“But you’re not Buddha,” I say. “And Svend Sewerman isn’t a pirate. He’s going to be very disappointed.”
Tilte stops. She has an answer brewing. It is no easy answer, because what she happens to be facing is a classic problem of theology, which concerns how hard you can twist someone’s arm while claiming to serve some higher purpose.
But her answer fails to transpire. A familiar figure opens the door of the carriage for us.
“Noble friends!” says Count Rickardt. “Three minutes until departure. Fifteen until she sails!”
I would say that the carriage ride down to the White Lady of Finø to the accompaniment of ten minutes of uninterrupted Japanese fireworks is something Tilte and Basker and I under normal circumstances would allow ourselves to enjoy. Unfortunately, we encounter some minor difficulties, and the first of these now stands before us in the shape of Count Rickardt Three Lions.
“My word, how scrumptious you look!” says the count. “Oriental and Nordic all at once.”
“You, too,” says Tilte. “Supremely withdrawn and yet ready to pounce like a simple flasher.”
Rickardt smiles with joy.
“We’ve adjoining cabins,” he says.
Tilte and I brace against the door.
“You mean you’re coming, too?” Tilte’s voice quivers slightly with the hope that we misheard as the fireworks started.
“I’m even one of the hosts,” Rickardt replies. “Filthøj Castle is my childhood home and a real treat! We run an organic farm there. On the full moon, the air is thick with elementals.”
Neither Tilte nor I have the energy to ask what elementals are. It’s all we can do to get over the shock.
It’s not that we aren’t fond of Rickardt. As already mentioned, we consider him to be a member of the family, though we have long since conceded that he is the kind of family member one must accept will always be a menace to public order and security.
“Besides, it’s a conference about religious experience,” says the count. “My own turf!”
There is nothing we can do but heave a sigh of relief that he seems not to be taking his archlute with him.
The horses are impatient. We step into our carriage.
And here we find another point for our agenda.
Seated in the corner is an elderly lady with her hat pulled firmly down to the rim of her dark glasses, asleep and with her mouth wide open. None of which presents us with the slightest problem. But seated next to her is Thorkild Thorlacius, next to him his wife, and next to her Anaflabia Borderrud.
I conceal Basker immediately underneath my curtain. Tilte and I are masked, but Basker is undraped.
We take our seats. The count helps another person inside, that person being Vera the Secretary, after which he sits down himself. The driver cracks the whip, and the horses lunge forward, not quite in the same way as they would have done had my brother Hans been at the reins, but then not like a team of snails either.
The count beams.
“One final word, people,” he says. “To all you merry sailors: let’s jolly well go for it!”
Twitches begin to animate the faces of Thorkild and the bishop, and what they indicate is that of all the suffering they have endured during the last twelve hours, their encounter with Rickardt Three Lions may top the lot.
I concede that neither I nor Tilte is able to concentrate fully on the fireworks, for we must now contend with the double risk, firstly of Count Rickardt opening his big mouth and inadvertently giving the game away, and secondly of Thorkild or Anaflabia recognizing us.
And now I sense the professor’s gaze fall upon my turban and then on Tilte’s veil.
“Have we not met before?” he asks.
“We’re from the Vedantist Sangha on the island of Anholt,” I reply. “Perhaps you’ve been there?”
Thorkild shakes his head. His eyes have narrowed.
“Are you not accompanied by an adult?” he asks ponderingly.
I nod toward the sleeping lady in the corner.
“Only the abbess,” I say.
Irrestistible forces now mobilize inside the minds of Thorkild and Anaflabia all the shrewdness, the powers of deduction, and the psychological insight needed to become a bishop and a world-famous neural scientist. And it is abundantly clear that in a very short time Tilte and I are going to have to run for our lives.
But at this strategic moment, the old lady lays her head comfortably on Thorkild’s shoulder.
