The Copenhagen Connection Part 2

A period of haggling ensued. When Margaret hung up she was smiling smugly. "What a cheapskate. He won't pay your plane fare. But this is not to be charged to your vacation time, and your other expenses will be paid."

"I only had two weeks vacation coming," Elizabeth exclaimed. "And I certainly didn't expect-"

"It's the least he can do. Since you're on an expense account, you can take us to dinner. Someplace very expensive."

After due deliberation, however, she decided that in honor of Elizabeth's first night in Copenhagen they would go to Tivoli. "I know of a wonderful place near Radhuspladsen, where the cheapest entree is twenty-five dollars. But you must see Tivoli first."

Elizabeth was not inclined to argue. Christian didn't either, but his disapproving frown intensified.

By the time they arrived at the entrance, the lingering summer dusk of the north had fallen, and all the lights of Tivoli were aglow-Chinese lanterns hanging from the trees, long strings of bulbs outlining the facades of the major buildings, rows of antique streetlamps and modern gla.s.s globes. Music floated in the air like clouds; they walked from a mist of Strauss waltzes into the oom-pa-pa of a German bra.s.s band, and out of that into jazz. Ponds and lakes glimmered with rainbow reflections. The buildings were straight out of a fairy tale: a Moorish castle, a Chinese paG.o.da painted black and red and gold, a timbered chalet. Flowers lined the path and bloomed in neatly tended gardens; trees and shrubs wearing the young leaves of early summer tied the whole glorious package together like bright green ribbons. Christian, wearing a three-piece business suit and a necktie, was as out of place as an undertaker at a Greek wedding.

Elizabeth was so bedazzled she hardly noticed what she was eating. Margaret had not been joking about letting her pick up the check. Christian tried to protest, but was overruled.

"Be sure you get a receipt, dear," Margaret advised. "Billy wouldn't reimburse his own mother without a receipt."

Afterward, as they strolled along the crowded paths, Christian said resignedly, "I suppose you will insist on riding the carousel."

Elizabeth gave him a startled glance. Then, realizing he had not been talking to her, she gave him another, even more startled glance.

Margaret's costume-the peasant skirt, Russian boots, and a babushka peppered with strident red roses- blended beautifully with the childlike charm of the scene. She looked like a benevolent witch.

"The carousel?" she repeated, in the abstracted tone of one who has been wrapped in profound introspection. "Oh, I don't think we ought, Christian; do you? With poor Marian in the hospital? It doesn't strike the right note, somehow." Her face brightened. "However, it wouldn't do any harm to look at it."

Having wallowed in travel brochures and guidebooks for the past three months, Elizabeth knew that Tivoli was essentially an amus.e.m.e.nt park, and she had had some reservations about its reputed charm. Patronizingly she had concluded it would attract the same sort of people who crowded similar places in the States. The reality had quite disarmed her, but she was not especially interested in the low-brow amus.e.m.e.nts like rides and arcades. In her youth she had been escorted to a number of amus.e.m.e.nt parks by doting parents and grandparents, and had been forced to ride in little cars that banged into one another, little airplanes that swooped sickeningly through the air, and little boats that glided monotonously around a stagnant circle of water. She had not liked them very much, but instinct had told her that she was supposed to enthuse, and she had courteously done so.

The first "ride" they came upon consisted of a circle of miniature Viking s.h.i.+ps with dragon prows painted in bright primary colors. The dragons' teeth, bared in cheerful grins, reminded Elizabeth of Margaret. The procession sailed slowly around a tiny lake, and the boats were filled with children and a few escorting adults.

Elizabeth had a sudden, insane desire to ride in one of the s.h.i.+ps. Horrified at her lapse, she laughed condescendingly.

"How sweet."

Christian took Margaret's arm in a firm grasp. "This would strike just as improper a note as the carousel, Margaret."

"Certainly, certainly," Margaret murmured. As Christian led her away she looked longingly over her shoulder at the grinning dragons.

There is no other music like that of a carousel. The lure of its wheezing rise and fall is an incantation that takes the listener back to childhood. And this was the most beautiful carousel Elizabeth had ever seen, set in a green-walled clearing, gleaming with fresh paint and gilt. Snow-white horses with red saddlecloths and golden harness, a giant rooster with crimson comb and wattles, camels and elephants and elfin sleighs painted with flowers were followed by a giraffe at least twelve feet tall, its scarlet saddle empty, as if waiting for a larger and more capable rider than the tots and toddlers who perched on the other animals.

