Dreamless (16 page)

Then he came down the stairs.

Go ahead and play that damned tune of yours, she thought.

But this time the music box didn’t start. She heard him go into the room where the dog was being held, and she knew this wasn’t good. He’d gone in there several times, and she’d heard what he’d done to Bismarck. If only she could have plugged her ears. But she heard everything. This time the kicks striking the dog’s body were louder than his whimpers.

Exhausted, she again got to her feet. She’d noticed something when she slid onto the floor. This time she made her way along the wall. The rope tied around her wrists rubbed against the rough surface. If she kept moving like this, up and down, maybe the rope would shred.

I have to get out of here, she thought. Not just for my own sake, but for Bismarck and the baby.

16

Trondheim, 1767

Nothing could compare
with the smell of an infant. There was a peace in that smell that perhaps stemmed from some far, distant memory. It made him think of Denmark and his own childhood, of newborn calves, heat from the stove’s dying embers, and a newly washed linen sheet against his skin on warm summer nights. Every child had his own smell, yet all of them bore the faint scent of a woman’s breasts. And for that reason, there was something vaguely arousing about the smell, although not enough to disturb the calm of the moment. Besides, babies smelled mostly of things belonging to the future—hazelnuts, sourdough, and young saplings—

If they weren’t in need of a diaper change, of course.

The baby boy that Nils Bayer was holding did need to be changed, but he wasn’t quite ready to call for the nurse. He wanted to hold him a little longer. It was these morning hours that gave him strength. He was glad that Mother Anne, who was in charge of the orphanage, allowed him to come here in secret to see to the children once in a while. She understood, even though they had never discussed the matter, that what he wanted most in the world was his own child. Sometimes he imagined that this might be the solution to all his problems—the perpetual drunkenness, the upset stomach, and his hot temper. But he was too good a judge of character to really believe it.

He thought about yesterday afternoon and his fruitless efforts to find the Swedish gentleman who might be able to cast some light on the strange murder case he was now investigating. He’d waited in the pub until almost midnight, but the man had never showed up. Finally, he’d gone home to drink himself to sleep.

Today he’d woken up with a clear head. It had occurred to him that a gentleman such as the one he was looking for would most likely have introduced himself to others of equal standing and birth shortly after arriving in the city. And so Bayer decided to pay a visit to his friend Søren Engel. But since he’d awakened so early, even before the flies, he decided to stop by the orphanage first. Now he sat here, holding this warm, soft little body against his enormous stomach, thinking about how everyone starts off in life with a world of possibilities ahead of them.
It’s strange what a mess we make of things
, he thought to himself.
Why does that happen?
Is it language that leads us away from our original state of harmony? Is it because of words, the tongue? They bind us together and yet can make us so unhappy. Or is it because of the way we look at things, seeing only the exterior?

Then he noticed the flies that had started to settle around the boy’s eyes. Why had all these flies invaded Trondheim this summer? Was it the abnormally high temperatures that made them multiply? He figured it was time for him to give the child back. He summoned Mother Anne and thanked her for allowing him the joy of holding the little tyke. Then he gave her a few
skillings
, his usual contribution to the orphanage.

From the orphanage, he set off at a leisurely pace for town and then made his way to Engel’s newly built mansion on the market square. Bayer stood at the front entrance, staring at the knocker. Like everything else, it was new. It was made of brass and may have been forged in town, using copper from Røros. Engel’s coat of arms had been engraved on the knocker. The same shield hung over the door, carved into some kind of hardwood and painted in bright colors. Engel’s coat of arms was of newer origin; it was not an old family crest. People called him a nouveau riche. That was the only kind of wealthy person that Bayer liked: one who had earned his own money. Engel was an educated man; he had studied in both Copenhagen and Leipzig. He had taken his father’s modest fortune, made in the timber trade, and multiplied it many times over. He was a very wealthy man by the time he came to Trondheim, where he became even richer through his sawmills, the shipping business, commodities trading, and his interests in the mines of Røros. He married into a higher social class, commissioned a coat of arms, and built a mansion where he could live whenever he wasn’t at his country home.