I would say that my personal view of miracles is the same as of people’s tales of how brilliant they are at football: I want to see the ball in the net first. On the other hand, though, I can only admit that the jolt of the carriage at just that moment is sufficient for the old lady’s head, and her hat and dark glasses with it, to loll and then come to rest on Thorkild Thorlacius’s shoulder. And the fact that this occurs at all can only give rise to the feeling that the door must be open and that on the outside something lush is being done for Tilte and Basker and me.
But if anyone should think that we now merely lean back in our seats and savor this helping hand offered by Providence, if that’s the right word for it, then they would be wrong indeed. And even if we actually feel like leaning back in our seats, we’re given no opportunity to do so, because as the old lady’s head lolls over and comes to rest, her hat is pushed up and reveals her to be none other than Maria from Maribo.
More naïve souls than Tilte and I would perhaps be inclined to believe that all doubt as to the existence of miracles must surely now be dispelled, because Maria has risen from her casket and put on her hat and dark glasses and climbed into the carriage to take her seat, all of it ten days into the process initiated by death. But Tilte and I are buying none of it. Both of us sense Rickardt’s immediate alarm, and it tells us that in one way or another he is behind Maria suddenly being among us again.
A man of Thorkild Thorlacius’s scientific standing ought by rights to be able to tell that something is not quite as it should be with Maria’s appearance. But he is so embroiled in his suspicion as to our persons that his eagle eye is temporarily blinded. And now he places his hand on Maria’s arm.
“Madam,” he says, “are you familiar with these young people?”
And then he pulls it back sharply.
“Jesus Christ!”
The bishop gives a start, accustomed to her presence deterring invective. But one understands the professor only too well. Maria has been immersed in dry ice. And yet he gathers himself remarkably quickly, and on that count one senses his Finnish sisu and professional overview.
“Madam,” he says to Maria, “if you would permit me? A medical appraisal. You are suffering from hypothermia.”
Now the situation that for such a brief moment appeared to brighten is once again becoming critical and requires prompt intervention.
“It’s her training,” I say. “Her meditative training. She fully absorbs herself when under transport. Body temperature plummets, and breathing all but ceases.”
Thorkild turns to face me, and at the same moment Basker stirs beneath my ceremonial robes. I sense all eyes switch immediately from Maria to my midriff.
“Tummy rolls,” I say. “Exercise of the deep stomach muscles. A technique of yoga.”
At this point, another of those events occurs that to be frank feel like a friendly pat on the behind from the hand of Our Lord. The carriage comes to a standstill and a livery-clad serf opens the door and invites us to board ship.
Anaflabia and Vera and Thorkild and his wife follow on the heels of the powdered wig. I sense they would rather remain behind and investigate their suspicions further, but the funny thing is that a great many grown-ups, even born generals and field marshals like Thorkild Thorlacius and Anaflabia Borderrud, lose some of their powers of judgment when addressed by a person in uniform, so within a moment they are gone and only Maria remains, together with Basker, the count, Tilte and me, and now we form a circle around Rickardt Three Lions and he is pa
infully aware that unless he delivers an explanation, he will be lucky to get away with severe corporal damage.
“It was my archlute,” he says. “Forces of darkness took it away from me. All of a sudden it was gone. But I need it with me, I’ve promised to play at the conference, and music is the path to religious experience. I was in a pickle, but then the little blue men came to my aid. They showed me where it was locked up and where the key was. But how was I to bring it on board? I needed to think quickly. And that was when the little men told me about the coffin. I opened it, though it was a challenge. I’m not good with my hands, as you know. The lute fitted perfectly, and the coffin was even upholstered.”
“So you put Maria in the carriage?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t know the lady at the time. But I followed the instructions of the little men. She’s as cold as a cold turkey. I had to wear gloves. And she, of course, needed a hat and a pair of sunglasses.”
“Rickardt,” says Tilte, her tone ominous, “did the little men also tell you how to get her on board the ship?”
