“They’re coming,” she whispered.

  The dwarf gripped her arm and once more Kristoffer was accorded a glimpse of the remarkable strength residing within Monsieur Andress’s tiny frame. And when the clown spoke, it was with authority and power.

  “If they come,” he said, “I will plant myself on those stairs and…” He paused, the actor in him giving careful consideration to an appropriate reception, “… then I will politely but firmly send them packing,” he finished.

  Seeing Sonja’s shoulders relax, Kristoffer realized that the clown’s vehemence had broken through to her dazed consciousness. She stared at the clown.

  “I found it,” she told him, “I found my way here. I’ve been here before.”

  Monsieur Andress did not reply but merely looked the girl in the eye, and it dawned on Kristoffer that they must have met before, that they already knew each other, and that what was happening here must to some extent—and in some way that was beyond his comprehension—have been planned.

  Wordlessly, Monsieur Andress handed the silver flask to Sonja. Kristoffer could not imagine her ever having drunk alcohol before, and certainly never straight from a flask. But she took a long, deep gulp, then slowly wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Up to this point her face had been distant and shuttered, giving the impression that she had come to the loft determined to say as little as possible and preferably nothing at all. But now the alcohol surged through her, manifesting itself as a rich flush, sparkling in her eyes like tears, and loosening her tongue.

  “The heat,” she said, “that drink induces is a false heat. He often said that. But it feels real enough now.” She fell quiet for a while.

  Then: “Surely it can’t ever be a Christian act to kill another human being, that’s what I said to him. But he didn’t hear me. I could have gotten those cod. I know all there is to know about cod.” She gazed beyond Kristoffer and out into the night. “No one ever listens,” she said, “when you need them to.”

  “Someone is always listening,” said the dwarf, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “Even now?” asked the girl.

  “Right now,” answered Monsieur Andress, “right now someone is listening.”

  The girl closed her eyes and slowly recited: “Hold tight to what you have that no one shall take your crown.” She opened her eyes. “That’s what he wrote,” she said, “in my hymn book. It was the text for my confirmation. Well, he is a lay preacher. He prepared me himself. And he gave me a gold ten-kroner piece.”

  She was silent again, as if the act of talking were a pointless waste of effort and that she then carried on anyway, Kristoffer knew, was because the dwarf with his inquiring expression was facing her, assuring her that the world was listening.

  “It was a tiny hymn book,” she said, “so small that you had to use a needle to leaf through it. That’s how they picture paradise, you see. Very small, very fine leaves.” She stared at her two listeners in confusion, as if herself aware of how she was rambling on.

  “Be still, they tell you. Only by sitting still can you enter paradise. It must be a very small paradise they’re preparing themselves for.” She paused. “Like Lady Moltke,” she said, “she’s preparing herself for an awfully narrow paradise. So cramped that I doubt there’ll be room for anyone but her, her and”—her face contorted with disgust—“her French bulldog.”

  A low, resounding crash shook the room and amid the din Sonja took another long swig from the flask. By the time things had quieted down, her thoughts had shifted. Her eyes were now fixed on Kristoffer.

  “Kristoffer,” she said, “do you remember the drama society’s production of La Bayadère?”

  Kristoffer nodded.

  “Dad took me to see it. When they started dancing”—her eyes shone at the memory—“when they started dancing I wet my underpants. But Dad, he laid his coat under me. And he whispered: ‘You sit on that and you’ll soon dry off all right.’ And I did. And afterward I was up dancing at the party. And it didn’t show a bit.” She giggled with delight. “And you were the only one I danced with.”

  Kristoffer nodded again.

  “And you didn’t know anything about my wetting my underpants.”

  Kristoffer shook his head.

  She looked straight at Monsieur Andress. “He disappeared, I’m afraid,” she said.

  The clown eyed her intently.

  “Well, actually, he died,” she continued matter-of-factly. “The sea took him. It was no good, that engine. He’s told me that many a time since then. ‘It happened because we couldn’t keep up with the waves.’ That’s what he says.”

