The critics slated In the Dead Angle and it barely sold two hundred copies, but when we held the Angle party, the publication date was still months away. I was thus blissfully ignorant of the reception the book would later get and simply wanted to throw the greatest party ever. There would be more guests, more alcohol and more drugs than ever before; plenty of girls and live music. Everyone was invited. And everyone came. The flat was swarming with people, of whom I knew only half.
That morning I had been to Nyhavn and had the book’s ISBN number tattooed round my upper arm, a ritual we had pledged to undergo with the publication of our first book. I had to take off my shirt again and again to show I had kept my promise, and most guests were duly impressed with the armband tattoo.
It happened in this sea of people, as it sometimes does when crowds gather, that suddenly a corridor opened up and I could see from the far side of the living room all the way to the front door.
Line was standing in the doorway.
She was wearing a short dress and high-heeled shoes, an outfit somewhat out of sync with the rest of the guests, who were dressed more casually, but she appeared oblivious to it. Her mousy brown hair reached just below her jawline and her face was rather ordinary with strong eyebrows, high cheekbones and a narrow nose. She looked nothing like a model and seemed out of place both as far as her dress and the party were concerned.
What knocked me out was her smile.
I know it’s a cliché and I would never have the audacity to write it in a novel, not even a romantic one, but that was what happened. She had a small wry smile that revealed a little of a row of perfect teeth and she exuded warmth and spontaneity. It took my breath away. Her gaze swept around the room and our eyes met for a brief moment before the crowd closed the gap between us.
During the time the commune had been in existence, we had all had our fair share of girls. We often scored at our own parties; it was a bad night if none of us got lucky. I wouldn’t go as far as to say there was competition between us, but it was a source of huge satisfaction to turn up for breakfast the following morning and introduce a girl with rumpled hair wearing only a man’s shirt.
When I saw Line that evening, I made a vow. She wouldn’t be another party trophy. This time my aim wasn’t a few days or a couple of weeks of casual sex. This was the real thing and it meant I had to be careful. I mustn’t sabotage my mission with crass remarks uttered under the influence of alcohol and drugs. On the contrary, I would try to avoid her. I might exchange a few words with her, so she would at least remember me, but my main aim would be to try to find out who she was and how I could see her again. I would woo her with a persistence and a chastity worthy of a Shakespeare play, but not until I was sober.
After about an hour I began to worry that she might have left. Perhaps she had even come to the wrong address – her clothes suggested it – and now she might be at her real destination, a couples’ dinner party at my neighbour’s with a five-course menu and matching wines. It was almost unbearable. I kept moving to keep my nerves under control, constantly checking if she was still around. It became increasingly difficult to maintain my cool exterior as host and harder still to focus on the conversations I got caught up in. If she had gone, all was lost.
I was more or less resigned to drinking myself senseless when I heard a woman’s voice behind me.
‘You’re not easy to find!’ The music was loud so she had to shout.
I turned around and came face to face with her smile. She laughed when she saw my reaction.
‘It’s OK, I have been invited.’
‘No, it’s just … I thought you had left,’ I stuttered and regretted it immediately.
‘Congratulations on the book,’ she said, holding out her hand. She had a drink in her other hand.
I took her hand. It was warm and dry and she gave my hand a quick squeeze.
‘Thank you!’ I shouted over the music. ‘Who are you?’ I asked before I could stop myself.
‘My name is Line and I’m a dancer!’ she shouted back, but thanks to the music I didn’t catch all of it.
‘A chancer?’
She started to laugh and it was impossible not to laugh with her. Then she placed a hand on my shoulder, pulled me closer and leaned into me at the same time.
‘My name is Line and I’m a dancer,’ she repeated, with her mouth very close to my ear.
I was aware of my face burning and I could feel beads of sweat on my forehead. She took a small step away from me without removing her hand from my shoulder and looked expectantly at me.
‘So … what are you waiting for?’ She looked me up and down.
I realized we were on the dance floor and she started to move, very slowly. I followed, encouraged by yet another one of her smiles, and we danced for fifteen minutes without speaking. Her blue eyes studied me. Every time I made to say something, she raised her eyebrows and leaned into me as if she wouldn’t want to miss a single sound I uttered. As a result, I couldn’t produce one word and she would move back with a grin. At last I had to surrender and laugh with her. I laughed from relief, so heartily that it brought tears to my eyes and everyone around started to laugh with us without knowing why.
When I had regained control of my voice and my body, I pulled her into me and hugged her.
‘I’m already crazy about you,’ I whispered into her ear.
Then it was her turn to blush and look away.
We were inseparable for the rest of the evening; we danced and laughed and talked. I had rediscovered my eloquence and told her of dreams and hopes I had never revealed to anyone, and she rewarded me with an intimacy and openness I had never experienced in another human being. In her company, personal space was reduced to zero and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to put my arm around her or hold her hand even though we had only known each other for a few hours.
Suddenly it was six o’clock in the morning and Bjarne started to clear up. Line and I sat alone on a sofa. The pauses between the words grew longer. I remember I genuinely didn’t want her to stay, something that surprised me a little, but I wanted the first time we slept together to be special. She may have been thinking the same thing because she leaned towards me and gave me a long kiss. She was sorry, she had to get to work, she said, but she would like to come back again if that was all right. I traced her fantastic mouth with my index finger and said she would most certainly have to.
But Line didn’t come back. Not the following day or the day after that. It was dreadful. I drove Bjarne and Mortis insane with my speculations about why she hadn’t contacted me. Perhaps she had only been toying with me, or worse: she had been in an accident. There was no end to my disaster theories. Mortis grew very irritated with me and it wasn’t until later that I realized why he was so touchy about Line.
For Mortis, it wasn’t only the word that was important, but the medium itself, the physical book that contained the written word. He placed great emphasis on paper quality and binding and could be elevated to a state of ecstasy when holding a particularly well-produced example in his long slender fingers. He thought little of new publications; the paper quality was poor, the pages too thin and the glue in the spine inadequate. His passion drove him to visit antiquarian bookshops in Copenhagen in a constant search for the perfect volume.