the police. Then he rang for a taxi.
From the small cabinet above the toilet he took out a large bottle of pills; from the bottle he took two pills, as big as communion wafers, twelve hundred milligrams of caffeine in each, with warm greetings on the prescription from La Mour, the Royal Theater's physician. He filled a glass with water. In fifteen minutes the pills would commence spreading an outer layer of big-band wakefulness over the inner counterpoint of alcohol and fatigue.
Just to be sure, he took out two more pills. He gave a toast in the mirror. To all the doctors who, like Lona Bohrfeldt, help us into the world. Those at the Rigshospital hospice, who go with us out of it. And those like La Mour, who help us to endure the waiting time.
A vehicle turned from the Ring Road. It couldn't be a taxi because he thought he heard twelve cylinders. But it slowed down, searching. He swallowed the tablets with water. Put the glass upside down on the shelf.
Twice he had shared a dressing room with Jacques Tati, the second time in Stockholm after the master had lost everything on Playtime and had gone back to variety shows. After removing his makeup he had placed his glass upside down; Kasper had asked why.
"The dust, la poussère ."
"We'll be back tomorrow."
The mime had smiled. The smile had not reached his eyes.
"We can hope so," he said. "But can we plan on it?"
12
It was the first time he had seen a Jaguar used as a taxi. The rear door burst open by itself, the backseat took him into its embrace like a woman. The car smelled like an expensive harness, but the light was strange. The driver was a young man wearing a clerical collar. Kasper tried to determine what sort of man he was by his sound. Probably from a small farm on Mors Island, studying theology without any financial help from home. Theology department during the day, taxi at night, and a use for every krone he could scrape together.
"Strand Road," said Kasper. "And as far as I'm concerned you don't have to start the meter."
He needed only fifteen seconds with a new orchestra conductor to know if he had any verve, and the same was true with taxi drivers. This one was off the scale, a Furtwangler of cab driving. The vehicle flowed forward like a river toward the sea, Fabrik Road melting into the darkness behind them,
"Christ will exist for eternity," said the driver. "According to the Gospel of John. Everything else will change. Now there are sensors in the seats. Connected to the taxi meter. No more unmetered trips."
Kasper closed his eyes. He loved taxis. Even when, like now, they were driven by a rural simpleton. It was like having a coach and coachman, only better. Because when the trip was over, the coachman disappeared, the repair bills disappeared, the scrap heap disappeared. Leaving just a car--and no responsibilities.
The driver whistled a scrap of melody, very purely, which was unusual, even among musicians. The melody was also unusual--it was BWV Anhang 127, one of Bach's two or three marches, in E-flat major, almost never played, especially in this version, a circus orchestration by John Cage. It had been Rasper's signature tune during his two seasons in the U.S. with Barnum & Bailey.
"We saw all five of your evening performances," said the driver. "At Madison Square Garden. We left the stage at eleven-thirty p.m. I wiped off my makeup with a towel. Put an overcoat over my costume. I had a wonderful car waiting. A Mustang. When I greased it with Vaseline and kept to the right, I could drive from Fourteenth to Forty-second Street without seeing red. The police let the traffic flow. If you stay away from the highway and Riverside Drive, you can drive for years without seeing even the shadow of a speeding ticket."
The clerical collar wasn't a collar. It was a fine-tooled web of scar tissue, as if a new head had been transplanted onto the body.
"Fieber," said Kasper. "Franz Fieber."
It had been an automobile stunt. A triple somersault
From the small cabinet above the toilet he took out a large bottle of pills; from the bottle he took two pills, as big as communion wafers, twelve hundred milligrams of caffeine in each, with warm greetings on the prescription from La Mour, the Royal Theater's physician. He filled a glass with water. In fifteen minutes the pills would commence spreading an outer layer of big-band wakefulness over the inner counterpoint of alcohol and fatigue.
Just to be sure, he took out two more pills. He gave a toast in the mirror. To all the doctors who, like Lona Bohrfeldt, help us into the world. Those at the Rigshospital hospice, who go with us out of it. And those like La Mour, who help us to endure the waiting time.
A vehicle turned from the Ring Road. It couldn't be a taxi because he thought he heard twelve cylinders. But it slowed down, searching. He swallowed the tablets with water. Put the glass upside down on the shelf.
Twice he had shared a dressing room with Jacques Tati, the second time in Stockholm after the master had lost everything on Playtime and had gone back to variety shows. After removing his makeup he had placed his glass upside down; Kasper had asked why.
"The dust, la poussère ."
"We'll be back tomorrow."
The mime had smiled. The smile had not reached his eyes.
"We can hope so," he said. "But can we plan on it?"
12
It was the first time he had seen a Jaguar used as a taxi. The rear door burst open by itself, the backseat took him into its embrace like a woman. The car smelled like an expensive harness, but the light was strange. The driver was a young man wearing a clerical collar. Kasper tried to determine what sort of man he was by his sound. Probably from a small farm on Mors Island, studying theology without any financial help from home. Theology department during the day, taxi at night, and a use for every krone he could scrape together.
"Strand Road," said Kasper. "And as far as I'm concerned you don't have to start the meter."
He needed only fifteen seconds with a new orchestra conductor to know if he had any verve, and the same was true with taxi drivers. This one was off the scale, a Furtwangler of cab driving. The vehicle flowed forward like a river toward the sea, Fabrik Road melting into the darkness behind them,
"Christ will exist for eternity," said the driver. "According to the Gospel of John. Everything else will change. Now there are sensors in the seats. Connected to the taxi meter. No more unmetered trips."
Kasper closed his eyes. He loved taxis. Even when, like now, they were driven by a rural simpleton. It was like having a coach and coachman, only better. Because when the trip was over, the coachman disappeared, the repair bills disappeared, the scrap heap disappeared. Leaving just a car--and no responsibilities.
The driver whistled a scrap of melody, very purely, which was unusual, even among musicians. The melody was also unusual--it was BWV Anhang 127, one of Bach's two or three marches, in E-flat major, almost never played, especially in this version, a circus orchestration by John Cage. It had been Rasper's signature tune during his two seasons in the U.S. with Barnum & Bailey.
"We saw all five of your evening performances," said the driver. "At Madison Square Garden. We left the stage at eleven-thirty p.m. I wiped off my makeup with a towel. Put an overcoat over my costume. I had a wonderful car waiting. A Mustang. When I greased it with Vaseline and kept to the right, I could drive from Fourteenth to Forty-second Street without seeing red. The police let the traffic flow. If you stay away from the highway and Riverside Drive, you can drive for years without seeing even the shadow of a speeding ticket."
The clerical collar wasn't a collar. It was a fine-tooled web of scar tissue, as if a new head had been transplanted onto the body.
"Fieber," said Kasper. "Franz Fieber."
It had been an automobile stunt. A triple somersault
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