His laptop was closed, and books and magazines were strewn across the table. He was determined to let his work tear his thoughts away from what awaited.
The deadline for his play came closer and closer. But writing was easier said than done when all his thoughts were elsewhere. They kept returning to the funeral, where he would meet Gerda’s friends, and the mixture of anticipation and fear spoiled his concentration. He resorted to watching the rain, doing his best to find inspiration. He had to include that in the play. The fact that the weather was no longer what it had been. That madness was rampant. The idiocy of short-term thinking. From time immemorial the climate had been one of the few things that refused to submit to humanity’s need for power and was impossible to influence. Those days were gone. Now it had been proven that our amazing planet had finally been forced to yield; it could no longer put up resistance. The monumental victory of market forces. The stupidity of human beings in all its glory.
He would get the play done in time. It was his duty to wake people up, since so few seemed to understand that there was a real urgency.
He went back to his computer and sat down.
FATHER: So what have we decided? Are we going to Thailand or Brazil?
DAUGHTER: What about a camping trip?
FATHER: Camping?
DAUGHTER: Do you know how much CO2 emission our family would produce on a trip to Thailand by air? Five point four tonnes.
MOTHER: Good Lord, how tedious you are! I don’t understand how you got like this.
DAUGHTER: I know, it’s unbelievable.
MOTHER: That plane will spew out just as much junk even if we stay at home and have a boring time. Just because we happen to be environmentally aware, do we have to give up our lovely holiday in the sun? Not on your life. I really need a few weeks of sunshine this time of year just to keep going.
SON: We could buy carbon credits then. To offset what we’re emitting.
DAUGHTER: We’d be emitting just as much crap anyway! You can’t buy everything. Especially not freedom from your own responsibility.
FATHER: Sweetheart, it’s good that you’re so involved, but now you’re just being foolish.
DAUGHTER: Foolish?
FATHER: Surely you realise that someone else is going to come along and buy our tickets even if we don’t go. The Svenssons, for example, are going to Bali on holiday, and I don’t intend to sit here and listen to their damned travel stories when the only place I’ve been is camping.
He got up and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. His thoughts strayed once again, edging their way out of the isolation of his flat. If only Jesper would ring. He filled the glass and went back to his desk, sat down and read what he’d written. Placed his hands above the keyboard, but again his thoughts roamed. He made a quick note of the idea he’d just had before it too managed to disappear.
But when the occasion arises, all are equally intent on applauding role models like Joseph Schultz, convinced that when the chips were down they would be equally heroic.
He folded down the screen. It was futile even to try. It was as if all his thoughts had been loaned out from the place where they actually belonged. Restlessness kept forcing him out of his chair, and he’d lost count of how many useless walks he’d taken around the flat. It was like an itch inside him. On several occasions he had caught himself counting his pounding heartbeat. It frightened him, since he knew that it resembled something he’d experienced before. During those first wretched months in the flat, when he was tortured by the loss of his life’s companion. The one thing that had helped him simplify reality. He let his gaze wander up the bookshelf and over to the bottle of cognac. Purchased on the day of the première of Find and Replace All, to stand as an unopened monument to his achievement and his indomitable character. It had fortified him, made him feel invincible.
He got up again and went to check his mobile, to see whether he might have missed a call or message, but the display was blank. He dialled Jesper’s number but was met at once by his recorded voice.
He sighed in annoyance.
‘It’s me again. Call. It’s extremely important.’
He disconnected and tossed the mobile on the sofa. It landed next to a piece of paper: the article about Torgny Wennberg he’d printed out a few nights ago. He sat down and read through it. Astonished once again at the tragic headline. Forgotten proletarian writer.
No survivor here.
At the bottom was the phone number he’d found online. He looked at his phone, pondered for a moment. Born 1928. Fourteen years younger than Gerda. He wondered how well they had known each other. Maybe they’d even been related. The only thing he knew for sure was that he wouldn’t get anything done until he found out why he’d ended up in Gerda Persson’s will. The fact that he kept glancing at the cognac, feeling that he was no longer invincible, made him pick up the mobile and punch in the numbers.
He didn’t have a chance to think through what he was going to say before he heard a raspy voice on the other end.
‘Yes, who is it?’
‘Hello?’
‘Yes?’
‘Is this Torgny Wennberg?’
‘Who is this?’
‘I don’t know if I have the right number, but I’m looking for Torgny Wennberg, who was an author?’
‘What do you mean, “was”?’
Kristoffer picked up the printout he had put down earlier.
‘No, I just mean is this the Torgny Wennberg who wrote Keep the Fire Burning and The Wind Whispers Your Name? Among others,’ he added, when he got no reply.
‘Yes. That’s me.’
Only now did Kristoffer hesitate and wonder what he should say. He wished he had planned the conversation better.
‘If you’re one of those fucking salesmen, then I’m not interested.’
‘No, no, it’s nothing like that.’
He hesitated again. Torgny Wennberg sounded irritated, and he didn’t want to risk being dismissed on the phone. He decided to take a chance.
‘I was wondering if I might possibly interview you about what it’s like to be a proletarian author. I’m a playwright myself, and I read about you on a web site. I’m working on a piece right now and it would be a great help if I could meet with you. If you have time, of course. I would appreciate asking you a few questions.’
There was silence on the line. He realised that further coaxing was required.
‘I’d be happy to buy you dinner or lunch or something, near where you live, so it won’t be so much trouble for you.’
‘No, damn it, we can’t even go to the pub now that smoking is no longer allowed. So you’ll have to come up here if you’re interested. I’ll be at home tonight if it’s that urgent.’
With relief Kristoffer said that would be fine, and they agreed on a time. He asked if he should bring anything, and Torgny suggested picking up a pizza for him. There was a pizzeria right around the corner.
Everything felt suddenly lighter. It was the passive uncertainty that was so taxing; now he was on his way again.
Not until he pulled on his shoes did it occur to him that he hadn’t mentioned his name.