say thank you,” he says politely.
I turn around and look him in the eye.
“Thank me? For what?”
“For the girl. The poor freezing girl you sent me.”
I feel a prickle of guilt and look away.
“I mean,” he says enthusiastically, “I got the chance to do a good deed. Of course, there is no reason to make a song and dance about a mug of coffee, but afterward I was pleased that I did what I did.”
“That’s good, then,” I say, and look at the screen again.
“I’m not one to start chatting to people like that,” he goes on. “In fact, I’m quite surprised at myself. But my own circumstances became so clear to me. How lucky I really am. And as you know, if you’re well off, you have a duty to do good. Don’t you think so?”
“Alvar.” I make my voice firm. “I need to finish this letter—it’s important to me. It needs to be mailed today, and the last mail is at three thirty this afternoon.”
He folds his hands and shifts from one foot to the other. “You’re starting to get a little cross, aren’t you? I spot things like that right away. But I just wanted to mention something: I’ve always considered it a matter of honor to be respectful. Or to have good old-fashioned manners, if you like. But the thing is that we have a relationship, you and I, and you can’t expect me to just sit back and wait when it concerns my own fate; you know I’m someone who needs to be in control.”
“Yes,” I say drily, “I’ve noticed that.”
“And that’s why,” he carries on, “I must admit that I was terribly upset when this girl came into the gallery.”
“Whatever for?”
He coughs nervously, covering his mouth with his hand. “Well, we’ve talked about relationships. For one awful moment I thought you were going to turn us into a couple.”
I give up trying to finish the letter. I fold my arms across my chest instead and study him.
“My dear Alvar,” I say in a kind voice, “I’m well aware that you prefer men.”
I am totally unprepared for his reaction. He flushes deeply all the way from his throat and up his cheeks. He takes a step sideways to recover his balance. Then he buries his face in his hands.
“You thought I didn’t know?” I ask softly.
He does not reply except to groan. Frozen in this desperate position with his hands over his face, he wants to speak but cannot find his voice.
“Please don’t be so upset,” I comfort him.
He exhales deeply and then gasps. Turns away in shame.
“Do you have to tell them that?” he whispers.
“You mean, do I have to include it in the story? We can talk about it. I obviously know more about you than what I put in the book.
However, we can’t prevent those who meet you from speculating. Don’t underestimate people. You will never be able to control their thoughts.”
Finally he straightens up, but he finds it difficult to look me in the eye.
“I-I’m begging you on my knees,” he stutters. “Please, please cut that bit. It’s not as if it’s important.”
I ponder this. Reluctantly. “No, I’m not going to cut it, but I can treat it with respect.”
He begins to relax a little. He breathes a sigh of relief. “I want to put the record straight,” he says suddenly. “I have no such feelings for Ole Krantz. Just so you know.”
I have to smile. “I know.”
“So we understand each other,” he says, reassured. “And please forgive all my interventions, but I’m very shy, you know that. The idea that people can read me like an open book is unbearable.”
“It’s not as scary as you think,” I reply, “people knowing who you are. Wasn’t that why you jumped the line? You jumped the line because you wanted to be noticed.”
“I did,” he admits instantly. “But they don’t need to know everything.”
“True,” I concede. “Of course I make choices. But readers can be very perceptive, they add to the story and complete the picture. Ultimately you’re protected by the boards of the
I turn around and look him in the eye.
“Thank me? For what?”
“For the girl. The poor freezing girl you sent me.”
I feel a prickle of guilt and look away.
“I mean,” he says enthusiastically, “I got the chance to do a good deed. Of course, there is no reason to make a song and dance about a mug of coffee, but afterward I was pleased that I did what I did.”
“That’s good, then,” I say, and look at the screen again.
“I’m not one to start chatting to people like that,” he goes on. “In fact, I’m quite surprised at myself. But my own circumstances became so clear to me. How lucky I really am. And as you know, if you’re well off, you have a duty to do good. Don’t you think so?”
“Alvar.” I make my voice firm. “I need to finish this letter—it’s important to me. It needs to be mailed today, and the last mail is at three thirty this afternoon.”
He folds his hands and shifts from one foot to the other. “You’re starting to get a little cross, aren’t you? I spot things like that right away. But I just wanted to mention something: I’ve always considered it a matter of honor to be respectful. Or to have good old-fashioned manners, if you like. But the thing is that we have a relationship, you and I, and you can’t expect me to just sit back and wait when it concerns my own fate; you know I’m someone who needs to be in control.”
“Yes,” I say drily, “I’ve noticed that.”
“And that’s why,” he carries on, “I must admit that I was terribly upset when this girl came into the gallery.”
“Whatever for?”
He coughs nervously, covering his mouth with his hand. “Well, we’ve talked about relationships. For one awful moment I thought you were going to turn us into a couple.”
I give up trying to finish the letter. I fold my arms across my chest instead and study him.
“My dear Alvar,” I say in a kind voice, “I’m well aware that you prefer men.”
I am totally unprepared for his reaction. He flushes deeply all the way from his throat and up his cheeks. He takes a step sideways to recover his balance. Then he buries his face in his hands.
“You thought I didn’t know?” I ask softly.
He does not reply except to groan. Frozen in this desperate position with his hands over his face, he wants to speak but cannot find his voice.
“Please don’t be so upset,” I comfort him.
He exhales deeply and then gasps. Turns away in shame.
“Do you have to tell them that?” he whispers.
“You mean, do I have to include it in the story? We can talk about it. I obviously know more about you than what I put in the book.
However, we can’t prevent those who meet you from speculating. Don’t underestimate people. You will never be able to control their thoughts.”
Finally he straightens up, but he finds it difficult to look me in the eye.
“I-I’m begging you on my knees,” he stutters. “Please, please cut that bit. It’s not as if it’s important.”
I ponder this. Reluctantly. “No, I’m not going to cut it, but I can treat it with respect.”
He begins to relax a little. He breathes a sigh of relief. “I want to put the record straight,” he says suddenly. “I have no such feelings for Ole Krantz. Just so you know.”
I have to smile. “I know.”
“So we understand each other,” he says, reassured. “And please forgive all my interventions, but I’m very shy, you know that. The idea that people can read me like an open book is unbearable.”
“It’s not as scary as you think,” I reply, “people knowing who you are. Wasn’t that why you jumped the line? You jumped the line because you wanted to be noticed.”
“I did,” he admits instantly. “But they don’t need to know everything.”
“True,” I concede. “Of course I make choices. But readers can be very perceptive, they add to the story and complete the picture. Ultimately you’re protected by the boards of the
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