My Dirty Little Book of Stolen Time (3 page)

Knowing Herr Swampe was likely to have cash, & quickly catching on to his fantasy, which Else & I were very used to provoking in men who saw us together, for we had indeed performed as quasi Sapphics for the titillation of men, we both egged him on most effusively & when he had finished telling us about how much our act had aroused him, I chided him that he was a wicked boy who should be spanked. (You have no idea how many men like to hear this nonsense whispered in their ear whilst in the act, for they are big babies, forever greedy for the simultaneous comfort & punishment of Mother.)

‘But dear Herr Swampe, tell me honest,' said Else, not losing her business sense. ‘Did you come here to reminisce about the Østerbro Coquettes, or can I tempt you with something floral?'

Ah. Yes of course. He was looking for flowers for his wife's birthday, he told Else, returning to his quotidian senses with
the weary sigh of a provider. But that was perfect, Else said, for she had just the thing for his lucky wife. Blossom, all
the way from romantic Toulouse, flown in this very morning by hot-air balloon! (
Hot-air balloon?
Where does she get these rodomontade ideas? I marvelled.) While winking at me, she flogged Herr Swampe the blooms that would
be dead by teatime, & after he'd paid for them through the nose, he murmured in my ear, was I free for a quick spot of how's-your-father?
For if I had the time he had the money, having yesterday bet on the horses & won. And so, knowing him to be a speedy in-and-out
sort of customer, I said, ‘Yes, so long as you do not insist I manipulate the cane, sir, for it is too early in the day for
all that nonsense, I've not yet breakfasted.' Having obtained this assurance we left together & set about our business with
the minimum of undressing & thanks to some well-timed whimpering & moaning on my part, & doubtless some renewed memories of the Østerbro Coquettes on his, the deed was satisfactorily concluded in five minutes flat while Fru Schleswig, quite oblivious, chomped
her way through the
rundstykker
in the kitchen. Then, with both Herr Swampe & myself feeling in a smilingly generous mood towards his marriage (a frequent
side-product of such transactions), I advised him to rush home to his wife with the blossom, so she could catch the full glory
of it not to mention the whiff of Toulouse, & then said goodbye to him five kroner richer. After a quick fanny-douche & a
splash of rose water I went to investigate how the ancient hag was doing. I found her now working her way through the stale
wienerbrød,
chewing sideways like a ruminant beast. But I needed her cheerful so said nothing. The repulsive Fru Schleswig said nothing
either, but simply continued to munch, gazing blankly at me with her big cow's eyes, & thus we looked on one another in silence
for a long moment, as two prisoners shackled to one another by an invisible & unbreakable leg-clamp, for all eternity.

I had no formal education as a child, & cannot recall exactly where or how I learned the alphabet & its uses, but down in
the damp cellar of the orphanage was stored a mass of mouldering tomes (the property having once belonged to a man of letters)
where, by the light of a single candle, I devoured all the books I could from morn till night, thus attaining a somewhat eclectic
& worm-eaten education including knowledge of a folk tale that frightened the young wits out of me, about a Russian witch
called Baba Yaga Bonylegs who lived in a house in the middle of the forest that stood on giant chicken's legs & could turn
at will.

It was of this story & the childhood nightmares it engendered that I was reminded when I clapped eyes on Number Nine Rosenvængets Allé for the first time, for it was a large sombre homestead set back some distance from the road, surrounded by tall conifer
trees of an exceedingly dark green that gave it an air of shadow & menace. The garden gate screamed for oil as I opened it,
which deepened the sense of childish unease I had been feeling as I approached with the wheezing Fru Schleswig, whom I had
forced into a reluctant vow of silence for the occasion. I rang the huge brass bell &, after a long while & much scraping
of iron bolts, Fru Krak opened the creaking door. Clad in a leg-of-mutton-sleeved dress of a sickly greenish hue, she acknowledged
me with no more than a haughty nod, & then turned her critical attention to Fru Schleswig. Who gives a less than heart-lifting
impression at the best of times, weighing a hundred kilograms as she does, but I had furnished her with a white apron rigid
with starch, & cajoled her into rolling up her sleeves to reveal the almighty hams of her forearms, each as thick as a pig's
thigh; so if nothing else, she looked strong enough to lift & hurl a barrel & wrest seven sailors to the ground.

