as a workhorse," he said.
"I'm the head of the Rigshospital hospice service. I've watched fifteen hundred people die. There are three weeks left at the most."
She wanted to close the door; he blocked it.
"Death isn't the end. I'm very religious. After the last breath there's a general intermission. Then consciousness starts out in a new physical body and the music plays again."
She looked him straight in the eye.
"What good is it to me," she asked, "when I'm lying alone in bed, to know that somewhere on this earth a newborn baby is nursing at its mother's breast, and in that baby lives my lover's consciousness?"
He leaned against the car. There was still hoarfrost on the grass in the empty lots.
"I love him," he said.
"I do too," she said.
He bent down to her.
"Could the fact that we share this deep feeling create a starting point for a loan of five thousand kroner?"
She found her purse, opened it, handed him two thousand-kroner bills. Closed the door, rolled down the window.
"What's all this about the child?" she asked. "And the drawing?"
Her eyes were expansive. He could have put himself in them with all his sorrow, and there would still have been space remaining. He shook his head.
"Don't be mistaken about me," she said. "I charge interest. Bank discount rate plus two percent."
The window closed, the car started and accelerated. As if up the long side of the Jutland racetrack. He felt an involuntary admiration for his father. For the fact that, despite his deviant psychology, Maximillian had still been able to capture a she-elephant.
8
He walked into the office and placed the woman's two thousand kroner in front of Daffy.
"Installment payment on the rent," he said.
The watchman handed him a letter, without postage, stamped by a messenger service. Gave him a letter opener from the desk. The envelope had an extrasensory feel that can't be scientifically explained, but that results when its contents are both a letter and a check. The letter was two typed lines.
"We hereby inform you that KlaraMaria will no longer come to instruction. Enclosed find twenty thousand kroner for your trouble."
No signature. The check was a money order.
He sat down on a chair. The good thing about having reached the bottom is that you can't fall any farther.
The door opened. A young man with censers held it. Moerk walked in.
"You're going to be deported," he said. "You have ten hours to get everything in order. You'll be put on a plane for Madrid tomorrow morning."
Maybe there is no bottom. Maybe it's an endless fall. Kasper stood up. Opened the door. Walked out into the courtyard.
He stripped off his jacket. His shirt. Two groups of workmen were lounging on the benches by the warehouses. Some costume makers on break were drinking coffee at one of the tables. He took off his shoes and socks. His pants. He was now in just his harlequin-pattern boxer shorts. Made of silk. He had a thing about silk, as Wagner did.
"Everything must go," he said to the seamstresses. "It's a matter of giving away everything. Our Savior did it. Liszt did it. Wittgenstein. The fourteenth-century Tibetan Buddhist Longchen Rabjam did it seven times. When there's nothing more anyone can take away from you, then you're free."
He waited. Maybe he had frightened Moerk. To be legally valid, deportation must also be communicated in writing.
Paper rustled; Moerk stood behind him.
"Does the name Kain mean anything to you?"
"It's right at my fingertips. From the Bible story."
"Josef Kain."
Kasper didn't respond.
"Here's the deportation order," said the official. "In your jacket you'll find a taxi voucher. With a telephone number on it. In case you should remember something. About your little student."
Kasper shut his eyes. When he opened them, Moerk was gone. Someone put a blanket around his shoulders. It was Daffy.
* * *
They sat across the desk from each other. Kasper had wrapped himself in the blanket; it was as long as a ball gown. He was