Mikkel Birkegaard - The Library of Shadows

Before a courtroom that was now only half filled, the judges announced what everyone already knew, that there was no real case against Mehmet and that all charges were dropped. Mehmet's friends who were still present cheered, and Mehmet himself took Jon's hand and shook it vigorously.

'Good job, Lawman,' he said with satisfaction.

Jon smiled back and nodded towards the elated spectators. 'Do you want a lift back, or are you going out to party with your fan club?'

'If you're taking the car out anyway, I'll catch a ride with you,' said his client. 'Some of us have work to do.'

Jon started packing up his papers. Several colleagues and acquaintances came over to congratulate him on the outcome, and Jon good-naturedly had to decline invitations to dinner to celebrate. He didn't feel the euphoria that usually followed a victory. The encounter with the firm's partner had been a little too odd for him to be able to concentrate on celebrating.

Mehmet seemed to sense his mood. In the car he said, 'Hey, we scored!' and gave Jon a playful shove on the shoulder.

'I know. I'm sorry,' said Jon with a smile. 'I guess I'm a little tired.'

Mehmet accepted Jon's explanation and began talking about suing for damages – how much money they should demand for damages to the door of his flat, about compensation for his cut eyebrow and about whether they could demand money for besmirching his reputation in the neighbourhood.

Jon gave curt replies as he drove towards Nшrrebro. When they arrived at Mehmet's flat, his mobile rang, and Jon switched on the hands-free to take the call. Detective Sergeant Olsen introduced himself and explained why he was ringing. Jon listened to the man's monotone voice and offered brief replies, mostly to acknowledge that he was still there.

When the conversation was over, he took off the headset and sighed.

'Yet another fan?' asked Mehmet.

Jon shook his head. 'I wouldn't say that. My father is dead.'

Luca was going to be buried in Copenhagen 's Assistens Cemetery, among the great Danish authors, just as he had lived his life among their works.

Jon arrived at the last minute and was met by an obviously nervous Iversen, who was standing on the gravel path outside the chapel, waiting for him. Jon recognized him at once as his father's long-time assistant at Libri di Luca. They had spoken on the phone several days earlier. It was Iversen who had found Luca in the shop that morning, dead of a heart attack; he had also taken care of all the practical arrangements for the funeral. He had always been the one who got things done, and he handled all tasks willingly.

When Jon had visited the bookshop as a child, he could always persuade Iversen to read stories to him when Luca either didn't have time or was out on business. During the past fifteen years Iversen's hair had turned whiter, his cheeks were fuller and the lenses of his glasses were thicker, but the same warm smile still welcomed Jon when, with his briefcase under his arm, he hastily approached the waiting man.

'It was good of you to come, Jon,' said Iversen, giving him a warm handshake.

'Hello, Iversen. It's been a long time,' said Jon.

Iversen nodded. 'Yes, you've certainly shot up, my boy,' he said with a laugh. 'The last time we met, you were no taller than Gyldendal's four-volume encyclopaedia.' He let go of Jon's hand and placed his own hand on the younger man's shoulder, as if to demonstrate how tall he had grown. 'But the service is about to start,' he said, giving Jon an apologetic smile. 'We'll have to talk afterwards.' His eyes assumed a solemn expression. 'It's important that we have a chance to talk.'

'Of course,' said Jon and allowed himself to be ushered into the chapel.

To his surprise the place was almost full. The pews were occupied by people of all ages, from mothers with whimpering infants to wizened old men who looked as if the ceremony could just as well have been for them. As far as Jon knew, Luca's only contact with the rest of the world, aside from the bookshop, was through an Italian friendship society, but the crowd was a diverse gathering of people who didn't look as if they were of Italian origin.

A murmur arose as everyone turned to look at the two men walking up the centre aisle to the two vacant seats in the front row. On the floor before the altar was a white-painted coffin surrounded by wreaths that overflowed into the aisle in a river of colour. The wreath that Jon had asked his secretary to send lay on top of the coffin. On the ribbon it said simply 'Jon'.

After they sat down, Jon leaned towards Iversen. 'Who are all these people?'

Iversen hesitated for a moment before he answered. 'Friends of Libri di Luca,' he whispered.

Jon's eyes opened wide. 'Business must be good,' he said in a low voice, looking around. He estimated there to be about a hundred people in the chapel.

From his childhood he remembered well the regular customers who came to the shop, but it surprised him that there would be so many, and that they would feel obligated to come to the funeral. The customers he remembered best were strange individuals, shabby eccentrics who spent their money on books and catalogues instead of on food and clothes. They could roam about for hours without buying anything, and many times they would come back the next day, or two days later, and once again scour the shelves, as if they were checking to see when the fruit would be ripe and ready for picking.

A priest entered the chapel and seemed to float in his embroidered surplice over to the pulpit on the other side of the coffin. The scattered whispering in the room died away and the ceremony began. The priest swung the censer towards those who were present and the discreet aroma of incense spread through the chapel. After that the priest's calm voice filled the air with words about sanctuaries, breathing spaces, about belonging and giving other people experiences, and about the fundamental values in life such as art and literature.

'Luca was a guarantor for these values,' intoned the priest. 'A man generous with his warmth, knowledge and hospitality.'

Jon stared straight ahead. Behind him he sensed the congregation's sympathetic nods, barely audible sniffling and the tears that no doubt welled up while his own eyes were dry. He recalled another funeral when things had been different; a funeral when he, as a twelve-year-old boy, had to be led out of the church, and a distant aunt had tried to comfort him in the biting winter cold. Back then it had been his mother they were burying, dead at much too young an age, in everyone's opinion; but it wasn't until the following year that he found out why it happened. Not the existential why, but the raw, unvarnished reason: Marianne, Jon's mother and Luca's Danish wife, had committed suicide by throwing herself out of the sixth-floor window. It was unclear whether it was the cold outside the church or his own despair that had chopped up his sobs into a heart-rending stammer back then, but the experience of not being able to breathe had stayed with him, and he hadn't been to a funeral since.

At the priest's invitation, the congregation sang a couple of selected hymns before the floor was given to Iversen. Luca's faithful co-worker and friend picked up a stack of books from under his seat and stood up. He stepped over the wreaths on the floor and made his way to the pulpit. There he held the pile of books a couple of centimetres above the surface and dropped them so they landed with an audible thump. That provoked laughter, and the mood lightened after the exalted tone of the hymns.

Iversen's speech was a cheerful farewell to the man with whom he had spent the last forty years. He peppered his talk with anecdotes from their friendship, and readings from passages of the books he had brought along. Just as when he read stories to Jon as a child, Iversen captured the attention of his audience with a lively reading fromThe Divine Comedy, one of Luca's favourites. Then he continued with excerpts from the great classics, which everyone in the chapel seemed to know by heart. Even though Jon hadn't read these works, he was still moved by Iversen's interpretations and the evocative images blossomed on his internal canvas, precisely as they had when he sat on Iversen's lap in the leather chair in Libri di Luca, listening to stories about cowboys, knights and astronauts. When he closed his eyes, he could almost smell the dust of the antiquarian bookshop and hear the silence, which between the shelves of the shop seemed to resonate like nowhere else.