristine’s birthday in May, when Elvira and Knud would light a bonfire in the garden, even if it rained. You were supposed to look a lot like your dad, and it might have been fun to have a dad you looked like. But Knud and Elvira were the best parents you could wish for and, at this point, your eyes always grew tender and compelling. Think of all the fun we have, you said. And you did. The house was full of life.

“I met with Knud and told him my decision. He was relieved. My knowledge of your secret faded into the background. We left high school, we moved in together, life was easy. You applied to the police academy,” Vibe smiled, “and, at the time, I never wondered why you were so preoccupied with mysteries. We were good together; our relationship grew stronger. It wasn’t until I wanted to have children that the secret surfaced, when you simply said ‘no’ without any explanation. I forced you to dig deeper, but all I could deduce from your many excuses was that you were scared. Why would you be scared of having children? We were in our late twenties and we loved each other. Or, at least, I believed we did.” She glanced up at him. “And you clearly had the capacity for loving a child. You had been loved yourself and you were good with children, I had seen you with them. You can’t fake something like that. The only explanation that made sense was that the secret terrified you subconsciously. In your mind children were abandoned, lying alone in a room with a high ceiling and no one coming to get them . . . so no wonder you didn’t want children.

“For the second time I grew convinced that telling you the truth was the right thing to do,” she said. “Knud and I had lunch in town and he was clearly shocked when I brought up the accident again. At first, he didn’t want to talk about it; you promised, he said. But then I asked him if he had ever considered there might be a link between it and the fact that you didn’t want children. It made a deep impression on him. After all, he really wanted some great-grandchildren,” she smiled, and Søren felt a spot in his heart glow red-hot.

“And suddenly it made sense to both of us. There had to be a connection. When we parted that day, I felt confident, but very nervous. We had made a decision. I had no idea how you would react, or how furious you would be with Elvira and Knud, whether I should tell you that I already knew or pretend that I didn’t. . . . We had to plan it down to the last detail, I decided. Knud had promised to call once he had spoken to Elvira.

“Only he never called back. It was one of the worst weeks of my life. I grew more and more angry and desperate. I was so fed up with your stubborn, no-nonsense attitude and deeply hurt you wouldn’t even consider having children with me. I slept in the living room and every morning when I woke up, I wanted to rip your head off. Knud still hadn’t called, but it no longer mattered, I told myself.

“That Sunday we went to have lunch with them, as we always did, and that’s when I realized why Knud never called me. . . . That bloody illness,” Vibe burst out and stared blankly into space before she continued.

“The grotesque part was that I met John in the middle of it all. When Knud died, I was in love. I visited Knud two days before he died, when he was deteriorating rapidly, but he still had plenty to say. For the first time ever, he begged me directly.

“Please don’t tell him, Vibe. Let it rest. Give my boy peace. He’s hurting so much. Give him peace.” I held Knud’s hand and I was consumed with doubt. Perhaps he was right? You were only just coping; Knud was right, I had never seen you in such pain. Why would I hurt you even more? I was so confused: did silence equal peace? I still don’t know. But I just couldn’t do it. Defy Elvira’s wish, defy Knud who was about to die, and push you into an abyss where none of us could foresee the consequences.”

“Does John know?” Søren demanded.

“Yes, he does.”

Søren groaned.

“Why now?” he asked.

She waited a little. Folded her hands around her stomach.

“When you called today and said you wanted to talk to me about something important, I thought you might have found out. There’s not much on the Internet, but there’s a bit. Besides, the old microfilms are still available, in regional archives and at the central library. You might have become suspicious and searched the archive yourself. After all, you’re a detective,” she laughed. “Perhaps you had decided to investigate your family history, what did I know? But I prepared for the worst. And . . .” Her face crumpled. “Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined it would be something so awful. That you had a daughter and she died. You poor man,” she said suddenly. “You poor, poor man.” She uttered the words so tenderly, and when she embraced Søren he rested his head on her shoulder. She smelled warm and familiar, her huge belly was bursting with life and she stroked his hair for a long time. John came back. Søren got up and the two men had an awkward hug. Vibe felt uneasy about Søren going home.

“You can sleep on the couch,” she assured him.

But he wanted to go home. “I’m okay,” he said.

When Søren woke up Saturday morning, he was angry. He was angry while he ate his breakfast, angry while he showered. He was angry when he stopped off at Bellahøj police station to switch cars, and angry when he reached Herlev Church for Professor Helland’s funeral. He sat in the back row watching Anna, Professor Freeman, Mrs. Helland, and the other two hundred mourners. His anger didn’t abate until the service started. Helland’s coffin was covered with colorful flowers. The roar of the organ opened the floodgates of his thoughts and he almost calmed down during the sermon, watching the backs of Anna’s and Freeman’s heads, one more stubborn than the other.

Maja’s funeral had been the worst day of his life, he had thought at the time. He had arrived late on purpose and was the last to enter the church. A funeral could be pompous, or almost euphoric, or indifferent, but when the coffin was the size of a box of dates, it was a nightmare. Søren’s nightmare. No one knew who he was, and he didn’t think Bo had seen him. During the service, Søren had wanted to stand up and scream: “My daughter’s in that coffin.
My
daughter.” But he had said nothing. It had been the worst day of his life. Or so he had thought.

Søren attended the wake after Professor Helland’s funeral. It was held at a funeral home not far from the church. He stood in a corner, watching everyone, speaking to no one and reeking of police. Mrs. Helland was distant. She was steadily drinking wine, speaking to people, but never for very long, and Søren noticed her gaze flutter like a butterfly. Just before five o’clock she made her excuses and left. Her daughter, Nanna, stayed behind. People began to trickle home. Søren could hear Nanna apologize. Her eyes were red, but she seemed more self-composed than her mother. She tidied up a little, and around six an older man offered her a lift home. She said good-bye to the remaining mourners, shook hands and was hugged. Søren went to his car. He had only attended the wake because he was desperate. He had even brought handcuffs, ready to slam them on the wrists of anyone who looked suspicious. How ridiculous.

Søren had reached Bellahøj police station and had just switched to his own car when his cell rang.

“It’s Stella Marie,” a voice said.

“Hi.” Søren was surprised.