long way. Sophie and Hermes were not the only ones out for a Sunday walk. Whole families were setting off for the day. Sophie felt a pang of envy.
From time to time Hermes would run off and sniff at another dog or at something interesting by a garden hedge, but as soon as Sophie called “Here, boy!” he would come back to her at once.
They crossed an old pasture, a large playing field, and a playground, and emerged into an area with more traffic. They continued toward the town center along a broad street with cobbled stones and streetcars. Hermes led the way across the town square and up Church Street. They came out into the Old Town, with its massive staid town houses from the turn of the century. It was almost half past one.
Now they were on the other side of town. Sophie had not been there very often. Once when she was little, she remembered, she had been taken to visit an old aunt in one of these streets.
Eventually they reached a little square between several old houses. It was called New Square, although it all looked very old. But then the whole town was old; it had been founded way back in the Middle Ages.
Hermes walked toward No. 14, where he stood still and waited for Sophie to open the door. Her heart began to beat faster.
Inside the front door there were a number of green mailboxes attached to a panel. Sophie noticed a postcard hanging from one of the mailboxes in the top row. It had a stamped message from the mailman across it to the effect that the addressee was unknown.
The addressee was Hilde Moller Knag, 14 New Square. It was postmarked June 15. That was not for two weeks, but the mailman had obviously not noticed that.
Sophie took the card down and read it:
Dear Hilde, Now Sophie is coming to the philosopher’s house. She will soon be fifteen, but you were fifteen yesterday. Or is it today, Hilde? If it is today, it must be late, then. But our watches do not always agree. One generation ages while another generation is brought forth. In the meantime history takes its course. Have you ever thought that the history of Europe is like a human life? Antiquity is like the childhood of Europe. Then come the interminable Middle Ages—Europe’s schoolday. But at last comes the Renaissance; the long school-day is over. Europe comes of age in a burst of exuberance and a thirst for life. We could say that the Renaissance is Europe’s fifteenth birthday! It is mid-June, my child, and it is wonderful to be alive!
P.S. Sorry to hear you lost your gold crucifix. You must learn to take better care of your things. Love, Dad— who is just around the corner.
Hermes was already on his way up the stairs. Sophie took the postcard with her and followed. She had to run to keep up with him; he was wagging his tail delightedly. They passed the second, third, and fourth stories. From then on there was only an attic staircase. Were they going up to the roof? Hermes clambered on up the stairs and stopped outside a narrow door, which he scratched at with his paw.
Sophie heard footsteps approaching from inside. The door opened, and there stood Alberto Knox. He had changed his clothes and was now wearing another costume. It consisted of white hose, red knee-breeches, and a yellow jacket with padded shoulders. He reminded Sophie of a joker in a deck of cards. If she was not much mistaken, this was a typical Renaissance costume.
“What a clown!” Sophie exclaimed, giving him a little push so that she could go inside the apartment.
Once again she had taken out her fear and shyness on the unfortunate philosophy teacher. Sophie’s thoughts were in a turmoil because of the postcard she had found down in the hallway.
“Be calm, my child,” said Alberto, closing the door behind her.
“And here’s the mail,” she said, handing him the postcard as if she held him responsible for it.
Alberto read it and shook his head.
“He gets more and more audacious. I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t using us as a kind of birthday diversion for his daughter.”
With that he tore the postcard into small pieces and threw them into the wastepaper basket.
“It said that Hilde has lost her crucifix,” said Sophie.
“So I read.”
“And I found it, the same one, under my pillow at home. Can you understand how it got there?”
Alberto looked gravely into her eyes.
“It may seem alluring. But it’s just a cheap trick that costs him no effort whatsoever. Let us rather concentrate on the big white rabbit that is pulled out of the universe’s top hat.”
They went into the living room. It was one of the most extraordinary rooms Sophie had ever seen.
Alberto lived in a spacious attic apartment with sloping walls. A sharp light directly from the sky flooded the room from a skylight set into one of the walls. There was also another window facing the town. Through this window Sophie could look over all the roofs in the Old Town.
But what amazed Sophie most was all the stuff the room was filled with—furniture and objects from various historical periods. There was a sofa from the thirties, an old desk from the beginning of the century, and a chair that had to be hundreds of years old. But it wasn’t just the furniture. Old objects, either useful or decorative, were jumbled together on shelves and cupboards. There were old clocks and vases, mortars and retorts, knives and dolls, quill pens and bookends, octants and sextants, compasses and barometers. One entire wall was covered with books, but not the sort of books found in most bookstores. The book collection itself was a cross section of the production of many hundreds of years. On the other walls hung drawings and paintings, some from recent decades, but most of them also very old. There were a lot of old charts and maps on the walls too, and as far as Norway was concerned, they were not very accurate.
Sophie stood for several minutes without speaking and took everything in.
“What a lot of old junk you’ve collected,” she said.
“Now then! Just think of how many centuries of history I have preserved in this room. I wouldn’t exactly call it junk.”
“Do you manage an antique shop or something?”
Alberto looked almost pained.
“We can’t all let ourselves be washed away by the tide of history, Sophie. Some of us must tarry in order to gather up what has been left along the river banks.”
“What an odd thing to say.”
“Yes, but none the less true, child. We do not live in our own time alone; we carry our history within us. Don’t forget that everything you see in this room was once brand new. That old sixteenth-century wooden doll might have been made for a five-year-old girl’s birthday. By her old grandfather, maybe... then she became a teenager, then an adult, and then she married. Maybe she had a daughter of her own and gave the doll to her. She grew old, and one day she died. Although she had lived for a very long time, one day she was dead and gone. And she will never return. Actually she was only here for a short visit. But her doll—well, there it is on the shelf.”
“Everything sounds so sad and solemn when you talk like that.”
“Life is both sad and solemn. We are let into a wonderful world, we meet one another here, greet each other—and wander together for a brief moment. Then we lose each other and disappear as suddenly and unreasonably as we arrived.”
“May I ask you something?”
“We’re not playing hide-and-seek any more.”
“Why did you move into the major’s cabin?”
“So that we would not be so far from each other, when we were only talking by letter. I knew the old cabin would be empty.”
“So you just moved in?”
“That’s right. I moved in.”
“Then maybe you can also explain how Hilde’s father knew you were there.”
“If I am right, he knows practically everything.”
“But I still can’t understand at all how you get a mailman to deliver mail in the middle of the woods!”
Alberto smiled archly.
“Even things like that are a pure bagatelle for Hilde’s father. Cheap hocus-pocus, simple sleight of hand. We are living under what is possibly the world’s closest surveillance.”
Sophie could feel herself getting angry.
“If I ever meet him, I’ll scratch his eyes out!”
