does not reply, he groans. 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 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'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 one another,' 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 queue? You jumped the queue 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 book.'
Again he looks relieved.
'Will my story be several hundred pages?'
'Oh, no,' I reply immediately, 'it will be a modest story about a modest man. As I said before. If you're looking for volume, you'll have to go elsewhere.'
He runs his hand across his head, but takes care not to disturb the comb-over, which does not move. 'In other words: you don't think I'm very important? What about the woman and her dead child? They'll get more space, won't they?'
'Perhaps. I don't know yet, I've got my hands full with you. And my head,' I add, 'and my heart.' I place my hand on my chest. He smiles bashfully and looks at the floor.
'That's almost more than I had hoped for,' he says, 'that I can truly move another person. You. It's a wonderful feeling!'
Again I have to smile.
'But I'm not funny,' he warns me. 'Don't add humour to this story, it wouldn't work.'
'I don't have a sense of humour,' I confess, 'so you have nothing to fear. I'm looking for depth and drama.'
'Drama? That sounds disconcerting. Why do you have to have so much of that?'
'Drama makes the blood run faster through your veins. When the story reaches its peak that's when I feel most alive. You could do with a shot of adrenaline, you know, it's a fantastic high and totally addictive.'
'I think I'll stick with sherry,' he replies and smiles. 'There's something else. Where did you find the girl?'
'On Bragernes Square. There were several of them, all I had to do was choose one. And the one I picked stood out. She was so skinny and pale and translucent that she appeared to be almost ethereal. Did you notice her eyes? They're like ice. Her hair is like cotton grass. Her skeleton as fragile as a bird's. I felt I could snap her in half with one hand like a twig. I was taken with her frailty. She reminds me of Royal Copenhagen china.'
'That was beautifully put,' Alvar says.
'Thank you, I do try.'
'But she should be wearing something else on her feet for this time of year. Did you see her ankle boots? I've never seen such high heels, she could barely walk in them. And those boots aren't terrible warm either, did you know that? I'm sure they're synthetic, only plastic. What do you think?'
'Mm. They're plastic.'
'I mean, they must be very uncomfortable, on top of everything else. For example, she can't run in such boots, should she have
'Please don't be so upset,' I comfort him.
He exhales deeply and 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'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 one another,' 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 queue? You jumped the queue 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 book.'
Again he looks relieved.
'Will my story be several hundred pages?'
'Oh, no,' I reply immediately, 'it will be a modest story about a modest man. As I said before. If you're looking for volume, you'll have to go elsewhere.'
He runs his hand across his head, but takes care not to disturb the comb-over, which does not move. 'In other words: you don't think I'm very important? What about the woman and her dead child? They'll get more space, won't they?'
'Perhaps. I don't know yet, I've got my hands full with you. And my head,' I add, 'and my heart.' I place my hand on my chest. He smiles bashfully and looks at the floor.
'That's almost more than I had hoped for,' he says, 'that I can truly move another person. You. It's a wonderful feeling!'
Again I have to smile.
'But I'm not funny,' he warns me. 'Don't add humour to this story, it wouldn't work.'
'I don't have a sense of humour,' I confess, 'so you have nothing to fear. I'm looking for depth and drama.'
'Drama? That sounds disconcerting. Why do you have to have so much of that?'
'Drama makes the blood run faster through your veins. When the story reaches its peak that's when I feel most alive. You could do with a shot of adrenaline, you know, it's a fantastic high and totally addictive.'
'I think I'll stick with sherry,' he replies and smiles. 'There's something else. Where did you find the girl?'
'On Bragernes Square. There were several of them, all I had to do was choose one. And the one I picked stood out. She was so skinny and pale and translucent that she appeared to be almost ethereal. Did you notice her eyes? They're like ice. Her hair is like cotton grass. Her skeleton as fragile as a bird's. I felt I could snap her in half with one hand like a twig. I was taken with her frailty. She reminds me of Royal Copenhagen china.'
'That was beautifully put,' Alvar says.
'Thank you, I do try.'
'But she should be wearing something else on her feet for this time of year. Did you see her ankle boots? I've never seen such high heels, she could barely walk in them. And those boots aren't terrible warm either, did you know that? I'm sure they're synthetic, only plastic. What do you think?'
'Mm. They're plastic.'
'I mean, they must be very uncomfortable, on top of everything else. For example, she can't run in such boots, should she have
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