Reidar and Veronica open the doors to the dining room and the throbbing music hits them in the chest. There’s a crowd of people dancing round the table in the darkness. Some of them are still eating the saddle of venison and roasted vegetables.
The actor Wille Strandberg has unbuttoned his shirt. It’s impossible to hear what he’s saying as he dances his way through the crowd towards Reidar and Veronica.
‘Take it off!’ Veronica cries.
Wille laughs and pulls off his shirt, throws it at her and dances in front of her with his hands behind his neck. His bulging, middle-aged stomach bounces in time to his quick movements.
Reidar empties another glass of wine, then dances up to Wille with his hips rolling.
The music goes into a quieter, gentler phase and Reidar’s old publisher David Sylwan takes hold of his arm and gasps something, his face sweaty and happy.
‘What?’
‘There’s been no contest today,’ David repeats.
‘Stud poker?’ Reidar asks. ‘Shooting, wrestling...’
‘Shooting!’ several people cry.
‘Get the pistol and a few bottles of champagne,’ Reidar says with a smile.
The thudding beat returns, drowning out any further conversation. Reidar gets an oil painting down from the wall and carries it out through the door. It’s a portrait of him, painted by Peter Dahl.
‘I like that picture,’ Veronica says, trying to stop him.
Reidar shakes her hand from his arm and carries on towards the hall. Almost all of the guests follow him outside into the ice-cold park. Fresh snow has settled smoothly on the ground. There are still flakes swirling round beneath the dark sky.
Reidar strides through the snow and hangs the portrait on an apple tree, its branches laden with snow. Wille Strandberg follows, carrying a flare he found in a box in the cleaning cupboard. He tears the plastic cover off, then pulls the string. There’s a pop and the flare starts to burn, giving off an intense light. Laughing, he stumbles over and puts the flare in the snow beneath the tree. The white light makes the trunk and naked branches glow.
Now they can all see the painting of Reidar holding a silvery pen in his hand.
Berzelius, a translator, has brought three bottles of champagne, and David Sylwan holds up Reidar’s old Colt with a grin.
‘This isn’t funny,’ Veronica says in a serious voice.
David goes and stands next to Reidar, the Colt in his hand. He feeds six bullets into the barrel, then spins the cylinder.
Wille Strandberg is still shirtless, but he’s so drunk he doesn’t feel the cold.
‘If you win, you can choose a horse from the stables,’ Reidar mumbles, taking the revolver from David.
‘Please, be careful,’ Veronica says.
Reidar moves aside, raises his arm and fires, but hits nothing, the blast echoing between the buildings.
A few guests applaud politely, as if he were playing golf.
‘My turn,’ David laughs.
Veronica stands in the snow, shivering. Her feet are burning with cold in her thin sandals.
‘I like that portrait,’ she says again.
‘Me too,’ Reidar says, firing another shot.
The bullet hits the top corner of the canvas, there’s a puff of dust as the gold frame gets dislodged and hangs askew.
David pulls the revolver from his hand with a chuckle, stumbles and falls, and fires a shot up at the sky, then another as he tries to stand up.
A couple of guests clap, and others laugh and raise their glasses in a toast.
Reidar takes the revolver back and brushes the snow off it.
‘It’s all down to the last shot,’ he says.
Veronica goes over and kisses him on the lips.
‘How are you doing?’
‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I’ve never been happier.’
Veronica looks at him and brushes the hair from his forehead. The group on the stone steps whistles and laughs.
‘I found a better target,’ cries a red-haired woman whose name he can’t remember.
She’s dragging a huge doll through the snow. Suddenly she loses her grip of the doll and falls to her knees, then gets back on her feet again. Her leopard-skin-print dress is flecked with damp.
‘I saw it yesterday, it was under a dirty tarpaulin in the garage,’ she exclaims jubilantly.
Berzelius hurries over to help her carry it. The doll is solid plastic, and has been painted to look like Spiderman. It’s as tall as Berzelius.
‘Well done, Marie!’ David cries.
‘Shoot Spiderman,’ one of the women behind them calls.
Reidar looks up, sees the big doll, and lets the gun fall to the snow.
‘I have to sleep,’ he says abruptly.
He pushes aside the glass of champagne Wille is holding out to him and walks back to the house on unsteady legs.
10
Veronica goes with Marie as she searches the house for Reidar. They walk through rooms and halls. His jacket is lying on the stairs to the first floor and they go up. It’s dark, but they can see flickering firelight further off. In a large room they find Reidar sitting on a sofa in front of the fireplace. His cufflinks are gone and his sleeves are dangling over his hands. On the low bookcase beside him there are four bottles of Château Cheval Blanc.
‘I just wanted to say sorry,’ Marie says, leaning against the door.
‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ Reidar mutters, still gazing into the fire.
‘It was stupid of me to drag the doll out without asking first,’ Marie goes on.
‘As far as I’m concerned, you can burn all the old shit,’ he replies.
Veronica goes over to him, kneels down and looks up at his face with a smile.
‘Have you been introduced to Marie?’ she asks. ‘She’s David’s friend... I think.’
Reidar raises his glass towards the red-haired woman, then takes a big gulp. Veronica takes the glass from him, tastes the wine, and sits down.
She pushes her shoes off, leans back and rests her bare feet in his lap.
Gently he caresses her calf, the bruise from the new stirrup leather of her saddle, then up the inside of her thigh towards her groin. She lets it happen, not bothered by the fact that Marie is still in the room.
The flames are rising high in the huge fireplace. The heat is pulsating and her face feels so hot it’s almost burning.
Marie comes cautiously closer. Reidar looks at her. Her red hair has started to curl in the heat of the room. Her leopard-skin dress is creased and stained.
‘An admirer,’ Veronica says, holding the glass away from Reidar when he tries to reach it.
‘I love your books,’ Marie says.
‘Which books?’ he asks brusquely.
He gets up and fetches a fresh glass from the dresser and pours some wine. Marie misunderstands the gesture and holds out her hand to take it.
‘I presume you go to the toilet yourself when you want to have a piss,’ Reidar says, drinking the wine.
‘There’s no need—’
‘If you want wine, then drink some fucking wine,’ he interrupts in a loud voice.
Marie blushes and takes a deep breath. With her hand trembling she takes the bottle and pours herself a glass. Reidar sighs deeply, then says in a gentler tone of voice:
‘I think this vintage is one of the better years.’
Taking the bottle with him, he goes back to his seat.
Smiling, he watches as Marie sits down beside him, swirls the wine in her glass and tastes it.
Reidar laughs and refills her glass, looks her in the eye, then turns serious and kisses her on the lips.
‘What are you doing?’ she asks.
Reidar kisses Marie softly again. She moves her head away, but can’t help smiling. She drinks some wine, looks him in the eye, then leans over and kisses him.
He strokes the nape of her neck, under her hair, then moves his hand over her right shoulder and feels how the narrow strap of her dress has sunk into her skin.