The Elephant Keepers' Children by Peter Høeg

the sea and going on trips to the Bothersome Islets, and delightfully little time was spent in the classroom, and eventually the Ministry of Education and Grenå Kommune dispatched an expedition whose objective was to mete out appropriate punishment.
    It did not comprise Thorkild Thorlacius-Claptrap and Anaflabia Borderrud, but rather Alexander Flounderblood in the company of selected thugs, and I have to say that the results they achieved are pretty much of the same caliber.
    Though he has only just passed his thirtieth birthday, Alexander has already completed his postdoctoral dissertation, and the look in his eyes says that life is a long cross-country run and that he is anticipating a hard, steep climb and intends to come first. How he managed to reach this stage in his life remains a mystery to us, but it certainly hasn’t benefited his motor functions, because when he walks he somehow adds extra lift to each step he takes, and this lends him a gait that might be appropriate for someone performing in a circus but that seems rather rash if, like Alexander Flounderblood, one happens to be on near-permanent display for a couple of hundred children andyoungsters, all of whom believe that when Einar Flogginfellow was deported, the golden age of their childhood went with him.
    This gait it is that I now hear approaching from behind.
    My keen sense of hearing is renowned on Finø, so long before Alexander Flounderblood appears in my field of vision, which at this point remains restricted by my still standing with the lid of a wicker basket on my head after having sent Karl Marauder so emphatically on his way, I hear that he has with him his Afghan hound, called Baroness.
    I readily admit to never feeling quite as natural and relaxed with Alexander as one should in the company of one’s teachers. But such uncertainty may be offset by seeking refuge in the polite manners one has been taught at home, so now I lift the lid and bow as well as a person who happens to be standing in a wicker basket is able.
    And then I say, “Good evening, Dr. Flounderblood. Good evening, Baroness.”
    On those rare occasions on which the first team loses a match, Einar Fakir will often comfort us by saying that as long as you’ve done your best, you can never ask for more. So I have no reason to blame myself even now. But one’s best may sometimes be insufficient, for example in this instance, because although the look Alexander gives me may be taken in any number of ways, it most certainly does not point toward him ever wishing to adopt me should my parents fail to return.
    At the very moment he passes me by, Tilte taps me on the shoulder.
    â€œPetrus,” she whispers, “time to be off.”

15
    I cannot claim to be
in possession of a valid driving license. But I have passed my cycling proficiency test and like most other people I do possess at least some driving experience, having driven a tractor and a soapbox cart, and a golf buggy and a horse-drawn carriage, and Mother’s and Father’s Maserati, so when I climb in behind the wheel of Thorkild Thorlacius’s Mercedes it feels like I’m at home in my own room. And I must admit it’s a treat with all this brand-new interior and automatic transmission.
    The perfect situation would be if only I could see through the windscreen, because on that account Tilte was too optimistic. But then you can’t have it all, and so I comfort myself with the thought of how often I’ve heard Mother say that driving a car is a matter of intuition rather than vision, and I can see the sky and part of the wall surrounding the rectory perfectly well.
    The key is in the ignition. I start the engine and roll carefully along the lane and around the corner.
    I have every reason to believe that the coast will be clear as I make the turn and that Alexander Flounderblood has long since gone. So imagine my surprise when the top of his head suddenly appears in my