He had watched the father, mother, daughter, and son through a gap in the boards of the shed as they got into the car. An aura of security surrounded them that made them appear loving and kind. For that reason, perhaps, he stole only what he needed: clothes and food.
As well as a book that lay on the living-room table.
He found the garbage can to the right of the shed, lifted the uppermost bags of rubbish and tossed his ruined pajamas and underclothes onto the pile underneath, ridding himself of all that might remind him of his past.
An old bike in the outhouse tempted him sorely, and yet he hesitated. More than ever, he knew he had to keep away from public places: main roads, bus stations, railways-anywhere that might provide a swift escape route from those who would be looking for him. It was in such places they would search for him first, and for that reason he left the bike behind.
He stole away wearing a thick sweater and shoes that were a size too big, with the book placed in the waistband of his trousers and pockets bulging with cured meat and bread.
During the next four days small towns and villages appeared on his way with names he’d never hear of, like Strø, Lystrup, and Bastrup, potential pantries on his zigzag passage escape along hedgerows and woods toward Copenhagen. And when his supplies from the break-in ran out, the rubbish bins became his best friends. Only seldom was the abundance of household rubbish in these outlying areas lacking, and Marco wasn’t too choosy to turn his nose up at leftover food and stale bread. At least not at the moment.
His timing was good and he reached Rådhuspladsen late enough in the day not to risk running into Zola’s troops on their way home with the day’s haul.
Before him lay the city’s familiar streets and getaway routes, but this territory also belonged to others besides himself. An unguarded moment, the briefest lapse in concentration, and they would be upon him if he should dare to venture forth. And that would be the end.
From the building site of the House of Industry he craned his neck to peer over the fencing toward the ongoing metro extension and beyond to the Palace Hotel and the offices of the Politiken newspaper. Construction projects wherever he looked. Roads dug up, stacks of portable huts, mountains of concrete rubble, and truckloads of building materials, steel and concrete modules in every direction.
It was pandemonium.
Marco found his new life in the Østerbro district. The reasons were several.
On this cold November day he stood amid the roar of traffic on Østerbro’s Trianglen, a hub that bound together the city’s various neighborhoods. It was a place he had never been before. He looked down at himself and at the throngs of people going by, and he wondered where he was going to sleep at night and how he would find food. For who would help a filthy kid who wasn’t one of their own?
The busy crowds were a temptation for Marco. An invitation almost. He was hungry, he had no money and no idea what to do when the night came. He looked around as thoughts reflexively crowded his mind regardless of his reluctance to acknowledge them. For the women’s bags were slung so casually over their shoulders at the bus stops, and the men so carelessly placed their briefcases on the ground at their feet while they paid for their things at the kiosk.
Here he could earn enough to keep him happy a whole day in just half an hour, simply by stealing from people, that much was plain to him. But was that what he wanted? And even if it wasn’t, would he be able to say no if he wished to survive?
He thought for a second about sitting down on the pavement by the telephone kiosk, holding out his hand, and begging. And then a snowflake settled on the back of his hand. First one, then another. Within a moment, people turned their faces skyward as the snow began to fall, spattering the facades of the buildings. Some smiled, others pulled up their collars, and when the air became a swirl of white the women clutched their bags and the men lifted their briefcases from the ground. The weather was against him.
If he sat down to beg now he would soon be even wetter and colder, and if he huddled beneath the meager shelter of the kiosk roof he knew he would quickly be shooed away. He was more acquainted with the psychology of begging than almost anyone, and a beggar at too close quarters was unwelcome. Besides, people were now heading off in all directions, winter having arrived without warning, their clothing suddenly inappropriate, Marco’s included.
What now?
He surveyed the new scene. Buses with sweeping wipers, cyclists dismounting to step through the slush onto the pavements. Flagstones now slippery, once-empty windows now teeming with life as people settled in the cafés to enjoy hot, steamy beverages. But Marco remained standing outside.
It was no good.
He pressed his freezing lips together and picked out his target coming toward him from Blegdamsvej. He could tell she was going to veer off any minute to wait at the pedestrian crossing, for he had seen how her eyes appeared to be fixed on the 7-Eleven on the other side of Østerbrogade.
A schoolteacher, he reckoned. There was that kind of authority about her, as though she were used to maintaining discipline. Her bulging, well-worn shoulder bag was half-open. It wasn’t the cheapest of bags, but certainly no flashy accessory either, bought to be used and to last. Marco’s hands had been inside so many like it. He knew the wallet nearly always lay outermost. If there was a pocket, it would be there.
He walked past the buses to the crossing and waited.
It took only a second from her coming to a halt until he found the fold into which the wallet had been placed. He stood motionless until she stepped out onto the crossing. His hand slipped out as she moved away. She might feel a slight bump against her hip as the bag fell back into place, but her attention would be elsewhere.
Marco remained standing with a strange feeling inside him, the wallet now concealed up his sleeve. Usually his eyes would be darting to make sure he had not been seen by pedestrians coming from behind, and he would be away from the scene in an instant.
But this time, shame immobilized him.
Zola had warned them all against such emotion: “You realize, of course, that no one expects anything but the worst of us. The Roma will forever be branded untrustworthy. So feel no shame. It’s the ones you’re stealing from who ought to feel shame for their distrust. Their loss is our compensation and reward.”
It was pure rubbish, for the feeling was there regardless. Zola had never worked the streets himself, so he knew nothing about it.
Marco shook his head. He saw the woman inside the 7-Eleven now, already with the items in her hand that she wanted to buy. In a moment she would be at the counter.
This was the first time he had ever really seen the vulnerability in one of his victims. Normally he would have been far away by now and the possessions he had stolen already passed on to one of the other clan members. The victim would be out of sight and mind, and Marco would already be targeting the next.
Was there anything in the wallet, the wallet he now felt burning his skin, that the woman would be truly sorry to lose? Did it contain anything but money and credit cards? He didn’t want to know, nor did he want to be tormented by this feeling of shame. As of this moment, the days of Zola ruling Marco and his life were over.
He brushed the wet snow from his face and hurried over the crossing when the signal again turned to green. To anyone else, this would have seemed easy enough, yet for Marco these were the longest twenty-five meters of his life.
The woman was already rummaging through her bag in a panic by the time he reached the glass door. The assistant behind the counter was trying to appear patient, but it was obvious he felt she was wasting her time.