‘Great photos,’ I said, taking a sip of my drink.
Hanne was in the kitchen preparing the dinner. Niels was sitting in his armchair.
‘Yes,’ he said, tentatively. ‘I’ve got one of those digital cameras.’
‘Are they all right?’
‘Oh, yes, yes,’ he replied. ‘They’re fine.’
I leaned towards a photograph to study Mathilde’s face.
‘Do they ever ask after me?’ I asked as casually as I could manage.
‘Oh, Frank, I don’t know,’ my father said, squirming. ‘Why don’t you ask your mother? I don’t talk to them about that. I’m the one who reads stories or plays croquet with them.’
An uncomfortable silence descended until I asked about his new camera and then Niels spoke eagerly about his new acquisition and its many splendid features. I found it hard to take my eyes off the photographs and most of what he said went over my head.
Over dinner we talked about their forthcoming trip and about books. They had already planned which talks and interviews to attend at the book fair and they expected to buy their travel literature at the same time. We swapped recommendations of books we had read in the course of the past year and my father had a rant about the standard of literature teaching in schools today.
I was happy that books were once again an item for discussion rather than something that led to murder and mutilation in the real world. Along with the roast beef, my concerns about Mona Weis were washed down with a good Barolo, another one of my parents’ retirement investments, and I think we all became rather drunk. A couple of generous brandies with the pudding only added to that.
My father cleared the table and started washing up. This had become the division of labour in their home and he seemed to enjoy it. They wouldn’t hear of buying a dishwasher, not because they were stingy or wouldn’t know how to operate it, but because my father actually looked forward to washing up on his own.
Hanne and I stayed at the table. We both had brandy left in our glasses and were too full to get up. The topics of travelling and books had eventually been exhausted and a pause in our conversation occurred.
‘They look great, the girls,’ I said, breaking the silence.
My mother smiled. ‘Yes, they are lovely,’ she said. ‘They spent a week with us this summer at the Manor House.’
‘Are they all right?’
‘Yes, but they’re so tall now.’ She giggled. ‘They grow up so fast.’
I sniffed my brandy. The alcohol tickled my nostrils. ‘Do they ask after me?’
Her smile faded and she looked up. ‘Please don’t start that, darling,’ she said with a pleading expression in her eyes.
I shrugged. ‘I just want to know,’ I said calmly. ‘Have they forgotten me?’
‘Of course they haven’t forgotten you, Frank.’
‘Do they ask after me?’ I repeated in a slightly harsher tone of voice.
‘Please don’t.’
‘Just give it to me straight.’
She gave me a searching look and I smiled back.
‘Yes, sometimes they ask after you,’ she said eventually, and sighed. ‘Especially the older one. But surely you can imagine what it’s like to be a teenager and have a stepdad …’
‘Is anything—’
‘Bjørn is a good dad,’ Hanne interrupted me firmly. ‘It’s just the usual teenage rebellion.’
We both drank our brandy.
‘So, what do you tell her?’ I asked.
‘Stop it, Frank.’
‘I just want to know what you tell my daughter when she asks about her dad,’ I said, raising my voice. ‘You do answer her, don’t you?’
‘Frank …’
‘Or do you just clam up?’ My rage flared up, fuelled by the alcohol. ‘Is Daddy someone you don’t mention in polite society?’
Hanne shook her head. Her eyes were welling up.
‘So what is it? Do you tell her I’ve gone away?’
‘Frank, darling …’
‘Am I dead?’ I laughed bitterly.
‘Take it easy, son,’ said my father, who had entered from the kitchen. He was wearing a stripy apron and drying his hands on a tea towel. He looked like someone who wanted to get back to washing up as soon as possible.
I rose and threw up my hands in what I hoped was a disarming gesture.
‘I just want to know what you tell my daughter.’
The tears were rolling down Hanne’s cheeks.
I failed to see why. After all, she wasn’t cut off from her children, as I was. She could see my daughters whenever she wanted to, play with them, comfort them, sing to them, spoil them rotten if she felt like it.
I banged my fist on the table and they both jumped.
‘What do you tell them?’
‘We tell them you’re ill!’ Hanne shouted.
I stared at her.
‘What do you want us to do?’ she continued. ‘You are ill, Frank. You need help. What else do we say? She’s old enough to know what a court order is.’ She buried her face in her hands.
Niels placed his hands on her shoulders and gave me an accusatory look.
‘Was that really necessary?’ he said and shook his head.
I stared at my fists. They were trembling. I grabbed my glass and knocked back the rest of the brandy before I marched to the hall, snatched my jacket and the plastic bag from my publishers and left. Neither of them tried to stop me.
The road was dark and deserted. I walked briskly to the high street where I soon found a taxi. I threw the bag on the back seat and snarled the address of the hotel at the hapless driver. Wisely, he decided to keep quiet.
I looked through the window as the streets rushed past. The anger was still boiling inside me and I could feel tears pressing.
I turned my attention to the bag and peered inside it. There was a small pile of letters and a parcel. I pulled out the parcel and held it up to the window so the streetlight fell on it.
My heart started pounding.
In my hands, I held a yellow envelope with a white address label bearing my name. It was thick enough to contain a book.
12
THE REST OF the journey back to the hotel went by in a blur. Perhaps I said something to the driver before I went into the lobby and up to the lift, or maybe I just paid and walked away, I don’t know, but I remember the sensation of falling even as the lift carried me up to my floor.
The envelope felt heavier the last few steps down the corridor to my room. Once inside I locked the door behind me and left the letters on the coffee table. Fortunately Ferdinan had made sure to stock up the minibar, so I poured myself a double whisky and sat down in an armchair. The envelope was identical to the one I had received earlier, yellow and anonymous, with my name written on a white label. The only difference was that this time my publisher’s address had been added.
I swallowed a mouthful of whisky without taking my eyes off the envelope. There was plenty to suggest it was from the same person who had sent me the picture of Mona Weis, but I couldn’t know for sure until I opened it. I put the glass down. My hands shook as they reached out for what I was sure would be the worst letter I’d ever receive. I turned the envelope over, but there were no other clues. With great care I eased open the flap. Once I had done that, I placed the envelope on my knees and stuck my hand inside. I got hold of the book and pulled it out.