"I'm a painter, and I'm always looking for models. If you're interested in earning a few kroner, call me at this number. My name is Anna." She held out her card. He wasn't startled, just looked back at her with a certain curiosity. And then he took her card, and stuck it in the pocket of his baggy shirt, which was unbuttoned. She caught a glimpse of his boyish chest.
"Just to be clear," she added, "I'm talking about posing in the nude."
He nodded. He understood. That very evening he called her from a pay phone. She thought he must live at home and didn't want to involve anyone else. He was at her door the next evening. He undressed without embarrassment, but cast a quick glance at her, said he'd never done this before. Businesslike, she explained to him what to do, but she allowed herself to show a maternal warmth. She would have liked to show something else, but she was old enough to be his mother, for heaven's sake. On that first evening she made only a rough sketch, and assured herself that he could hold the pose for a reasonable length of time, without discomfort. He put his clothes on and left. After that he came back every week at the same time. They didn't really get to know each other.
Andreas never talked about himself, and he wasn't interested in knowing anything about her. He had no plans or desires for the future. Now and then he talked about his friend Zipp. Or occasionally, about a film that he liked. Or about music. Nothing else.
The impulse came unexpectedly. She was not prepared, she had never planned it. Dreamed about it, maybe, but who wouldn't? One evening, as she worked, he seemed to fall into a reverie. He was no longer holding the pose, and his gaze was lost in one of the big paintings on the wall. Something of the tension in his body dissolved. She wanted to point this out, but changed her mind. For a long time she was able to study him unobserved. She held her breath and stood still with the brush in her hand. She knew he wasn't thinking about her; she would have sensed it if he was. She walked over to him. He pulled himself together, moved back into his original position. But she had seen him, caught him unawares. He didn't like that. She wanted to tell him that it didn't matter. She gave him a quick smile and patted his cheek. But when she felt his skin under her hand, she couldn't stop. He had high cheekbones that were beautiful and prominent beneath his white skin. He did not turn away. He stood still and allowed her to caress him. The sharp light, which came from a lamp to the left, was meant for her work. She could see every pore of his skin, as well as the thin veins in his temples. And his eyelids, like tissue paper. His skin smelled like skin, his hair like hair. He acquiesced and let her have what she wanted. Her body had been asleep for a long time. She was overwhelmed by everything that awakened, that trickled and flowed. She wanted to surrender, to make love as if it were a matter of life and death, to shriek and scratch, but she controlled herself. She didn't want to frighten him away. Afterwards, when he left the house, she came to her senses. He lacked fire. She had thought that there would be a flood of passion, because he was so young. It must be there somewhere. But she never found it. Yet they continued. Every time she had finished her work, they would go to bed. He never took the initiative, she was always the one who did that. May this painting never be done! she thought. Without feeling any shame. They were both grown-ups. Deep inside she hoped that he bragged about it to others.
C H A P T E R 3
I sell curtains and bed linens and fabric in a very respectable shop. I'm home each day by 5 p.m. The rest of the evening I spend indoors, pottering around. Almost no-one ever comes here, once in a while my friend, or perhaps my son. Ingemar. I listen politely to whatever he says. He never asks me to visit or anything like that, it's too difficult for us. The visits are more like an obligation, when we check up on each other. Make sure that everything is all right. It's nice to be able to say at work now and then that Ingemar was here for coffee yesterday. So reliable and proper. Socialising, spending time with other people, noticing their smell, or the certainty that they notice my smell, is more than I can bear. I go shopping at regular intervals and buy what I need. Never more than that. Sometimes I go to the library, where I borrow biographies. Or I look through the newspapers. It doesn't cost anything, you know. I go there right before closing time, when it's quiet and there's never a queue at the check-out desk. The librarian is a man. He looks sad. What a burden it must be to have to read everything.