Elizabeth glanced at her employer. The look on Margaret's face, as she followed the musical circling of the giraffe, could only be described as l.u.s.tful.

"We've seen it," Christian announced unnecessarily.

"It's time we returned to the hotel. You need your rest, Margaret."

Margaret allowed herself to be removed from the carousel. But Elizabeth had the feeling that if she had really been determined to ride the giraffe, it would have taken a stronger arm than Christian's to prevent her.

Margaret was not the only one who cast a wistful glance over her shoulder as they left; but Elizabeth was too young to confess this weakness even to herself. She only thought, what a pity that Margaret shouldn't be allowed to indulge herself. Eccentricity is permissible in the elderly, if they are rich enough or distinguished enough.

As they walked toward the entrance Elizabeth was struck by the good manners of the people around them. The place was very crowded, and she heard s.n.a.t.c.hes of at least five different languages in addition to English. She saw only one unfortunate incident. Just as they left the carousel area, a flurry of movement and a series of indignant comments drew her attention to the person who appeared to be the center of the disturbance. He was a very large man wearing a shabby navy-blue jacket and a knitted cap pulled low over his forehead. Since he was easily eight inches taller than anyone around him, his features were plainly visible. They bore an expression of intense distress. Elizabeth had the impression that he was staring at her, which was of course absurd. As soon as she turned her head the large man started backing away, pus.h.i.+ng people from his path.

"Drunk," Christian said, as the very large person vanished from sight. "The crowd is getting rough. Margaret, you're dawdling. Please hurry."

"I would like to have a gla.s.s of beer," Margaret said.

"When we reach the hotel."

"Here." Margaret indicated an open-air terrace filled with tables. She ducked away from Christian's grasp and trotted up the steps.

"d.a.m.n," Christian said.

Elizabeth did not know why she chose that moment to speak up. Christian had annoyed her from the first, and his att.i.tude toward his mother had been a mounting source of aggravation. However, she had determined not to interfere in what appeared to be a private family feud. The crisp, angry comment, and Christian's scowl, snapped her self-control.

"Mr. Rosenberg, why do you treat your mother like a half-witted child? I know it's none of my business, but-"

"It is your business." Christian transferred his scowl to her. "If you are going to work for my mother, you ought to know the truth. She is totally irresponsible. Her secretaries have to be a combination of nursemaid and keeper. She-"

Elizabeth was thoroughly shocked. "Are you trying to tell me she is-I mean, that she isn't-"

"She's crazy. Loony. Weird. Bonkers."

"Yoo-hoo!" Margaret had found a table. She was waving and grinning and beckoning. "Yoo-hoo," she caroled again.

Christian winced. "This is not the time nor the place," he muttered. "We'll talk later. Hurry up before she says . . . that . . . again."

He took her arm and hurried her into the pavilion. Elizabeth couldn't help grinning as a fluting chorus of "yoo-hoos" urged them on. She had never actually heard anyone say "Yoo-hoo."

But Christian's brutal, angry speech had disturbed her. Was it possible that Margaret Rosenberg, America's most distinguished literary figure, suffered from a severe mental disorder? Was her public image a sham, maintained by the tireless efforts of her son and a series of hired "keepers"?

No. She couldn't believe it. Christian was a pompous a.s.s. What he called "weird" was only a delightful kind of eccentricity.

Margaret had already ordered for them. The beer was one of the famous national brands. Christian stared at his with loathing.

"You know I hate beer. Why do you keep pus.h.i.+ng it at me?"

"I don't push it at you when we are in the States. It's only polite to drink it here. The large breweries support many cultural and charitable enterprises. Here's mud in your eye!"

When she lowered her gla.s.s a foamy mustache adorned her upper lip. She didn't bother to remove it. Reaching into her capacious purse, she took out a manila folder and handed it to Elizabeth.

"You might look through this material before you go to bed. Familiarize yourself with the subject."

If any other employer had suggested such a thing, Elizabeth would have been indignant. It was hardly reasonable to expect her to start working on her first evening, after a long, tiring trip. And why had not Margaret given her the material earlier, before they left the hotel? Such lack of consideration seemed out of character. But, Elizabeth acknowledged, she was just beginning to plumb the depths of Margaret's character, which appeared to have the dimensions of an underground maze the size of Mammoth Cave.

On top of the sheaf of papers in the folder was a photograph, eight by ten inches in size, depicting a long robe or gown displayed on a headless dressmaker's dummy. The bodice was sleeveless and close-fitting, the skirt was floor length and longer in front than in back, so that it formed a kind of reverse train. The fabric, which was sadly worn and tattered, appeared to be figured in some way.

