The Prophets of Eternal Fjord Read online

  About the Author

  KIM LEINE is a Danish-Norwegian novelist. He received the Golden Laurel award and the Nordic Council’s Literature Prize for his fourth novel, The Prophets of Eternal Fjord.

  MARTIN AITKEN is an acclaimed Danish-language translator.

  The Prophets of Eternal Fjord

  Kim Leine

  Translated from the Danish by Martin Aitken

  ATLANTIC BOOKS

  London

  Copyright page

  First published in Denmark as Profeterne i Evighedsforden in 2012 by Gyldendal.

  First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Atlantic Books, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

  Copyright © Kim Leine and Gyldendal A/S, 2012 Translation © Martin Aitken, 2015

  The moral right of Kim Leine to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination and not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978 0 85789 791 6

  OME Paperback ISBN: 978 1 78239 667 3

  E-book ISBN: 978 0 85789 792 3

  Printed in Great Britain

  Atlantic Books

  An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

  Ormond House

  26–27 Boswell Street

  London WC1N 3JZ

  www.atlantic-books.co.uk

  Dedication

  Dedicated to the

  Government of Greenland

  (1979–2009)

  and its pioneers

  Contents

  Translator’s Note

  Prologue

  The Fall (14 August 1793)

  Part One

  Copenhagen (1782–7)

  Man is Free! (June–August 1787)

  The Assumption (15 August 1793)

  Part Two

  The First Commandment

  The Second Commandment

  The Third Commandment

  The Fourth Commandment

  The Fifth Commandment

  The Sixth Commandment

  The Seventh Commandment

  The Eighth Commandment

  The Ninth Commandment

  The Tenth Commandment

  The Eleventh Commandment

  Part Three

  Home

  Copenhagen

  Epilogue

  The Graves (14 August 1815)

  Author’s Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  Translator’s Note

  In eighteenth-century Danish the third person pronoun was often used as a marker of politeness or of distance if addressing inferiors. This convention disappeared around the beginning of the nineteenth century, but it explains why characters in this book are sometimes addressed by others as ‘he’ rather than ‘you’.

  Prologue

  The Fall (14 August 1793)

  The widow has come up here of her own accord, no one has forced her. She has beaten the lice from her finest clothes and put them on. She has washed her hair in the urine tub of the communal house and tied it up. Silently observed by her heathen cohabitants, she scraped the sooty grease from her cheeks and consumed the good meal that had been put out before her. Then she came up here, carried along by a lightness of step. Now she sits on the brink of happiness, expectant and with warmth in her cheeks, at the edge with her legs tucked decorously beneath her in the way of all widows, the way she sits at home on the little side bench under the window opening. In one hand she clutches the crucifix and feels comfort in the solid warmth of its gold. Far below her, a drop of at least a hundred fathoms, she hears the waves as they break, the sea colliding with the cliff, dissolving into white spray, retreating with a rush. But she sees it not, for she has closed her eyes, turned her gaze inwards. She has fought back the fear, forced her breath and heart to settle into dogged rhythm, and she moves her lips, repeating the litany over and over. O God the Father, Creator of heaven and earth, have mercy upon us. O God the Son, Redeemer of the world, have mercy upon us. O God the Holy Spirit, Sanctifier of the faithful, have mercy upon us. O holy, blessed and glorious Trinity, one God, have mercy upon us. She feels the wind gusting from below, breathing life into her garments, and she clings to the damp turf of the cliff so as not to be prematurely blown over the edge. She remains there, seated, repeating the litany and waiting for her helper. By thine agony and bloody sweat; by thy Cross and Passion. Good Lord, deliver us!

  Now she hears him, the creak of his boots behind her, stealing up with hardly a sound, embarrassed almost, as bashful as a young suitor. She hears how he tries to suppress his laboured breathing and she can hardly resist smiling to herself in recognition. We beseech Thee to hear us, good Lord!

  She senses he has come to a halt, just a few short paces behind her, and she imagines him standing looking at her, as he did the first time they were together, considering where best to strike, and how hard, for she knows that he will kill her, though he has no wish to harm her. It is a comfort to her that he should be so close, now that her life is about to end. She is calmed by the thought and feels herself relax, lowers her chin towards her chest and takes a deep breath. Son of God, we beseech Thee to hear us!

  The air is mild. The upward swirls smell of mussels and seaweed left uncovered at the tideline. Gulls scream in the distance. Instinctively, she opens her eyes. Incorrigibly curious by nature, she cannot do otherwise, not even now, at the furthest edge of all things, where her mind by rights should be above the trivialities of life on earth, and disposed to the heav­enly. But she must see what the noisy gulls are at, and she spies the ship on its way north, a two-master, its sails filled, dazzling white as gulls’ wings, and the flock of screaming birds drifting like an amorphous cloud around the masts. No, she is not yet ready to meet her maker, not this day, and yet she knows it is too late to change her mind, too late for herself, too late for the one who stands behind her. Everything has been arranged and made ready. The fall has already begun, began many years ago.