‘Your confectionery package from Herr Møller, with his compliments,' I said quickly, to distract her from the sight of Fru S, & waggled the ribboned & frilled box from
the baker's at her. (And what a good laugh the ancient swine & I had shared when we stopped along the way to peek at the cake
inside, for it was adorned with pink marzipan hearts like the mimsy concoction of a lovesick girl.)

‘You can take it to the kitchen,' the Krakster said coldly, like a creature raised in darkness and drained of blood: her flesh had the look of veal. ‘Follow me, both of you.' And so we trod behind her sweeping figure into the cavernous interior of the house, crossing first an entrance hall adorned with reindeer & elk heads, & then heading down a gloomy corridor whose plaster-flaking walls gave off an ominous whiff of toad-spore. ‘The Pastor & I are to be married in February,' she announced over her shoulder. ‘I had thought March, but the Pastor is keen to pursue our nuptials,' & since she did not speak of it as a joyful prospect, I could not help but glean that she was one of those who prefer the anticipation of marriage to the state itself.

'Your confectionery package!'

When we reached the kitchen, which was hung with desiccated hams, she indicated I should put the package on the table. ‘Which lands me in a difficult position vis-á-vis the cleaning of this place. It will need some intensive work,' she said, now turning
her attention to the wheezing Fru Schleswig with increasing distaste. I handed the old crone (whose finger was now openly
exploring the inside of her nostril) a handkerchief, & gave her a glare which told her to behave herself or face the consequences.
Casting my eyes around the room, & swiftly assessing the possibilities before me, the financially exciting notion which I
had been incubating since I first clapped eyes on Fru Krak in the baker's shop now hatched, shook itself, spread its little
wings, & prepared to fly. For it was suddenly eminently clear to me that one, there would be jewellery, trinkets, decorative
objects & even small items of furniture here that might be pilfered & sold to good effect, & two, that Fru Schleswig would
be dismissed within an hour here, if left to her own devices. Nothing focuses the intellect like an empty purse.

‘Might I suggest in that case that you employ the two of us?' I offered sweetly to Fru Krak. ‘Fru Schleswig & I can happily
work in tandem, she dealing with the heavier cleaning – I note you have a damp-rot problem, which is right up Fru Schleswig's
street – while I, in turn, can see to the finer side of things such as polishing & dusting. I would not like Fru Schleswig
here to break any of your –' I looked around: curtains dangling dust-laden
klunke
-bobbles, all manner of
passementerie
& overstuffed armchairs, plus myriad mirrors reflecting regiments of knick-knacks and gewgaws – ‘your fragile & costly ornaments.'

At which point Fru S fog-horned at me: ‘Wot do u fink I am, a bull in a chyner shoppe or wot?' Already her vow of silence
was broken, as I should have guessed it would be, but I ignored her &, hoping Fru Krak would do the same, pursued my theme:
which was that together Fru S & I could get the work done in half the time, so that by New Year the mansion would be as new,
& a fitting abode for the Pastor & his lovely wife. Might the good lady be so kind as to show us round, to get the measure
of the place?

With some reluctance, & with many warnings about how she would notice immediately if any thieving went on, for she knew the
value & location of every item she owned, she led us around the rest of her dismal residence, a labyrinth of decrepit passages
& small, unlikely sets of twisting stairs leading to single cells in lonely towers, or to unexpected, spider-infested bedrooms.
I was minded of a honeycomb after the bees have been smoked out, & despite having a good inner compass, I had lost track of
its configurement within the space of twenty doors, & realized I would need to make myself a detailed map with pen & ink,
if I was to master the architecture, & turn such knowledge to my profit.

‘As you see, I keep many rooms locked,' Lady Muck announced, jangling the set of keys that hung at the level of her heavy
hips. ‘But that is to change, for Pastor Dahlberg has much in the way of furniture. Nearly every room must be opened, aired
& cleaned in preparation for his arrival.'