Elizabeth studied the picture in bewilderment. Given Margaret's penchant for outre costumes, it was not surprising that she should possess a picture of what seemed to be a poorly preserved garment of some long-gone era; but at first she failed to understand why the photograph should form part of a collection of material related to Margaret's latest project.

Then she saw the label under the photo. "Robe of Queen Margaret."

"Hers?" she exclaimed unbelievingly.

"Hers," Margaret agreed.

"But she died in the early fifteenth century. This dress is over five hundred years old!"

"Closer to six hundred," Margaret said. "Her flesh and bones have crumbled into dust, but this fragile stuff has survived. Tattered and tarnished, a shadow of its original splendor, but intact; you could cut a pattern from it, reproduce it-resurrect it as it once was. They called the fabric 'cloth of gold.' A marvelous phrase. ... It was really gold brocade-leaves, flowers, garlands of gold thread on a deep purply-crimson background. They say this was her wedding gown. But that can't be true; she was only ten years old when she married Haakon of Norway, and this gown was made for a young woman, straight and slim and tall-tall for those times, at least. Five feet five inches tall. She had a twenty-three-inch waist. Can you see her wearing this? Can you imagine her, sweeping into the great hall of Christiansborg Castle, lifting the lavish folds of brocade with her ringed hands?"

For a magic moment Elizabeth did see her-head held high under the weight of the jeweled crown, white hands, blazing with gems, lifting the golden cloth. Her serene, confident face hid a never-ending fear-fear of a.s.sa.s.sination, of treachery, of ambition. The obsequious faces along her path to the throne were as false as hers. Many of her courtiers hated her, most of them resented her, a woman, holding power over them. Day and night the desperate game went on, a constant series of moves to check and countercheck. And she loved every moment of it. Her firm chin lifted higher, her blue eyes sparkled. She was a player in the greatest of all games, with life and death as stakes.

A voice shattered Elizabeth's fantasy.

"It is not unique, Miss Jones. Large quant.i.ties of linen fabric have survived from ancient Egypt. Almost four thousand years old. Garments found in Scandinavian bogs, preserved by a type of tanning process, date to the Bronze Age. The coat of the Emperor Henry the Second, who reigned in the twelfth century, is in better condition than this, and it is two hundred years older."

Elizabeth bit back a sharp retort. Christian looked so pleased with himself; didn't he realize that his dry little lecture had nothing to do with the magic Margaret's words had spun? But that was Margaret's talent as a historian, the ability to clothe the dead bones of the past in living, breathing flesh.

Christian's smile faded as the two women stared at him in silence. "My facts are correct," he said stiffly. "I have researched them carefully."

"I'm sure they are, darling." Margaret patted his hand. "It was very clever of you."

Christian's mouth closed like a vise, then opened just wide enough to emit a few words. "We must go. Have you finished?"

He led the way toward the entrance, walking with long, angry strides. Margaret did not commit the disloyalty of exchanging a shrug or a smile with Elizabeth behind his back; she trailed him meekly, her expression abstracted.

Elizabeth was conscious of a new and unexpected sympathy for Margaret's son. Perhaps, in his stiff, unimaginative way, he had been trying to enter into her world. It was his misfortune, not his fault, that he had completely missed the point. She wondered if it had always been that way. Had Christian been, all his life, like a small boy pressing his face against the window of the toy shop, never able to reach the wonders within, and never understanding why he failed?

However, Christian was so rude and unresponsive during the taxi ride to the hotel that her sympathy evaporated. I have to stop doing that, she told herself-getting sentimental about people who don't want it or deserve it. There are few individuals who don't have some pathetic qualities; maybe even Genghis Khan had a father who came home drunk and beat him up.

It took the driver some time to maneuver through the teeming traffic of Radhuspladsen and the streets that fed into that central square. They were as crowded with pedestrians and vehicles as they had been during the day. Elizabeth had heard that the night life of Copenhagen didn't end till dawn, and she was prepared to believe it; bars and restaurants, their doors open to the night, blared with music and laughter. The quiet district in which the hotel was situated might have been in another city. The street was virtually deserted, and only lighted windows in some of the buildings showed signs of life.

Christian was paying off the taxi when a man emerged from the shadows of the rose bushes and approached them.

"Mrs. Rosenberg? May I speak to you for a moment, please?"

Elizabeth had lived in Manhattan for three years. She flung herself in front of her employer, arms extended protectively.

"It's quite all right, Elizabeth." Margaret's voice was faintly amused. "I suppose this gentleman is a reporter. He will forgive me if I point out that it is late and that I am rather tired."