  She hears in the calmness of his breathing that he has not noticed the ship. He is far too preoccupied by what he is about to do. Is he as afraid as she is? Does he want it not to happen? If she can make him see the ship, she thinks, perhaps everything will be changed and this murderous rendezvous will be postponed.

  She feels his hand at her throat. She cowers and whimpers. But what he wants is the crucifix. Deftly, he flicks the cord over her head and wrenches the golden cross from her hand that held it so tightly. Take it, she says in silence, I have no longer need of it. And what good has it ever done me?

  She turns her head slightly to the side in order to catch a glimpse of him, knowing only too well that it is foolish of her, that it will merely hasten on the deed, render it even more inevitable, and the moment she senses the dark shadow at her shoulder she gives a start and splutters out loud: Christ, have mercy upon us! Then the sudden kick of the boot against her spine. Her h
ead snaps back, her body thrusts forward, and she plunges over the precipice, falls, flailing and twisting, dragging a vertical scream in her wake like an uneven line drawn in charcoal.

  He takes a step forward, places his boot cautiously on the soft, yielding moss, leans over the edge and sees the body, peacefully bobbing face down in the surf. He removes his hat, clutches it to his chest and mumbles: O Lord, let thy mercy be showed upon us. Amen.

  Part One

  The Schoolmaster’s Son

  Copenhagen (1782–7)

  The weather is cloudy and rather damp on Morten Pedersen’s arrival in Copenhagen on the first day of June 1782, ten days after his twenty-sixth birthday. He sits bobbing in the barge and looks back upon the forest of masts in the roadstead. It is half past six in the morning. He has been up all night, pacing the deck of the packet boat from Christiania, to the seamen’s hindrance and annoyance. As he jumps onto the quayside at the Toldboden, his clothes are soaked with the dampness of the fog that lies like a bung in the Øresund. He feels a slight cold and knows he will soon have a cough, but he is not unduly disturbed by the prospect. His consti­tution is strong; the process of selection among his siblings was such that he considers himself to be a survivor, moreover equipped with a not inconsiderable portion of fatalism. The journey has taken three days. The wind has been up for much of the way, but he has not succumbed to seasickness. He feels he has managed his first sea journey like a man and has been expecting some form of acknowledgement from the crew, at the very least a handshake and some words of parting. He has imagined whispered comments about the young, stout-hearted Norwegian who has remained so steadfast. But without a word they manhandle his chest ashore and leave him to his own devices. Other barges bump against the wharf behind him. Figures jump onto the quayside, others emerge in the grey light of morning, hauling their bundles, sacks and chests.

  Where to, master? A porter has left his barrow and approached him.

  He produces an envelope and opens it, hands him the paper with the address on it. The porter will not have it. He looks at him enquiringly. Aha, Morten thinks to himself, an illiterate.

  Nørregade, says Morten, endeavouring to pronounce the word in Danish. The printer Schultz’s house.

  This way, master, says the porter, and leads him to the gateway where a customs officer unfolds his passport and studies it before handing it back.

  Copenhagen bids the student welcome, says the customs officer, perhaps with sarcasm.

  And now he strides in towards the city in the wake of the little barrow. The sea has made his legs unsteady, now and then he lurches. The bustle of the city is overwhelming. Peasant carts with wares for the serving houses and market places come thundering, wagons with barrels of ale, carriages with shadowy figures behind the panes and coachmen elevated upon the box, marching soldiers with stamping boots and eyes that stare emptily ahead. Men lugging great bundles of slaughtered geese, hens or rabbits slung over their shoulders. Boys waving broadsheets, squawking snippets of the verses they have learned by heart that same morning. The cobbles are as slippery as soap, coated by some indefin­able substance. Morten loses his footing, but grabs the arm of the porter, who turns and pulls him upright, then thrusts him harshly towards the pavement. A carriage drawn by a team of horses rattles past. People shout after it, the coachman yells back and lashes the whip. Morten does not understand what they say. He knows the language only from the soren­skriver and the pastor at home in Akershus, and theirs is not the Danish spoken here. Nevertheless, he understands that the porter has saved him from being struck down by a carriage wheel. A concern as to how much he is now to give the man in gratuity interrupts his thoughts. He discovers he has placed his feet in the gutter and springs abruptly back onto the pavement, only to realize that one boot is already sopping with a fluid whose more exact constitution he does not wish to dwell upon. Women stand in doorways and gateways, displaying ankles and garters, and smiles that dispatch cold shudders of fear into his being. They follow him with eyes that size him up, and smirk once they have him appraised. Bumpkin.