  “How could he tell you that when he’s dead?” asked Monsieur Andress.

  The girl regarded him distantly. “Ah,” she said, “but he came back, didn’t he? You see, every day I would go down to the shore, and one day he came back and he rose up onto his tail and laughed at me, showing all his teeth. He was always bragging about still having all his own teeth.”

  “He had a tail?” Monsieur Andress asked.

  The girl nodded. “As much as a week might go by without his showing up,” she said. “A long time to wait when you’re alone. But he always came back. Well, we had to talk.”

  “What did you talk about?” asked Kristoffer.

  “Everything under the sun,” said the girl. “About Uncle and Auntie. And about the accident. And about you, too. To begin with…” She paused. “To begin with, we agreed that you would come and get me. Dad said you were bound to. One day you would roll up in the wagon and we would drive off. But you didn’t come. One can go on believing in something like that for a while. And I did see you sometimes on the street. But you can’t go on believing in it indefinitely.”

  Kristoffer felt something on his hands and, looking down, found it to be his own tears. Marveling, he realized that from that inner being of his which he had deemed to be quite, quite empty, there now came a spate of weeping that he seemed powerless to stem.

  “Hold on to what you have,” said the girl. “That’s how their minds work.”

  “Yes,” said Monsieur Andress. “I would say that is pretty much how their minds work, i coglioni.”

  “You know, Dad used to take cod from the tank. I would push the lid off for him and he would grab a few. Never a lot. Just enough to satisfy his hunger. Three or four, that’s all. Well, we all have to live, don’t we? And it worked just fine for a long time. He would lean over the edge and dip his snout into the water and then he would catch them easy as you like. By throwing back his head.”

  “Was your father a fish of some sort?” asked the clown.

  “A porpoise,” said the girl.

  A bewildered expression crossed Monsieur Andress’s face, as if he were losing the thread of all this, and it occurred to Kristoffer that, his many years at sea with the Circus Gleim notwithstanding, the old man’s wide experience of the world might not stretch to the creatures found in Danish waters.

  “Auntie often said,” the girl went on, “that while there might not be that much good to be gotten from the sea, at least with the bad that comes out of it you know what you’re getting. With people it’s different. So they let me go down there alone. But that day he must have followed me. It was Dad who saw him. I had just shoved the lid off the tank and he had eaten his fill. He hadn’t said a word. But then I notice that he’s looking at something. And he says: ‘Hello, little brother.’ That’s when I catch sight of Uncle. He’s standing right behind me, with his gun held into his side, so that I don’t see it right away, but then he brings it up real easy. And I say to Dad, ‘For God’s sake, Dad,’ I say, ‘swim, swim away from here, or Uncle’ll shoot you.’ But he doesn’t seem to hear what I’m saying. He just looks Uncle straight in the face and then he slaps the water and rears up onto his tail and stays there with the water foaming white underneath him, and he shows Uncle all his teeth. And then it dawns on me why he doesn’t swim away. He’s going to let himself get shot. He thinks that if he runs away it’ll be worse for me. He thinks Uncle will do me harm.” She shook her head gently. “Stupid of him, wasn’t it? To think they could lay a finger on me. He should just have tried. I’d have choked him. I would have got up in the middle of the night and taken a string from the piano.” She pondered this for a moment. “A C string,” she said, “because ‘A Mighty Fortress Is Our God’ is in C major. And then I would have throttled him. Oh, I know he’s bigger and stronger than I am. But I would have the night on my side. And it’s not easy to defend yourself when you’re asleep and there’s a C string wound around your neck.”

  Kristoffer caught himself swallowing and running a couple of tentative fingers over his throat.

