book.”
Again he looks relieved.
“Will my story be several hundred pages?”
“Oh, no,” I reply immediately, “it will be a modest story about a modest man. As I said before. If you’re looking for volume, you’ll have to go elsewhere.”
He runs his hand across his head but takes care not to disturb the comb-over, which does not move. “In other words: you don’t think I’m very important? What about the woman and her dead child? They’ll get more space, won’t they?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know yet. I’ve got my hands full with you. And my head,” I add, “and my heart.” I place my hand on my chest. He smiles bashfully and looks at the floor.
“That’s almost more than I had hoped for,” he says, “that I can truly move another person. You. It’s a wonderful feeling!”
Again I have to smile.
“But I’m not funny,” he warns me. “Don’t add humor to this story—it wouldn’t work.”
“I don’t have a sense of humor,” I confess, “so you have nothing to fear. I’m looking for depth and drama.”
“Drama? That sounds disconcerting. Why do you have to have so much of that?”
“Drama makes the blood run faster through your veins. When the story reaches its peak, that’s when I feel most alive. You could do with a shot of adrenaline, you know—it’s a fantastic high and totally addictive.”
“I think I’ll stick with sherry,” he replies, and smiles. “There’s something else. Where did you find the girl?”
“On Bragernes Square. There were several of them—all I had to do was choose one. And the one I picked stood out. She was so skinny and pale and translucent that she appeared to be almost ethereal. Did you notice her eyes? They’re like ice. Her hair is like cotton grass. Her skeleton as fragile as a bird’s. I felt I could snap her in half with one hand, like a twig. I was taken with her frailty. She reminds me of Royal Copenhagen china.”
“That was beautifully put,” Alvar says.
“Thank you—I do try.”
“But she should be wearing something else on her feet for this time of year. Did you see her ankle boots? I’ve never seen such high heels, she could barely walk in them. And those boots aren’t terribly warm either, did you know that? I’m sure they’re synthetic, only plastic. What do you think?”
“Mmm. They’re plastic.”
“I mean, they must be very uncomfortable, on top of everything else. For example, she can’t run in such boots, should she have to.”
“Heroin addicts don’t run, Alvar. In fact they’re very, very slow.” He looks at me for a long time. “So if something were to happen to her, she wouldn’t be able to escape?”
I do not reply. I look at the screen again and my half-finished letter. I rest my chin in my hands.
“You’ve suddenly gone very quiet,” Alvar says. “I’m convinced that you’ve thought of something, that you’ve just had an idea of what’s going to happen.”
“That’s correct. And I can’t tell you what it is. I’m sure you understand.”
I look at him; he is twisting his fingers. There’s something very virginal about him. A man of forty-two with his innocence intact. A man who has hidden himself away his whole life. It feels as if I’m about to throw him to the wolves. His unease is totally justified. I force myself to be tough and push ahead with my plan even though I know I will cause him a great deal of pain.
“What are you thinking about?”
He is looking directly at me. “I’m thinking of everything we humans have to suffer. Restless hours filled with anxiety and distress. Sleepless nights, pain. I’m thinking of the bravery dormant in us all. How we grit our teeth and carry on. Some go with God. And those of us who don’t have that option, those of us who don’t lift our heads toward heaven, we walk on all the same, with our heads bowed, right until our own end.”
“I can visualize what you’ve just said,” Alvar says. “It’s a powerful image. If I
Again he looks relieved.
“Will my story be several hundred pages?”
“Oh, no,” I reply immediately, “it will be a modest story about a modest man. As I said before. If you’re looking for volume, you’ll have to go elsewhere.”
He runs his hand across his head but takes care not to disturb the comb-over, which does not move. “In other words: you don’t think I’m very important? What about the woman and her dead child? They’ll get more space, won’t they?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know yet. I’ve got my hands full with you. And my head,” I add, “and my heart.” I place my hand on my chest. He smiles bashfully and looks at the floor.
“That’s almost more than I had hoped for,” he says, “that I can truly move another person. You. It’s a wonderful feeling!”
Again I have to smile.
“But I’m not funny,” he warns me. “Don’t add humor to this story—it wouldn’t work.”
“I don’t have a sense of humor,” I confess, “so you have nothing to fear. I’m looking for depth and drama.”
“Drama? That sounds disconcerting. Why do you have to have so much of that?”
“Drama makes the blood run faster through your veins. When the story reaches its peak, that’s when I feel most alive. You could do with a shot of adrenaline, you know—it’s a fantastic high and totally addictive.”
“I think I’ll stick with sherry,” he replies, and smiles. “There’s something else. Where did you find the girl?”
“On Bragernes Square. There were several of them—all I had to do was choose one. And the one I picked stood out. She was so skinny and pale and translucent that she appeared to be almost ethereal. Did you notice her eyes? They’re like ice. Her hair is like cotton grass. Her skeleton as fragile as a bird’s. I felt I could snap her in half with one hand, like a twig. I was taken with her frailty. She reminds me of Royal Copenhagen china.”
“That was beautifully put,” Alvar says.
“Thank you—I do try.”
“But she should be wearing something else on her feet for this time of year. Did you see her ankle boots? I’ve never seen such high heels, she could barely walk in them. And those boots aren’t terribly warm either, did you know that? I’m sure they’re synthetic, only plastic. What do you think?”
“Mmm. They’re plastic.”
“I mean, they must be very uncomfortable, on top of everything else. For example, she can’t run in such boots, should she have to.”
“Heroin addicts don’t run, Alvar. In fact they’re very, very slow.” He looks at me for a long time. “So if something were to happen to her, she wouldn’t be able to escape?”
I do not reply. I look at the screen again and my half-finished letter. I rest my chin in my hands.
“You’ve suddenly gone very quiet,” Alvar says. “I’m convinced that you’ve thought of something, that you’ve just had an idea of what’s going to happen.”
“That’s correct. And I can’t tell you what it is. I’m sure you understand.”
I look at him; he is twisting his fingers. There’s something very virginal about him. A man of forty-two with his innocence intact. A man who has hidden himself away his whole life. It feels as if I’m about to throw him to the wolves. His unease is totally justified. I force myself to be tough and push ahead with my plan even though I know I will cause him a great deal of pain.
“What are you thinking about?”
He is looking directly at me. “I’m thinking of everything we humans have to suffer. Restless hours filled with anxiety and distress. Sleepless nights, pain. I’m thinking of the bravery dormant in us all. How we grit our teeth and carry on. Some go with God. And those of us who don’t have that option, those of us who don’t lift our heads toward heaven, we walk on all the same, with our heads bowed, right until our own end.”
“I can visualize what you’ve just said,” Alvar says. “It’s a powerful image. If I
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