At the moment he was devoted to his books. It was said that his library housed close to seven thousand volumes. The police chief assumed that the actual number was about half that, but it was still an enormous number of books in a small town like this. People said that Søren Engel singlehandedly financed Winding’s print shop, even thought most of his books were purchased from Danish, French, and German printers, booksellers, and collectors. Bayer had spent some of his best hours reading books that he’d borrowed from the erudite and wealthy man. The chief was especially fond of the latest French titles that spoke of the free nature of human beings and the enlightened mind.

*   *   *

After Bayer knocked on the door, it was opened by a servant, a pitch-black African, the only one of his kind in the city, a fellow with piercing eyes and an impeccable knowledge of many languages. Apparently assuming that the police chief had an appointment, the servant ushered him inside and then took his coat and cane.

“The police chief is not carrying his official cane today,” the servant remarked.

“I’ve ordered a new one,” mumbled Bayer as he looked up at the ceiling, which had not yet been painted. The floors, on the other hand, had recently been treated with linseed oil and still gave off a strong odor. This was the first time he’d come to see Engel in the new mansion. It hadn’t yet been inaugurated with a grand celebration. From what he’d heard, Engel was waiting for a ship to arrive from France, bringing cases of a particularly fine champagne. The workmen labored with the last areas that required painting, and they still needed to attach the wine fountain to the wall in the ballroom.

On the evening before the body was discovered, Bayer had attended a drinking party of sorts at Engel’s former villa. Engel was the only upper-class gentleman in the city who ever invited the police chief to any high-society gatherings. The merchant found it entertaining to listen to Bayer’s shrewd observations and his amusing stories about Copenhagen. He especially enjoyed hearing about the lives of the petty thieves, street urchins, poor folk, and whores in the king’s city. Bayer had hundreds of tales from the time he was a police officer in his homeland. He, in turn, couldn’t get enough of Engel’s stories about life at university. But above all, he came for the books and booze.

“Have a seat and I’ll fetch the master,” said the servant after showing Bayer into a large, bright library with big windows and a glass door that led to the garden in back. Outside he could see several gardeners hard at work, planting flowers that had come from distant lands and bore names Bayer had never heard. At the far end of the library, the most important volumes had been placed in a bookcase that covered the whole wall. Bayer couldn’t help going over and running his index finger along the spine of a book bound in calfskin on which the author’s name, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, had been stamped in gold leaf. He limited himself to touching it, resisting the urge to take the book from the shelf and start reading.

Then he took a seat, choosing one of the comfortable gold-embroidered chairs that faced the garden. He closed his eyes and felt a light prickling on his forehead. The numerous windows allowed the sun to fill the room with a scorching heat. Not thinking about anything in particular, his hand found its way to the small pewter flask in his waistcoat pocket. He took it out but realized at once that it was empty. Nevertheless, he raised it to his lips and, using his tongue, he managed to get a few drops from the flask.

Then the door opened, and a narrow, pale face appeared in the doorway. Bayer recognized Oda, the youngest of Engel’s daughters. She was thirteen and thin as a flower stalk.

She looked at him with alarm, then took several steps into the room, curtsying and apologizing. As she came forward, her skirts seem to glide across the floor, as if moving on their own. She was like a baby bird.

“I didn’t know anyone was here,” Oda said. “I was on my way outside to look at the new flowers.”

Bayer smiled and gestured toward the garden. “Don’t let me detain you, young lady,” he said.

She curtsied again, a bit timidly, and went over to the glass door. As she opened it, Bayer said, “Where is your sister?”

Eva Engel was three years older and far more spirited. Bayer wasn’t particularly fond of young girls; he often found them to be anemic, with overly shrill voices. He preferred men with whom he could talk sensibly and tell a joke without making them blush—this applied equally to his tastes regarding women. But he’d liked Eva from the moment he met her. Not that they’d talked much since then. Like any self-respecting gentleman and father, Søren Engel protected his daughters like a jealous rooster, and they were always sent to bed before any strong liquor appeared on the table.