"You must forgive me." The man stepped forward. "I would not disturb you at this hour, but I have tried to see you before, and the person at the desk would not let me in. I ask only a moment, madame. I am not a reporter. I am an admirer, and a student of history. I seek employment. I have heard you are in need of a secretary."

Feeling foolish, Elizabeth allowed herself to be pushed gently aside. Margaret peered nearsightedly at the applicant, who stood with his hat in hand and his shoulders a little bowed. His face was concealed by shadows. Despite his humble pose and his conventional business suit, Elizabeth got the impression that he was young and built like an athlete rather than a sedentary scholar. He had spoken fluent English, with a rather stilted accent.

"You seek employment, do you?" Margaret repeated. "You had better come in, then."

Having completed his dealings with the taxi driver, Christian joined the group. "Mrs. Rosenberg doesn't need a secretary," he said brusquely.

"Wait," Margaret said. "I'll speak with Mr.-----?"

"Schmidt. Joseph Schmidt."

"But-" Christian began.

"Now, Christian, Mr. Schmidt has waited a long time to see me. Who knows, perhaps he can be useful."

Mr. Schmidt displayed a sensitive spirit. "If I am not wanted-if the position is filled-"

"We'll talk about it." Margaret took him by the arm. "Come along-Mr. Schmidt."

The hotel door was locked. Christian's ring was promptly answered by an attractive older woman whose silver-gray hair was drawn into a sleek chignon. Her smile vanished when she caught sight of Mr. Schmidt. "How many times must I tell you-" she began.

"It's quite all right, Marie," Margaret a.s.sured her. "I want to talk to Mr. Schmidt for a few minutes. Perhaps we could use the parlor."

"Certainly, if you wish it."

Margaret continued to hold Mr. Schmidt by the arm, and although he made no attempt to free himself, the oddly a.s.sorted pair somehow conveyed the impression of a warder escorting a prisoner. Christian looked as if he wanted to swear. Elizabeth sympathized. This was carrying eccentricity a little too far. She felt threatened and hurt. Had Margaret already decided she was not suitable for the job? She hadn't even had a chance to show what she could do.

The parlor was lit by a number of floor and table lamps, as well as a cut-gla.s.s chandelier. Mr. Schmidt blinked, and Elizabeth studied his face, now visible for the first time, with hostile eyes.

He was not as young as she had thought. Fine lines fringed his narrowed eyes and bracketed his mouth. Two handsome plumes of gray hair lifted from his temples. If she had not been prejudiced she would have thought it a striking face, strong-featured, with a flexible mouth and high cheekbones. His clothing was neat but rather shabby. It fit awkwardly, as if it had originally belonged to someone shorter and slighter in build.

"You are too kind, madame," Schmidt said. "Perhaps I should return in the morning. I did not realize it was so late."

Margaret waved the apology aside. "This is my son, Mr. Schmidt. And Miss Jones. Miss Jones, Mr. Schmidt. Schmidt, Jones; such nice simple names."

Mr. Schmidt, whose eyes had pa.s.sed over Elizabeth with an unflattering lack of interest, looked taken aback at this odd comment.

"Er-yes. Do I understand, Mrs. Rosenberg, that you have found another secretary?"

"Miss Jones is my secretary," Margaret said.

"Ah." Schmidt's eyes returned to Elizabeth. He looked interested now, but not in the way she had expected. A chill ran through her as his gaze met hers. His eyes were a very soft, very dark brown, but there was no warmth in them. They were as impersonal as a calculator.

"Then I have wasted your time." Mr. Schmidt bowed formally. "I humbly beg your pardon."

"I am curious as to how you learned I might need a secretary," Margaret said.

"Oh, that." Schmidt's thin lips parted in a smile. "A friend of mine was at the airport. He observed the unfortunate accident. Again I apologize for disturbing you-"

"Your friend did not see Miss Jones?" Margaret persisted.

"He mentioned a young lady. A very attractive young lady." Mr. Schmidt turned his smile on Elizabeth. His front teeth were noticeably long. The effect was not charmingly chipmunklike; it suggested a more predatory animal, one with fangs. Schmidt went on, "He surmised she might be the fiancee of Mr. Rosenberg."

"Ha," said Christian. "Of all the d.a.m.ned impertinence!"

"Quite right," Schmidt said. "He was impertinent, and so am I. Good night, madame."

He was halfway to the door when Margaret's voice stopped him.

"Do you read Danish, Mr. Schmidt?"

"Er ... a little."