The count shakes his head.
“That’s sometimes the problem. They only give you the initial inspiration, if you know what I mean.”
It would be a stretch to say that Maria from Maribo was loved by one and all when she was alive. A closer approximation of the facts would be to admit that most people took it for granted that on a full moon she transformed into a werewolf. So her posthumous reputation would be unlikely to cause Tilte and me to break down and weep at the thought of leaving her behind on the quay. On the other hand, Bermuda Seagull Jansson and all the great world religions do stress the importance of treating the dead with respect and consideration, and moreover both Tilte and I realize that once it was discovered Maria was missing, a search would be initiated, and if there’s one thing you don’t need when traveling under a false identity, it’s a maritime inquiry and subsequent cabin search.
“Rickardt,” I say, “how did you get her from the hearse down to the carriage?”
The count opens the luggage box at the rear of the carriage and takes from within it a folding wheelchair. Tilte and I gaze at each other, in telepathic agreement as to the nature of our next move.
34
The ship is boarded by means of a gangway, and at the gangway stands the ship’s captain in white uniform and gold-braided cap together with Svend Sewerman in order that he may wish us all a safe and pleasant journey. Svend lights up in a big smile when he sees us, and then his gaze falls upon Maria in her wheelchair.
For a moment I fear that Tilte will present Maria from Maribo as yet another member of the Ahlefeldt-Laurvig family, but fortunately even she appears to think it would be pushing our luck.
“The Leader of the Vedantist Sangha,” she says.
Svend moves forward with the clear intention of kissing the hand of Maria from Maribo. It is an intention that must be thwarted.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Svend. “Chastity vows. I’m sure you understand. No man must ever touch the abbess.”
Svend steps respectfully aside, an aluminum ramp is produced, and muscular seamen roll Maria on board and show us to our cabin. I am struck by a slight sadness at the fact that Maria was unable to be a part of all this when she was alive. Being manhandled by several muscular young men all at once would most certainly have given her far more pleasure than even her hollow scoops of ice cream. As we pass through the ship, we notice the restaurant and the galley, and at once Tilte and I exchange knowing looks, because where there’s a restaurant there’s a kitchen, and where there’s a kitchen there’s a cold store, and if there’s one thing a person is looking out for when lumbered with a dead body, it’s a cold store.
Anyone who thinks that ships’ cabins are always cramped broom cupboards with bunk beds and a porthole would do well to take a trip on the White Lady of Finø. Our cabin is as big as a ballroom and looks like something out of the Arabian Nights. The bed is in the shape of a heart and draped with red velvet. There’s a three-piece suite and a marble bathroom complete with dressing gowns and Persian slippers, and in any other circumstances Tilte and I would have permitted ourselves to enjoy such luxury to the full. But as soon as the seamen have gone, we roll Maria from Maribo back out into the corridor, through the empty restaurant, and into the deserted galley, at the rear of which we find the cold store we have been hoping for.
It is a cold store that sets out to make an impression on the world, as big inside as a caravan and packed from floor to ceiling with all manner of quadrupeds hanging from hooks, skinned and slaughtered in accordance with the prescriptions of Islamic law. And there at the very back of the store, from where she may enjoy the passage undisturbed until we manage to locate her coffin and put her back inside it, we park Maria and cover her up with some white trash bags. That done, we return to our cabin, sit down on the sofa, and place the parcel from Mother’s and Father’s safe-deposit box on the table in front of us.
Inside the wrapping is the kind of black cardboard box in which Father stores his sermons. It contains several bundles of paper held together with elastic bands. We begin with a bundle of newspaper clippings.