  “That’s when Uncle takes aim,” said Sonja. “He’d brought the double-barreled shotgun. Dad never used a shotgun. He said it was a weapon for folk who couldn’t shoot straight. I try to stop him. ‘Uncle,’ I say, ‘those few fish, I’ll get them for you whenever you like, just take me out, I know all there is to know about cod.’ But he just cocks the gun. And I say: ‘Surely it can’t ever be a Christian act to kill your own brother, can it?’ But he doesn’t hear me, he’s miles away. And it’s as if I’m paralyzed. It all comes, of course, from everybody’s always wanting you to keep still. You lose the knack of doing anything, don’t you? But then I see his finger tightening on the trigger, so I shake myself out of it anyway and I take a swipe at the gun and both barrels go off. I must have shut my eyes because, when I open them again, Dad is nowhere to be seen and for a moment I think he’s been hit, but then I see Uncle lying on the ground and there’s blood all over the place and I realize he must have shot himself in the legs. He’s still moving, though, trying to grab me, but I don’t hang around, I just clear out.”

  Monsieur Andress was considering the girl through narrowed eyes.

  “When was this?” he asked.

  She wavered for a second, seeming to have lost all sense of time. “Oh, but it was today,” she said.

  “So,” the clown concluded slowly, “you came straight here.”

  The girl nodded. “Straight here,” she said.

  Monsieur Andress took a deep breath. “There you have the advantage of age and experience,” he said, half to himself, half to the two young people. “Knowing when some tremendous trick is brewing. The first thing that hits you is the power of it, then everything goes blank for a moment. You feel at a loss, un sentimento di essere abbandonato; then you prick up your ears and suddenly it’s on you and then…”—he looked at the girl—“you hear the most amazing things.”

  Slowly and with difficulty, Kristoffer pulled himself to his feet and walked stiff-legged over to Sonja. He knew that the world had now encapsulated him and was about to spit him out. Even so, he felt he might be permitted a final few words.

  He positioned himself in front of the girl, stretched questing arms out into space, but not a word escaped his lips.

  “Why didn’t you come?” she asked.

  “They said you had to be shielded,” Kristoffer replied uncertainly.

  The girl studied him carefully, with no sign of reproach, no hint of condemnation.

  “Ah,” she said. “And after they’ve been here to fetch me, then they’re going to shield me with a vengeance.”

  Just then, from somewhere in the universe Kristoffer was struck by the full extent of his treachery, and it was borne in on him that emptiness was not the only thing that lurked inside his shell, that, behind his name hid a person who had failed someone without whom the world was inconceivable and from whom he was now to be parted forever. Reeling like a drunkard, he spun round on his heel and put out an arm as if wishing to retrieve the emptiness of before, infinitely preferable as it was to the knowledge that every chance had been wasted. At that very moment, above the keening of the rain he became aware of voices all around him, a muttering, importunate chorus, with one voice standing out, more audible and insistent than the rest. Directly opposite Kristoffer, two eyes caught the yellow light from the lamp and it came to him that the voice he was hearing was that of Monsieur Andress.

  “Kristoffer,” said the clown, tenderly almost, “you could always jump.”

  A great, warm wave of gratitude washed over Kristoffer—gratitude that once again the tiny sage had looked into his soul, perceived his despair, and shown him a way out. And, as with all conclusive rescues, this one too—even as it was being uttered—seemed quite superb and quite perfect.

  With one shrug Kristoffer dismissed his cares and stepped up to the hatch. Beneath him the darkness seemed bottomless, yet welcoming. Then Monsieur Andress’s voice fell on his ears once more, soft and compelling.

  “On the other hand,” he whispered, “to jump into Papa’s yard would be to choose a very short and very easy route.”

  In a nightmarish change of scene Kristoffer found himself back in the fencing hall and, as if he were indeed there, slowly he swiveled around until he stood with his back to the darkness. Behind him, from the pit beneath him, a gentle suction was tugging him backward. In the room before him the girl and the dwarf eyed him intently.

  “Last time,” said Kristoffer, as if it were quite obvious to what he was referring, “I turned and left. And that’s what I’m going to do now, too.”

  The dwarf laughed softly. “Last time you were left somewhat the wiser,” he said. “This time you’ll simply disappear. That jump, my lad, would be the last and longest retrograde step of your life.”