“Eva has gone away,” said Oda, fixing her eyes on the floor.

“Gone away?” he said. “Your father didn’t mention anything about that the other day.”

“It was hastily arranged. I only learned of it myself yesterday.”

Bayer thought the girl seemed offended for some reason. As if she disapproved of her sister’s sudden departure.

“Do you know why she left?” he asked.

“She went to visit relatives in Denmark.”

“And how long will she be away?”

“I was told that we won’t see her again until next spring. But now you must excuse me.
Les fleurs
. Aren’t they beautiful?” She laughed, turned toward the garden, and went out to look.

Bayer sat in the library, watching her go and looking at her blond tresses gleaming in the sunlight. Then Søren Engel came into the room, eclipsing the sun with his presence.

As always, he was smiling, as if he knew no other demeanor. Engel had a broad chin and dark brown eyes, hinting at ancestors from southern climes. Today he wore no wig, nor had he powdered his hair. Bayer viewed it as a sign of friendship that Engel was willing to receive him so informally. Yet he was well-dressed, as always. His long jacket of reddish brown velvet reached to his thighs and his coat of arms was embroidered on the breast pocket. He bowed and then sat down in a chair next to Bayer.

“So, what brings the police chief to my new abode at this early-morning hour?”

“I apologize for the inconvenient time, my dear friend and protector of the city.”

“Kindly refrain from the flowery speech. It doesn’t suit you, and we should be able to speak freely with each other. Have you had your morning dram?”

“I’m afraid I overestimated how much was left in my flask after I took my nightly libation.” Bayer gave a wry smile, which was immediately returned. Engel rang a little bell that sat on the table between them. A different servant instantly appeared in the doorway.

“A bottle of our best aqua vitae and two glasses, please,” said Engel without looking at the servant.

“So, you still haven’t answered my question,” he said to Bayer after the servant had closed the door. “What brings you here?”

“I need some help with a difficult case,” replied Bayer. “Have you by chance heard about the body that we found outside of town?”

“Of course. The body on the shore. The attorney Martinus Nissen told me last night, when we were drinking beer together. We were celebrating the imminent publication of his investigative newspaper—the first and only of its kind in the city. He asked me whether I thought it was a good idea for him to write a small article about this mysterious corpse, but I advised against it. It would merely attract frivolous readers and contribute to unnecessary gossip. Not to mention the disparaging effect it would have on his publication in general. ‘No, that’s a police matter,’ I told him. ‘Leave it in Bayer’s hands. Your publication ought to concentrate on the things that will bring honor to its advertisers.’ The man is an astute jurist. My suggestion was to focus on topics of a more fundamental and legal nature.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” said Bayer with satisfaction. “That will elevate his newspaper above the more trivial publications. We’ve seen so many of those lately. How will it end if all the papers in this country are filled with reports of every sordid crime?”

“Nissen is a sensible man. The city is lucky he’s running this gazette.”

“Very true. But back to the corpse. My investigations indicate that the deceased died in a most suspicious manner. I’ve also discovered that the man had arrived here only recently, and by all accounts he came from Sweden. For that reason, I am looking for another Swede who has recently taken lodgings in our city. We have witnesses who claim that the two Swedes knew each other. Since the one who is still alive happens to be of some social standing, I thought he might have made the acquaintance of the most prominent members of our local gentry.”

At that moment, the door opened. The servant crossed the floor, hardly making a sound. He set a bottle and two glasses on the table between the two men, then left the room. Engel filled their glasses as he spoke.

“So you’re wondering if I’ve encountered a high-ranking Swedish gentleman in the past few days?”

He frowned, as if considering the matter, and Bayer couldn’t help thinking he was laying it on a bit thick.

“I’m afraid I have to disappoint you,” said Engel at last. “But I wouldn’t want your visit to have been completely in vain:
Skål!
” He raised his glass.