'Nearly
every one, madam?' I queried.

A look of alarm crossed her face, but she suppressed it quickly.

‘There are one or two that remain private,' she snapped, ‘& will not be of concern to you.'

‘Of course,' I said. ‘I am sure all houses have them.' She looked at me sharply: I saw the spasm of anxiety again. ‘All the
best houses must, I mean,' I said soothingly, keen to disguise the sudden sense of excitement I was feeling at having spotted
a chink in that icy armour of hers. This seemed to settle her somewhat, for I was getting the measure of her by now, & guessed
that she was one to be mollified by the crassest of flatteries. But I will confess to you, dear reader, that the subject of
the locked rooms, & the hint of agitation she betrayed at the mention of them, filled me immediately with the most overwhelming
curiosity. How could it not? Clearly there was something hidden there that she would prefer to remain a secret. And had I
not read
Bluebeard,
and stories of hidden treasure? I pictured a big coffer stuffed with jewels and banknotes, such as a pirate might bury on
a secret island, and mark on a map with an X. A softened bar of wax, I figured, was all it would take to make an imprint of
the keys. I was quite lost in my thoughts on this subject when we stopped at the top of a staircase, which Fru Schleswig was
still laboriously climbing in our wake. As I have mentioned, I had instructed the elderly hag not to blab a word, & to act
entirely mute, but she had already broken this pledge several times by uttering uneducated exclamations of the type:
O pittie
me poor ole legs! &
Blimey, wot it must be lyke ratling round alone in a hows this syze!
And
Coo, look at the tinklys on that shandyleer!
– remarks which Fru Krak had fortunately chosen to ignore.

‘I am not one to be cheated,' said Lady Muck, as we waited for Fru Schleswig – still expostulating – to join us.

‘Cheat you, madam? O dear, I would not dream of doing such a thing. I may be a lowly sinner, but I was raised in a charitable
orphanage & know the meaning of hard work,' I lied.

‘I am a stickler for high standards,' she announced. ‘I am sure you can tell that I come from a very aristocratic family.
The Bischen-Baschens.'

She paused to let this sink in as it should.

‘Oh yes indeed, the Bischen-Baschens,' I said with an impressive show of respect, though in truth I was stifling a powerful
urge to laugh aloud. ‘That is evident in your speech & comportment, madam. That you are of the highest breeding, that is.
Though I have not heard of the Bischen-Baschens, I confess. Per se.'

‘Well, you wouldn't have done, would you?' she said, emitting that same odd, triumphant bark I had first heard in the bakery,
which was her version of laughter. ‘Being nothing more than an uneducated strumpet!'

At which she laughed again, as if the fact that I earned my own living, instead of sponging off a husband as she had done,
in the manner of a parasite, was the most hilarious notion she could imagine.

And thus it came to pass that Fru Schleswig & I began our new life, at a rate of five kroner per day, in the employ of Fru Emilie Krak, née Bischen-Baschen.

Tick, tock: time passed, but not much, for it was on the afternoon of the very first day of our employment that I met the
mysterious Professor Krak. Not in the flesh, or indeed in ghost form, but as a darkly lustrous oil portrait labelled
Professor Frederik Krak
hanging in a back hallway of Fru Krak's grandiose home. It depicted a dark, sparse-haired man in his early middle years, whose
high temples gave the face below an air of intellectuality, & a certain eccentric flair. But there was something fervent in
the intensity of his gaze – a dash of the fanatic – that caused me to shiver & remember Else's story of a ghost walking to
the letterbox along the lakeside, wrapped in a black cloak & half-buried in a swirl of sepia mist. I resolved in that moment
that I would go & visit Gudrun Olsen, the Kraks' former housekeeper, & make enquiries as to the character of Professor Krak,
& what might have transpired those seven years ago to cause the mysterious sitter of this portrait to have been wiped so suddenly
but indecisively from the face of the earth. Had his wife indeed murdered him, as Else had suggested? Or might he be living
still? In either chilling case, my imagination was captured.