They are about the Grand Synod, and there are hundreds of them. At first, we have no understanding of how Mother and Father could have laid hands on them, because they are from all sorts of different papers, and the only one to which we subscribe in the rectory is that well-known international journal the Finø Gazette. But the explanation is that they are all printouts from the Internet that have been cut to size. They go back three years, the first of them mentioning the conference as though it were still a flight of fancy, but they become increasingly definite and sensational, and the most recent are fully confident of the event being realized. These latter articles even contain pictures of important delegates who have already agreed to come, and the papers report that they will be arriving from all over the world to represent Christianity, Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism, and Judaism, as well as various forms of nature worship and schools of the occult.
There is a large photo of the Dalai Lama with what I would call a penetratingly kind look in his eyes that makes you think that, styled and with a white beard and red hood, he would make a marvelous Santa in the Christmas grotto at Finø Town’s community hall. Next to him is the pope wearing a smile that in no way poses any danger to the Dalai Lama’s candidacy in that respect, but it nevertheless might conceivably qualify him to look after the smallest children during the Christmas revue. There are pictures of the metropolitan of Constantinople, and of other metropolitans, too, and one can only give Tilte her due and say that Finn Flatfoot could double for any of them at a religious service if only he kept his mouth shut and left Titmouse at home. There are a number of grand muftis as well, and while I have said that I am rather uncertain as to what that title actually covers, I can confess to not having seen a more awesome outfit than theirs since the Finø Amateur Dramatic Society put on Son of Ali Baba last year. And there are pictures of monks from Mount Athos, besides, and Mongolian shamans and Spanish Carmelite nuns, and the papers write that the Grand Synod will be the largest ever gathering of representatives of the world religions, and that moreover it will be the first time in history that the subject of religious experience will be discussed on such a huge scale. And then the journalist writing that particular piece goes completely over the top, because not only is this true, but the whole event is to take place in Denmark, at historical Filthøj Castle in northern Sjælland, which is absolutely fantastic because it once more goes to show that even though we consider ourselves to be a small nation, in the broader scheme of things we are actually the most tolerant and welcoming, and one gets the feeling from his writing that the greatest and most widespread religion of all is and always will be self-satisfaction.
And now that Tilte and I have read this far, we stumble upon the bombshell. Because the next clipping in the pile focuses not on the conference itself but on something else altogether. At the top of the article
is a picture of a black pointed hat that looks like it might belong to some great wizard, and another showing some small dark statuettes that could be from the bargain bin of a rummage sale. Next to these are pictures of jewel-studded tiaras, the kind you buy from toy shops off the Internet and that Tilte used to wear until she reached the age of five. A final picture shows what could be creme eggs and stones from the beach all mixed up together, but then follows the caption:
The Grand Synod is accompanied by an ambitious series of major concerts presenting world religious music. The largest exhibition of religious treasures ever shown at one time will run simultaneously. From the Tibetan refugee community, the Karmapa Trust will display relics from the Rumtek monastery in India, among them the Black Crown of the Karmapas. From the Islamic world, visitors may look forward to tapestries never before exhibited outside Mecca. Japan provides highlights from the Tokyo National Museum’s collection of kimonos, and swords from the hands of Zen masters, so precious as never to have been put on sale. Indian Hinduism will be represented by gold statues belonging to the Tantra Museum at Lahore, while the Vatican has lent out unique relics of Christ and of the saints, as well as a collection of jewel-encrusted crucifixes from the Renaissance. These alone are insured for the sum of one billion kroner, making the exhibition, to run in twelve countries during the next three years, the most expensive touring exhibition ever.
Tilte and I exchange looks. The ship rolls beneath us.
It goes without saying that we do not shun the opportunity to reach inside and ask ourselves who at this moment is experiencing such total paralysis.
But after we have done so, we must make room for indignation.
It’s not that one can’t take pleasure in seeing others make progress in life, especially when it’s your parents. But making progress isn’t enough on its own, one also has to consider in what direction such progress is progressing. And right now, as we sit here in front of all these newspaper clippings, Tilte and I share the thought that our mother and father seem to be progressing in giant evolutionary leaps toward at least eight years in prison.