Jesper pulled on the band as he stared into the camera.
Kristoffer jumped up so quickly his chair tipped over backwards.
The camera zoomed in. The plastic band cut into Jesper’s neck. His eyes burned like lasers into the camera lens and into the viewer. Frantically Kristoffer’s hands raced over the keyboard in search of the button that would stop what was happening. He grabbed his mobile, rang the familiar number, but got the flat tone again. On the screen Jesper’s face had become distorted, the determined look gave way, and after he blinked repeatedly the camera lens released him and turned in the direction in which the masked man had gone.
Kristoffer began to sob. What he was seeing was unbearable. Jesper had asked for his help, had wanted to talk about his panic about promoting the book. Kristoffer had brushed him off; in his jealousy he had deleted his message. He hadn’t even let Jesper in when he was standing outside his door. He covered his face with his hands and closed his eyes, but they opened of their own accord, and he was forced to see the terror of death in Jesper’s eyes as his fingers vainly tore at his neck, trying to get the plastic band off.
The wail from Kristoffer’s throat could not be stopped. He was exploding inside, and all his pent-up despair ripped loose. To the sound of his moans, Jesper’s head slumped forward and hung there. The picture went black and all was for ever too late.
A car horn beeped in the street. A neighbour flushed a toilet.
The last thing that had remained intact had now cracked.
Nothing he thought, nothing he felt, was important any more.
Four steps to the bookshelf. With fingers that had never forgotten, he yanked the cork out of the cognac bottle. No matter what the cost, he appealed for mercy.
30
Jan-Erik heard the front door open and hurried to the refrigerator to take out the bottle of champagne. The glasses were already set in place on the kitchen table next to the candlesticks. He struck a match to light the candles. He had been waiting for several hours. When he had gone out to buy the champagne, Louise had apparently been at home, judging by the tube of caviar that was left out on the worktop, but when he returned the flat was empty. She hadn’t answered her mobile.
For a while he had debated the appropriateness of celebrating now that Alice was so seriously ill, but there was too much to lose if he held back. For once he intended to put the focus on him and not on her. She was not going to be allowed to take this moment away from him.
He was going to surprise Louise with champagne and Ellen with Appletiser and tell them about his prestigious prize. Maybe suggest that they take a holiday together. Put a stop to the disintegration that he’d been worrying about ever since Louise had collapsed in tears and voiced her doubts. The power of his reaction had surprised him. Realising how important it all was, and how much he had taken for granted. Their marriage must remain intact at any price; it was the base from which he proceeded and to which he must always return, the skeleton supporting his life and the foundation for everything he did. He would do everything he could to keep the three of them together. But he had not thought through everything that entailed. He had cleverly avoided the thought of certain marital components. The consequence of this line of thinking would make his efforts impossible. Having sex with Louise was unthinkable. That’s why Ellen had to be there at the celebration. He had consulted her school schedule on the refrigerator door, and she would be home in half an hour. What still felt unthinkable must not be allowed to happen, however Louise might interpret his initiative.
He noticed his hand was shaking when he lit the last candle. He had refrained from easing his nerves with a few drinks while preparing the surprise. Even though he conducted most of his drinking outside the walls of the house, he sometimes grew afraid that Louise still knew how much he drank. But right now they were going to toast with champagne, a natural and legitimate way of celebrating.
When he looked up she was standing in the doorway.
He blew out the match.
‘Hi.’
Her gaze went right past him, over all his celebratory efforts, and wandered on out through the window.
‘Come and sit down, we have something to celebrate.’
He grabbed the bottle of champagne and tore off the foil, thinking she could at least say hello. He undid the wire, popped the cork and filled the glasses as quickly as the foam permitted.
She remained motionless in the doorway and clearly needed persuading.
He raised his glass to lure her to him.
‘Come on.’
Something about her was different, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Three days had passed since he’d last seen her awake. That was when he’d left her crying at the kitchen table which he had now decorated with champagne and candles.
He went over and handed her the glass.
‘Now listen to this – I’ve won the Nordic Council Literary Prize. It’s the first time they’ve ever given it to someone who isn’t an author.’
‘Congratulations.’
She couldn’t even be happy about that. He saw it clearly in her face. But he knew what would persuade her, something she was good at squandering.
‘The prize is 350,000 kronor. Danish. So it’s worth even more.’
Without touching the champagne she went over and placed her glass on the worktop. There she stood with her back to him, and during the ensuing silence he grew angry. Never to receive any appreciation from her. Never to get recognition when he did something good. He worked like a dog and just once he ought to get a kind word or a little encouragement. He had even made a special effort, champagne and everything. He was trying to make her happy, trying to make an overture after their bitter conversation three days ago. But, as usual, it wasn’t enough. Sulky and unforgiving, she was now going to force him to make even more fuss over her.
‘I thought you’d be happy. I was going to suggest we take a trip together somewhere. But that’s probably not good enough, as usual.’
He emptied his glass and filled it again. The champagne foamed over and ran down his hand, and he shook off the worst of it. Seeing her back turned was driving him crazy. He blew out the candles and didn’t give a damn if tiny drops of wax landed on the table, which would annoy Louise. Then he grabbed the bottle, went out to the living room and sat down on the sofa. But he got up again and went instead to his office, kicked the door shut, and sat down behind his desk. He put down the champagne bottle among the piles of unopened fan mail for Axel Ragnerfeldt.
It was impossible to please her, he might as well admit it. She was a black hole into which all positive energy was sucked and obliterated.
He refilled his glass and ran his hand over the damp ring that had seeped onto the oak desk. Without knocking she opened the door, walking in determinedly, and sat down in his reading chair. He looked the other way. He didn’t intend to be nice to her; now it was her turn to try. He sipped a little champagne; this time he was without guilt and had every right to be angry.
‘I’ve asked Ellen to sleep over at a friend’s house tonight, because you and I have to talk.’
For a few seconds his anger remained entrenched until the gravity in her voice made him pay attention. Treacherously it came slithering with its foul breath. When he looked at her he realised that something really had changed. Her face was open and her gaze unwavering, and the minefield that usually surrounded her had dissolved.
‘I’m sorry this is such bad timing, because you’re so excited about the prize and surely worried about Alice, but I might as well come straight out with it.’
His senses held their breath.
‘I want a divorce.’
The air in his lungs emptied out as if he’d been punched in the stomach. She sat calm and composed in the easy chair as if what she’d said was entirely normal.