I had never had any doubts and I still don’t.
Wednesday
6
I LEFT RÅGELEJE on Wednesday morning. The sun was shining and there was a mildness in the air that made it hard to leave the cottage during what was likely to be the last sprint before autumn handed over the baton to winter.
My black blazer hung from a hanger on the headrest of the passenger seat. I realized I hadn’t worn it since last year’s book fair when I found my old entry pass and programme in the inside pocket. On the back seat was a weekend bag with clothes for five days and a brown envelope with the beginnings of the first draft of my next book. It was untitled, but my editor had suggested the working title By the Skin of My Teeth as a joke and it had stuck. The plot was an offshoot of my research for In the Red Zone, where I had become intrigued by how easily people relate to a fear of dentists. I thought there was enough material for a separate novel and so far I had been proved right, even though I had only written about a third.
Before I reached Copenhagen, I pulled into a petrol station and bought a packet of cigarettes. I had quit smoking the first time Line was pregnant, but for some reason I always started again when I was going to Copenhagen, as if the fumes from the city traffic weren’t bad enough or perhaps I believed the cigarettes would cancel out the smog. It was therefore a year since I had last smoked and it resulted in a couple of violent coughing fits and a feeling of dizziness as I inhaled my way through the first couple of cigarettes. But by God, they tasted good.
After one and a half hours’ drive, I reached the hotel. Driving through inner-city Copenhagen for well over thirty minutes had been tough. I was far from used to that volume of traffic. My T-shirt was damp with sweat and I could feel a headache coming on. Once in Copenhagen I preferred to get around by taxi, or on foot if the weather and the distance permitted, and I was relieved when I finally parked the car in front of the hotel.
Marieborg is a five-storey white building with large windows overlooking the street. Behind those windows the interior of the restaurant was classic with dark wooden panels, wooden chairs, white tablecloths and dark pink carpets. Mirrors and brass lamps were mounted on the walls. The entrance to the lobby was situated on the right-hand side of the building, from where a lift and a staircase with the same pink carpet as the restaurant led to the rooms on the floors above.
The owner of the hotel, Ferdinan Jensen, was standing behind the reception counter when I walked into the lobby holding my weekend bag and the envelope in one hand and my blazer draped over my shoulder with my other hand.
‘Welcome back, Mr Føns,’ he said, flashing me a wide smile.
Ferdinan Jensen was Spanish by birth, but had married a Danish woman more than twenty-five years ago. He had Mediterranean skin, pitch-black hair and bushy eyebrows, which suggested he wasn’t born in Denmark, but his Danish was impeccable and he was incredibly well informed about what was happening in the city. He was in great shape, probably as a result of his boundless commitment to the hotel where no job was beneath his dignity. I have seen him carry suitcases, change light bulbs and wait in the restaurant, always with the same wide smile on his lips.
‘So it’s the book fair again, is it?’
I set down my bag in front of the counter and heaved a sigh. ‘Yes, it’s that time of the year again, I’m afraid. The leaves are falling and it’s raining books.’
Ferdinan Jensen laughed. ‘Yes, and some of them are yours, am I right?’
I dug out a signed copy of In the Red Zone from the front pocket of my weekend bag and placed it on the counter.
‘And now one of them is yours,’ I replied and pushed it towards him.
His eyes shone. ‘You shouldn’t have, Mr Føns,’ he said, and grabbed the book with both hands. ‘Thank you so much. I’m starting this one tonight.’ He studied the cover before carefully placing the book on the table behind the counter.
When he turned around again, he had a doleful expression on his face.
‘I’m really very sorry about the mix-up with your room,’ he said, throwing up his hands. ‘It’s my fault. I could kick myself.’
‘That’s quite all right,’ I replied. ‘A change will do me good.’
He shook his head. ‘That new computer is too clever for me,’ he said, pointing to a screen on his left. ‘It was my darling wife’s idea, but I can’t get it to work properly. That’s why I couldn’t reserve your usual room when you booked. I’m so embarrassed.’
‘It really doesn’t matter,’ I assured him. ‘As long as I’ve got a bed to sleep in.’
His face lit up. ‘That you will have. I’ve got you a very nice room indeed.’
I got the key to room 501 and booked a table for two in the restaurant for the same evening.
‘By the way,’ Ferdinan exclaimed, bending down behind the counter. ‘There’s some post for you.’ He reappeared holding a thick yellow envelope.
The size, the thickness and the sound it made when he placed it on the counter suggested it was a book. I picked it up and studied it. There was no indication of who the sender was, and my name was printed on an anonymous address label.
‘Who delivered it?’ I asked.
‘No idea,’ Ferdinan replied. ‘It was left on the counter some time yesterday afternoon.’
I shrugged. ‘My publishers, probably.’ I stuck the envelope into the front pocket of my weekend bag.
Ferdinan offered to carry my bag upstairs but I declined and took the lift up to the fifth floor alone.
He was right. It was a great room, more like a suite, in my opinion. In addition to a large bedroom with a king-size bed and a bathroom with a Jacuzzi, there was a spacious living room and an extra lavatory. The living room was equipped with a well-stocked minibar and the biggest flat-screen television I had ever seen. Two French balconies, one from the bedroom and one from the living room, overlooked the street and I discovered to my delight that noise from the traffic was perfectly tolerable on the fifth floor.
It was far too big for me. There was much more room here than in my cottage and I felt lost in the uncluttered surroundings. I’m used to a bit of mess – chaos some would probably call it – and the large living room with all that floor space and upholstered furniture not piled high with books, printouts or notepads was intimidating.
Having unpacked my clothes, which took up only a couple of hangers and one shelf in the five-door built-in wardrobe in the bedroom, I poured myself a whisky from the minibar and took the envelope from the front pocket of my bag. I carried it over to the living room and sat down in one of the armchairs.
My address in Rågeleje was secret so readers usually sent their letters to my publishers. From time to time fellow writers would send me signed copies of their books, as I would to them. It was an unspoken agreement and a way of announcing that yes, you had just had another book published. At times it felt like pressure, at other times gloating, especially if the book in question had been well received. I was rarely pleased to receive these trophies, and they were positively unwelcome if I was suffering from writer’s block.
Please don’t let it be from Tom Winter.
Tom Winter was a crime writer who had proclaimed himself to be my rival on several occasions. I wasn’t terribly worried about his challenge, but it annoyed me that reviewers were always comparing us, as it was mostly to Tom Winter’s advantage. We had never met and yet he insisted on sending me a copy of every book he wrote. So far, that amounted to five. I had never returned the compliment, but that didn’t seem to worry him.