  The porter enters a gateway. Their footsteps reverberate from all sides. They stand in a large courtyard. He pays the porter, a sum far in excess of what is expected, and the man now calls him honourable student, perhaps with a hint of scorn, perhaps in jest, then says some­thing more in the same tone that Morten cannot understand. A moment later a man appears and presents himself as the Procurator Gill, a Norwegian like himself, who by agreement with his father has arranged for his lodgings and is to manage his financial affairs for the duration of his time in Copenhagen. The house and premises belong to a book printer by the name of Schultz, and he has been assigned a small room above the printing shop. A maid from the printer’s household delivers a key and informs him that he is to partake of his meals in the company of the print workers. She shows him where. He follows on her heels across the yard. Men clad in work garments cast cursory glances in his direction without greeting. He hears a machine hammer out a metallic rhythm. The men’s movements display skill and efficiency. He returns to the Procurator Gill, who hands him a piece of paper with his address on it before bowing courteously and taking his leave. The maid leads him on to the main house on the other side of the courtyard, where the lady comes out and bids him welcome.

  Madame Schultz stands and considers him. Indeed, she says after a moment, he seems harmless enough. Does he drink?

  Morten shakes his head and is taken aback. No, Madame.

  He shall be welcome, the Madame says kindly.

  Morten bows deeply, the way his father has instructed him to bow to those who rank above him in the intricate hierarchy of the royal city. Most likely bowing to this woman is an error, and he is in doubt as to whether Madame is the correct appellation, but now it is done and he stands alone in the yard with his hat in his hand. He goes up the stair to his little room, removes some items from his chest and arranges them variously on the desk and inside the small cupboard. He undresses and hangs his clothes, still moist from the sea journey, over the chair. Then he lies down to sleep, but is wide awake. He listens absently to the clatter of horses’ hooves and iron-clad carriage wheels against the cobbles outside the window. Only four days have passed since he awoke in the alcove of his chamber at home in Lier, outside Drammen, and heard the familiar sounds of his parents below and of the animals in the stalls. He rose, put on his travelling attire, packed the last of his things and went downstairs to breakfast, before walking in to the village accompanied by his father, the schoolmaster, who remained standing, waiting until the mail coach departed for Christiania. It seems so implausible, Morten thinks to himself on the bed of his new room, that he should make the same journey in the opposite direction. As implausible as to imagine one might journey back in time.

  He is the youngest of a flock of seven, of whom he is the only surviving boy. Always, a sibling lay in the alcove of the parlour to dwindle away with a patient smile. He sat with them often, his warm hand wrapped around another that was cold. Then the hand would stiffen, and with it the smile. The emaciated body would be carried out into the barn, the alcove washed down, the room aired. And then another would take its place. The process of death was a permanent state, a perpetual occasion of solemnity during which it was forbidden to run or laugh. Unfathomable silence. This is how he remembers his childhood. Unceasing self-control, a studied gravity that eventually became fixed in one’s features as death churned on and on. At last only his elder sister Kirstine was left. They watched each other surreptitiously for a couple of years, but both eluded the alcove. Now she lives with a pastor’s family in Nakskov.

  When eventually Morten finished Latin school he assisted his father as a teacher. A year or two passed. Then he announced that he intended to study medicine. He cannot recall whence the idea came. His father said no, he was to enter the priesthood. His father had wanted to join the clergy himself, like his grandfather and his great-grandfather befor
e him.

  Now Morten would fulfil his ambition. The means were there. And so he resigned himself to his fate, happy to at least be allowed to leave.

  He is now settling in to his new life in royal Copenhagen. Each day he eats with the people of the printing shop, a fare lacking in meat and consisting mostly of meagre gruel in every conceivable variation. He learns to devour without tasting and to make sure he grabs as much bread as he can so that his shrunken stomach may be filled. He sits in the window seat of his room, reading his Greek grammar, eyes now and then darting to the busy street where horse-drawn wagons and carts trundle by with goods for the markets, and soldiers on leave drift about and accost young girls, who hurl back gutter slurs. He returns to his grammar, though always with an ear on the lechery and drunken rantings of the street. Two sides of the same coin, and a continuing struggle within him between desire and duty, his wish to become a physician and the imper­ative of becoming a priest. He attends what few lectures are given in the natural sciences at the university and elsewhere in the city, usually private events. He studies Linnaeus’s great nomenclature. He learns to draw flowers by sitting in the reading room of the university, furtively copying drawings from the Flora Danica, cautious on account of the church’s ambivalence to the book, which on the one hand depicts the work of the Creator, and yet on the other makes itself its master by classifying it into families and species. He walks from the city and sits down at a roadside with his sketch pad resting on his thighs, pencil hovering over the paper, and to a certain extent he feels he becomes one with his image of the young Linnaeus in some similar situation. What interests him is life as it is found, the whores and the flowers, the bustle of the city, the rivers of filth that run through its streets to be expelled into the canals. And yet he attends dutifully the lectures in theology. He learns to spell his way through the Bible in the two original languages. He converses with fellow students in undergraduate Latin. He writes letters home in faltering Latin, which he nonetheless hopes will impress his father, and signs them Your obedient son, Morten Falck. The surname stems from a branch of the family that has fared better than his father, the schoolmaster. But when he receives his father’s replies they are written in Danish and addressed to stud. theol. , Morten Pedersen. He feels aggrieved. Not a single one of his student comrades bears a name ending in -sen, at least not officially.