Read Online The History of Danish Dreams: A Novel by Peter Hoeg - Free Book Online
Authors: Peter Hoeg
Ads: Link
unforeseeable in life with the mechanics of clockwork and standard time.
From a very early age, Amalie had populated the silence surrounding her with deafening dreams in which she conquered the world, but not until her grandmother opened the doors of the house to let the people of the town admire the water closet did Amalie discover that her dreams were images of a reality residing within mirrors. It was then that she began her wanderings through the great house. To begin with, her mother tried to prevent it, but she was too weak. Her tuberculosis, already bad by the time of her marriage, had been aggravated by the three times Christoffer had heard his mother’s voice. Like everyone else, he had stopped thinking about the Old Lady. There were those who believed that he had stopped thinking of anything whatsoever, other than time, which is, in itself, such an abstract concept that it dissolves at the thought. So it must have come as a shock when, one night, his mother spoke to him and forced him to get up in a darkness his eyes could not penetrate, and led him, naked, through the deserted house, through empty rooms lit by the moon where Christoffer could see that there was no sign of his mother other than the imperious voice that brooked no denial but led him to a white door, which he opened. Only when he reached the bed did he see that it was occupied by his wife. Christoffer felt the Old Lady’s breath on the back of his neck and obediently lay down on top of the sleeper.
The third time this happened, Katarina committed a crime—for the first and the last time in her life. While paying a visit to her childhood home she stole an old, rusty revolver from her father’s closet, one that she remembered from her childhood but that her father had long forgotten about. After such an exertion she had to wait months before she was strong enough to assure herself that it was loaded, and not until just before she gave birth to Amalie did she release the safety catch and tuck the gun under her pillow, firmly determined, in the future, to shoot at anything that opened her bedroom door after she had retired for the night, even if it should be her mother-in-law’s ghost.
This precaution proved to be unnecessary. Christoffer Teander heard his mother’s voice only once more after Amalie’s birth, and then it was almost unrecognizable.
It happened at the celebration held for the Old Lady’s business anniversary. Word of this event had not been announced in advance. Instead it manifested itself in the minds of the fifty-two guests, all of them men, as fifty-two simultaneous and identical feelings of conviction that they had been invited and that all they had to do was to turn up. They gathered, on time, at the Rabow family home in a large oval dining room lit solely by candles. The room’s large oval table was spread with a black velvet cloth edged with Valenciennes lace. This interplay of black and white was echoed by the identical white-tie-and-tails outfits worn by the fifty-two guests. Once they were there, the thought struck all of them, simultaneously, that they did not know which anniversary they were celebrating today—because the dates of all the Rabow family triumphs had been forgotten—and that this oval room filled with candles appeared to be decked out for a wake. Only then did they notice the Old Lady. She was sitting at the head of the table with her body, which was bigger and more shapeless than they remembered, squeezed into a dark, carved oak armchair. It looked for all the world as though she were sitting in her own upright coffin, awaiting her burial—an impression reinforced by her having placed, against one wall, her own tombstone on display. This ceiling-high slab of Swedish granite bore as yet—in all modesty—nothing but her name, a detailed list of all the personal and official victories of her life, a salute in verse from a famous Copenhagen poet, and three crosses and a dove inlaid in marble—all
From a very early age, Amalie had populated the silence surrounding her with deafening dreams in which she conquered the world, but not until her grandmother opened the doors of the house to let the people of the town admire the water closet did Amalie discover that her dreams were images of a reality residing within mirrors. It was then that she began her wanderings through the great house. To begin with, her mother tried to prevent it, but she was too weak. Her tuberculosis, already bad by the time of her marriage, had been aggravated by the three times Christoffer had heard his mother’s voice. Like everyone else, he had stopped thinking about the Old Lady. There were those who believed that he had stopped thinking of anything whatsoever, other than time, which is, in itself, such an abstract concept that it dissolves at the thought. So it must have come as a shock when, one night, his mother spoke to him and forced him to get up in a darkness his eyes could not penetrate, and led him, naked, through the deserted house, through empty rooms lit by the moon where Christoffer could see that there was no sign of his mother other than the imperious voice that brooked no denial but led him to a white door, which he opened. Only when he reached the bed did he see that it was occupied by his wife. Christoffer felt the Old Lady’s breath on the back of his neck and obediently lay down on top of the sleeper.
The third time this happened, Katarina committed a crime—for the first and the last time in her life. While paying a visit to her childhood home she stole an old, rusty revolver from her father’s closet, one that she remembered from her childhood but that her father had long forgotten about. After such an exertion she had to wait months before she was strong enough to assure herself that it was loaded, and not until just before she gave birth to Amalie did she release the safety catch and tuck the gun under her pillow, firmly determined, in the future, to shoot at anything that opened her bedroom door after she had retired for the night, even if it should be her mother-in-law’s ghost.
This precaution proved to be unnecessary. Christoffer Teander heard his mother’s voice only once more after Amalie’s birth, and then it was almost unrecognizable.
It happened at the celebration held for the Old Lady’s business anniversary. Word of this event had not been announced in advance. Instead it manifested itself in the minds of the fifty-two guests, all of them men, as fifty-two simultaneous and identical feelings of conviction that they had been invited and that all they had to do was to turn up. They gathered, on time, at the Rabow family home in a large oval dining room lit solely by candles. The room’s large oval table was spread with a black velvet cloth edged with Valenciennes lace. This interplay of black and white was echoed by the identical white-tie-and-tails outfits worn by the fifty-two guests. Once they were there, the thought struck all of them, simultaneously, that they did not know which anniversary they were celebrating today—because the dates of all the Rabow family triumphs had been forgotten—and that this oval room filled with candles appeared to be decked out for a wake. Only then did they notice the Old Lady. She was sitting at the head of the table with her body, which was bigger and more shapeless than they remembered, squeezed into a dark, carved oak armchair. It looked for all the world as though she were sitting in her own upright coffin, awaiting her burial—an impression reinforced by her having placed, against one wall, her own tombstone on display. This ceiling-high slab of Swedish granite bore as yet—in all modesty—nothing but her name, a detailed list of all the personal and official victories of her life, a salute in verse from a famous Copenhagen poet, and three crosses and a dove inlaid in marble—all
Similar Books