  Kristoffer could no longer tell whether the figure of the little man was drawing him toward life or pushing him back into extinction. He sensed only that the dwarf had to have been sent from outside, that he was some great, some universal destroyer and tempter. With some difficulty he tore his eyes away from the clown and turned them on the girl. She was looking at him as she had done many times before, an infinitely long time ago, when he had wept: without fear, without reproach, but keenly, almost urgently, as if he were no different from anyone else.

  This look moved Kristoffer to climb back down into the loft and collapse in a heap. Silently the girl took her place beside him and clasped his hand.

  “This has all the makings of a grand finale,” said Monsieur Andress. He turned to face the hatch, as if addressing an audience. “The time has come…” he announced, breaking off and listening briefly to the night, then continuing, “to declare these two young people—who have been kept apart but whom I, Monsieur Andress, have reunited, for all the world as if I were Almighty God himself—to be betrothed. On this stage and for this evening, at any rate. And I should like to express in song a devout wish for their future and for my own, in that voice which has induced a deluge of tears across the length and breadth of Europe.”

  And, clearing his throat with a lusty “Ahem,” he sang:

  Lieber Gott,

  Gibt doch zu

  dass ich klüger bin als Du.

  Kristoffer and Sonja had been staring at each other, but as the first note reached their ears they looked up. For at that selfsame moment the clown’s world-renowned tenor had cracked, turning shrill and tremulous as a bout of falsetto laughter. Then he fell silent and stood for a moment quite, quite still.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, “the voice is gone. But I am still here.”

  He raised his right hand as though to wave good-bye, and in a gesture reminiscent of a salute he swept his gray mane clear of his head. Beneath the wig bristled a blonde crew cut, through which his scalp shone rosy pink.

  “Allow me to introduce to you a young man washed up by a harsh fate on the rocky coastline of the performing arts.”

  Gingerly, to avoid ripping his skin, he pulled off his gray moustache. This done, he wiped his sleeves across his face, leaving the remains of what had been the great Monsieur Andress’s face smeared across the white velvet. Kristoffer and Sonja were confronted by a boy who could not have been a day over twelve.

  “Christ, I really should do this in the ring some time,” he declared triumphantly.

  “Who are you?” asked Kristoffer.

  “I am the great Monsieur Andress’s young assistant,” said the boy.

  “Where…” asked Kristoffer, “where is Monsieur Andress?”

  “Monsieur Andress died a week ago,” the boy replied. “You see,” he added slowly, “he carried that new smallpox strain into the town.” He thought this over for a moment. “We’d been on tour,” he said, “and on the return trip we take a run into Rødby. But they’re not interested in us putting on a show there. Which, my dear children, was a bloody pain in the ass, because we were starving.” He grinned at the couple before him. “Oh, it may look pretty grand, the Circus Gleim,” he said, “but looking that good costs a lot of money. So we were starving.” He laughed at the memory of it. “That’s life for you,” he said. “Even the great Monsieur Andress was starving. So then we try to get into Vaden. And hunger fires the old imagination. And Andress, he tells that story about the storm and it’s in the bag, we’re in port, there’s food enough for everyone. And Andress is the man of the moment, he’s so pleased with himself—it’s all thanks to him. Then one day he’s covered in red spots and he gets sick. There’s only him and me in the cabin, and he starts having these convulsions that send him twelve feet into the air and land him on the floor, so that eventually I have to tie him down, and in the end he’s in such a state that I’m thinking to myself, Scheisse, better now for him to die than to live. And then he dies. And what are we to do? Mann weiss’ nicht, und mann is too polite to ask. So then I put on his wig—he was bald, you know—and I make myself a moustache—I have learned something after all—and out I go into that arena. All the others can tell right away that something’s wrong, but they’re scared, you see, so they let me get on with it and the audience don’t notice a thing, nichts.” Dreamily he stared into space. “The public, as it happens, adore me,” he said. “In fact, I would go so far as to say that there has not been one night when I have been any worse than that old fool.”