The Marco Effect: A Department Q Novel by Jussi Adler-Olsen Page B
Authors: Jussi Adler-Olsen
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will show you how from this moment forth we can live as ourselves.”
At this point Marco stopped listening. What could he ever believe in now? Were the clothes they wore not like those of the Roma? Had the spittle with which the local inhabitants so often had humiliated thembeen hawked for no reason at all? Had he listened to their oaths and been shoved aside daily on account of something he was not?
In the course of those few minutes Marco was stripped of everything. And he was shaken, even though he had hated his life almost every day he had lived.
He got to his feet and looked around. He was aware that he had a better head on him than most, but he had not known how painful this could be.
So who were they all now? Was Zola, who called himself his uncle, perhaps not even his father’s brother? And were his cousins just some random children?
And if so, where was his real family? Who was he?
Therefore, Marco considered the day that one newspaper had referred to as the dullest in history as the day that had fostered the worst that could ever befall him: the birth of Zola. The one who beat and tormented them and forced them to beg and steal. The one who forbade them to go to school and denied them the chance to live their lives like everyone else. Zola, who with God’s help now had more power over them than ever before.
The eleventh of April 1954, he’d said.
It was a day Marco truly loathed.
—
Some four years had now passed since Zola had made that speech and elevated himself by the grace of God to clan leader. It had been four years of terror and angst like never before.
The night following his address they decamped, leaving behind everything that belonged to their nomadic existence: tents, Primus stoves, cooking utensils, and many of the primitive tools they employed in their break-ins. The group numbered twenty adults and as many children, all dressed in their finest clothes that they had stolen from the outfitters of Perugia.
As they journeyed through northern Italy, Austria, and Germany during the days that followed, they broke into a total of ten shiny luxury cars with leather interiors, equipping them with false number plates andthen heading in a convoy for the border of Germany and Poland at Swiecko and on toward Poznan. No one mentioned how they got rid of the vehicles and how much money they brought in, but one night the whole group found itself traveling northward by train through the Polish night. Some said Zola had summoned two of the men to his compartment to guard the money, and Marco mused that if the job required the services of two, then the sum must be large indeed.
In the ensuing months, Zola demonstrated to them unambiguously what he meant when he had told them new times lay ahead. In any case, these new times were in no way synonymous with good times, and so it was that several members of the clan disappeared without a word. Marco knew why. They had grown sick of beatings, being forced to work, and a life of need.
Everyone in the group knew Zola was a wealthy man and that he loved his money. He always had. The problem was that he kept it all for himself, coercing the others by means of threats into earning more each day. The begging and the stealing on which the clan had survived all through Marco’s life was destined to continue as before.
When winter came they settled in Denmark, renting two adjoining single-story homes on a residential street within comfortable striking distance of Copenhagen. By then their numbers had fallen to only twenty-five in all, and had it not been for Marco’s father’s weak character, he and Marco would probably have disappeared along with the other apostates and the woman Marco had called his mother, and who no longer was mentioned by anyone.
Zola gathered the group together at regular intervals and equipped them with new, presentable clothing. He told them it made a better impression out on the streets. The women and young girls were given long skirts
At this point Marco stopped listening. What could he ever believe in now? Were the clothes they wore not like those of the Roma? Had the spittle with which the local inhabitants so often had humiliated thembeen hawked for no reason at all? Had he listened to their oaths and been shoved aside daily on account of something he was not?
In the course of those few minutes Marco was stripped of everything. And he was shaken, even though he had hated his life almost every day he had lived.
He got to his feet and looked around. He was aware that he had a better head on him than most, but he had not known how painful this could be.
So who were they all now? Was Zola, who called himself his uncle, perhaps not even his father’s brother? And were his cousins just some random children?
And if so, where was his real family? Who was he?
Therefore, Marco considered the day that one newspaper had referred to as the dullest in history as the day that had fostered the worst that could ever befall him: the birth of Zola. The one who beat and tormented them and forced them to beg and steal. The one who forbade them to go to school and denied them the chance to live their lives like everyone else. Zola, who with God’s help now had more power over them than ever before.
The eleventh of April 1954, he’d said.
It was a day Marco truly loathed.
—
Some four years had now passed since Zola had made that speech and elevated himself by the grace of God to clan leader. It had been four years of terror and angst like never before.
The night following his address they decamped, leaving behind everything that belonged to their nomadic existence: tents, Primus stoves, cooking utensils, and many of the primitive tools they employed in their break-ins. The group numbered twenty adults and as many children, all dressed in their finest clothes that they had stolen from the outfitters of Perugia.
As they journeyed through northern Italy, Austria, and Germany during the days that followed, they broke into a total of ten shiny luxury cars with leather interiors, equipping them with false number plates andthen heading in a convoy for the border of Germany and Poland at Swiecko and on toward Poznan. No one mentioned how they got rid of the vehicles and how much money they brought in, but one night the whole group found itself traveling northward by train through the Polish night. Some said Zola had summoned two of the men to his compartment to guard the money, and Marco mused that if the job required the services of two, then the sum must be large indeed.
In the ensuing months, Zola demonstrated to them unambiguously what he meant when he had told them new times lay ahead. In any case, these new times were in no way synonymous with good times, and so it was that several members of the clan disappeared without a word. Marco knew why. They had grown sick of beatings, being forced to work, and a life of need.
Everyone in the group knew Zola was a wealthy man and that he loved his money. He always had. The problem was that he kept it all for himself, coercing the others by means of threats into earning more each day. The begging and the stealing on which the clan had survived all through Marco’s life was destined to continue as before.
When winter came they settled in Denmark, renting two adjoining single-story homes on a residential street within comfortable striking distance of Copenhagen. By then their numbers had fallen to only twenty-five in all, and had it not been for Marco’s father’s weak character, he and Marco would probably have disappeared along with the other apostates and the woman Marco had called his mother, and who no longer was mentioned by anyone.
Zola gathered the group together at regular intervals and equipped them with new, presentable clothing. He told them it made a better impression out on the streets. The women and young girls were given long skirts
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