‘Tell me about the Japanese.’
‘They’re not here today, they’re off on a trip to Elsinore. Kite’s organised their whole stay. They go to some kind of circus school in Japan where they have acrobatics as well as ordinary lessons like us. There’s seven of them, six boys and a girl, and they’re staying with some of us while they’re here. We like them, even if their English is really poor and they’re hard to talk to. On Saturday we’re putting on a show with them for anyone who wants to come.’
An expectant smile appeared on her face.
‘Are you looking forward to that?’
‘It’s going to be great. You should see them! They jump about on trampolines and juggle with flaming torches at the same time, and you’d think there was no such thing as gravity. It’s all to honour Kite, so he and his family are going to be on the front row. We’re performing, too, at least some of us are. Dancing “Les Lanciers”, but only three of the tours: “La Victoria”, “Les Moulinets” and “Les Lanciers” itself.’
‘Will you be dancing?’
She giggled again.
‘Of course, my horse!’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It’s just something we say, too much sometimes. You get sick of it. It’s because of our English teacher. He takes us for music, as well. He says it all the time: Of course, my horse. We just started copying him. At one point we actually started calling him Horse, but it never caught on, so now we just call him by his first name, Henry. Not all the teachers let us do that, but Henry’s not that old. He has us for dance practice, “Les Lanciers”, and on Saturday he’s going to be doing a Viennese waltz with his wife. They go to ballroom dancing, competitively. They’re on after us.’
Pelle Olsen gave Simonsen a nod.
‘Ask her if she can see Jørgen.’
She gave an indifferent shrug and replied before her husband spoke.
‘Jørgen Kramer Nielsen. What’s there to say? He’s just there, that’s all. He’s one of the Hearts.’
‘The Hearts? What’s that? Are you one of them, too?’
She snorted disdainfully.
‘The Lonely Hearts Club. That’s too corny, so we just call them the Hearts instead. Helena’s the one who got them together. Jørgen, Jesper, Hanne, Pia, and two or three more from the other classes. Mouritz is one, when he’s here. Mouritz Nitwit, we call him.’
‘What do they do, the Hearts?’
‘Nothing, they just stick together. I think they wish they were like the rest of us, only we couldn’t be bothered with them.’
‘Why not?’
There was a pause before she replied.
‘Helena’s weird, nobody likes her. She’s going to America for three weeks because she won some stupid competition the American Embassy ran. We write USA OUT on her desk and pick on her because her friends took a hiding from the Viet Cong in the Tet New Year Offensive. Holy Helena. I can’t stand her! We call her the Virgin Helena, too, and she goes really red in the face, because it’s true. She’s ugly, and all dried-up. She’s not stupid, though, I’ll give her that.’
‘What about the other Hearts?’
She ignored the question and carried on, rather more hectically than before, and her husband gestured to Simonsen to indicate he would now take over again.
‘She’s got her own problem page with all sorts of smarmy stuff about the kids of today, and her hair’s always in a bowl cut. She wears a bra, too, but her boobs are like a pair of egg-cups. In PE once we hid her bra, but she had a spare in her bag!’
‘Can you tell us about the others?’
Again, she failed to answer the question. Simonsen sensed something wasn’t quite right. Her voice had become too hurried. With a thumb and index finger, Pelle Olsen indicated there wasn’t much time left.
‘Her dad came to the school play in a uniform with all sorts of medals and what have you. It was so embarrassing, we all cringed. Even my parents were better, even if they are pissed half the time. Then, when we were onstage…’
Olsen interrupted, shaking her gently to wake her. She sat there for a moment, as if in a daze, then spoke.
‘That was horrible, Pelle. That last bit. I don’t like it. I told you I wouldn’t.’
‘You’re all right, love, I’m here.’
‘I’m not doing it again. We knew what would happen.’
Olsen put his arms around her and waved his guest away. Simonsen took his leave. In the car, he wrote down some notes, and on the way home he couldn’t make up his mind if he was happy or sad.
CHAPTER 8
The autumn had so far been unpleasant. Unemployment had risen, the property market had collapsed and the price of basic foodstuffs had plunged millions of people all over the world into poverty. Watching the news was a form of torment.
The Countess turned off the TV in the living room in Søllerød and went out into the kitchen to make her partner some iced tea. She’d seen a recipe in a lifestyle magazine: quince tea, organic elderflower cordial, freshly squeezed lemon and orange juice. She measured out the amounts, filling three tall glasses and topping them off with sliced strawberries and a scattering of blueberries for effect. Three long, silvery straws and she was good to go.
In the garden room, Konrad Simonsen was in difficulty. Again.
He rocked his head slowly from side to side as he struggled to find an escape. He was down to two pawns with no way of defending his rook line. An imaginative, highly incisive attack on his king had ripped apart his position and left him with a lost endgame. He pondered his limited options once again, finding the situation to be utterly without hope. Eventually he leaned back in his chair.
‘I do love chess. It’s as if one’s inner thoughts join up with the external world and unite in this love of the game. I don’t mind calling it that,’ he said, rather seriously.
Arne Pedersen laughed as Simonsen continued to wax lyrical.
‘It makes me think of people who hide behind a wall of illusion, never glimpsing the truth before it’s far too late. We must share here in life. Share with others. Make sure everyone wins and everyone loses. Unless we do, we’re never going to find peace in our minds. That’s what chess is about. That’s the very essence of it.’
The Countess came in with her tray and put it down next to the board.
‘What on earth are you waffling about now?’ she asked him.
Pedersen explained:
‘He’s trying to talk his way to a draw, but he’ll have to do better than that.’
‘If you want to find peace with yourself, it’s no use winning the world if you lose your soul. Do you want that to happen, Arne? No, I think not…’
‘All right, I can’t take it any more. You’ve got your draw. I won a free game last time I was here, this can be the payback.’
They shook hands and Simonsen quickly packed the game away, then found himself staring in disbelief at the drinks on the Countess’s tray.
‘What’s this? Mud with strawberries?’
‘Cold quince tea. It’s good and healthy.’
‘I was afraid you’d say that. I don’t even know what quince is.’
Pedersen took a sip, while Simonsen watched inquisitively. The Countess picked up her own glass.
‘This is really delicious,’ said Pedersen. ‘Try it, Simon. You don’t know what you’re missing.’
‘Is there any precedent here? I mean, have people like us ever before imbibed this quince, whatever it may be?’
Despite his words he took a sip, and then another. Arne was right, it was actually rather good. He glanced at the Countess and noted her prompt. He took another sip, put down his glass and turned to Arne Pedersen.
‘I was at the hospital yesterday, Arne. They say if all goes well I can be back in charge after Christmas, or at least start taking over again.’