Роберт Фиш - The Gold of Troy

It was a problem, and Knud Christensen had the habit of putting problems off awhile to see if possibly they might solve themselves. Certainly it wouldn’t do any harm to sleep on this one, at least. Sleep, he was sure, would not be hard to come by that night, or what little was left of the night. And if he had any dreams, he only hoped they might lead him to some idea of the value of what he had discovered. Satisfied with the temporary solution to the problem, he packed the stuff back into its box, pushed it into a closet for the time being, and went to bed.

Nor was Knud Christensen wrong, for when he woke at dawn the following day he knew exactly the man to help him solve his problem. It was a distant cousin; actually the son of one of his mother’s cousins. His name was Arne Nordberg and he was a professor or something of that nature at Copenhagen University. Certainly, Knud thought, mentally chastising himself for not having thought of it at once, Nordberg would be the exact man to help him in his dilemma. Satisfied, and refreshed by not having had any dreams at all, good or bad, he got up and began to dress. Uncharacteristically, he intended to go to Copenhagen without delay and ask the advice of his cousin. He had never met the man, but he was sure that would make no difference. His mother had mentioned his cousin often enough, usually to point out the difference in his own educational ambitions as compared to those of the other. Now those educational differences were going to work for his benefit.

Whistling, he completed dressing...

Copenhagen — April

From the window of his small office at Copenhagen University, overlooking the Frue Plads on one side and the Nørregade running into it, Associate Professor Arne Nordberg stared sourly at the pretty co-eds hurrying past, books in arms, their short skirts and lack of brassieres raising lewd thoughts in the professor’s mind. But they were useless thoughts, he knew. For some unknown reason he never seemed to be able to impress the pretty ones, and the ugly ones didn’t interest him, though he had never been able to impress them, either. His hints that favors might be returned in the form of better grades were invariably met with, at best, blank stares; at worst, by barely concealed smiles of derision.

If he had money, Nordberg assured himself, it would all be different; his shortness would be forgiven, as well as his tendency toward obesity, or the fact that at the young age of thirty-two he was rapidly losing his hair. Or if he had an international reputation like some members of the faculty, there would be, he was sure, no problem. Girls would be all over him like they were over that idiot Carl Becker, and for what? So the man won a so-called prestigious award once. It had been pure luck, those things mostly were. But the sad fact was that Arne Nordberg had very little money; he could barely afford the girls he visited over the sex shops in the Istedgade, beyond the railroad station, and then only the cheapest. And as for scholarly attainment, of the few papers he had managed to write all but one had been refused publication by the University Press, although they were constantly importuning the faculty for submissions, and seemed to print every piece of garbage sent in by anyone else. The world was against him, and that was a fact. The professor knew it was a fact, although just why the world should take this unfair attitude was beyond him.

So he was considered strict in class? Why shouldn’t he be strict in class? Who did anything for him that he should do anything for others? He had also heard it said, snidely, behind his back, that he was also unintelligible in class. That, simply, was a lie. If others couldn’t or wouldn’t recognize erudition when they saw it or heard it, it was just too bad. So he didn’t have any friends among the faculty? Why should he go out of his way to appear friendly to a bunch of louts who seemed to think friendship consisted solely of drinking another person’s liquor or eating another person’s food? The truth was he was as bright as anyone on the staff, although naturally nobody would admit it. He was also as educated, as intelligent, as personable. But what had it gotten him? Nothing! Take Carl Becker, for example. He would bet that Carl had been in the skirts of half the girls in his classes. And what did Becker have? Tell the truth — a laugh like a hyena, and little else!

He became aware that his intercom was buzzing and he glared at it. My God! A man couldn’t even take a few minutes to cogitate, to reflect, to relax after the grind of four hours of trying to pound some historical facts into the heads of a bunch of big-breasted, succulent-bottomed numbskulls, without being constantly interrupted. He considered disregarding the intercom, but he knew that his secretary — a dessicated, flat-chested widow ten years his senior he had once considered seducing — his face flushed at the memory although he still wondered how it might have been — would continue her racket until he answered. With a scowl he flipped the proper switch downward.

“Yes? Now what?”

“There’s someone here to see you, Professor.” She had a voice like a crane, as if there were something wrong with her throat. Why couldn’t she at least have sounded intriguing, even if she wasn’t?

“Professor?”

He brought his mind back to the matter at hand. “Who is it?”

“He says he’s a cousin of yours, Professor. Knud Christensen.”

Nordberg frowned at the telephone. Christensen? It seemed faintly familiar. A cousin? Some distant relative of his mother’s, as he recalled. Fishermen, weren’t they? From somewhere down in Nykøbing, or Korsør, or one of those other Godforsaken villages in the south. What on earth could a fisherman cousin — not even a real cousin, but one of those hundred-times removed cousins — want of him? The answer wasn’t even a problem. Money, of course. All these country yokels seemed to think if you lived in Copenhagen, you were rich. If you were a professor at the university, you were made of money. Well, little did they know! He stared at the intercom, seeing in his mind’s eye his middle-aged secretary at the other end of the line, leaning over to press the intercom buttons. He tried to picture the view down her gaping blouse, and then recalled that she was flat-chested, or so he had to suppose from the tight brassieres and buttoned-up blouses she wore. Why couldn’t he have had the luck to be assigned a good-looking secretary? Like Carl Becker—?

“Professor?”

He cleared his throat. “Tell him I can’t see him. I’m busy.”

“Yes, sir.” Nordberg’s hand went thankfully to push the intercom switch, but before he could do so his secretary’s voice came back. “Professor, Mr. Christensen says he’ll wait.”

Damn! Nordberg stared about the small office. There was no escape other than the one door leading past his secretary’s desk and the undoubtedly raw-boned and equally undoubtedly fish-smelling peasant outside. Nordberg thought a moment and then allowed himself a feeling of righteous anger. What did he owe this perfect stranger? Everyone was constantly trying to take advantage of him, and he wasn’t going to stand for it! Enough was enough! He would simply tell this oaf he was wasting his time, and that would be that. He didn’t have to explain the circumstances; he knew if he were the richest man in Denmark he would still refuse the man money. What did he owe the man, anyway? He steeled himself and glowered at the intercom.

“Tell him to come in.”

The door opened and Nordberg coldly considered the man who stood there. Christensen had dressed in his Sunday best, and did not appear particularly raw-boned, although he was certainly big. He also had a thick head of curly hair, and not for the first time Nordberg resented his father’s baldness that had apparently been transferred through genes to blight his son’s existence. Christensen also did not smell of fish, although this, Nordberg thought sourly, would not get him one penny. Christensen carried a small cloth bag with him and smiled with a bit of uncertainty at his distant cousin. Nor was any smile going to do the lout any good, Nordberg thought with an inner sneer, and did not even offer the man a chair.