Frank Johansson is waiting for the shot that will change his life.
He’s sitting in an elm tree, six meters above the ground. He’s wrapped two layers of foam around the branch so he won’t get rubbed raw. Since the start of his surveillance two days ago he has downed fifteen liters of water. His back is incredibly sore.
It is summer. Full-blown Swedish summer. The sun is shining through the leaves and perspiration is pouring down his body. Nothing stirs except the wings of fate. This is his last chance. The photograph or the abyss. Or the collection agency, at the very least. One million.
The Shot will give him one million, give or take. He has made the calculations, has investigated his options. The Sun alone is willing to cough up fifty thousand pounds for the rights. Then there are the trickles of royalties from other sources down the road.
One million solves all his problems.
1/250th of a second is all he needs. The shutter opens, exposes the film for the Shot, closes again, retains it in the darkness of the camera’s chamber and Frank is a rich man.
The palms of his hands are soaked. He dries them on his pants and grabs the camera with both hands, turning the lens toward the pool and focusing on the same scene he’s been staring at for two days:
The blue surface of the water. Two wooden deck chairs under a large white umbrella, a table between them. A book on the table. With his three-hundred-millimeter lens he can zoom in so close that he can read the title of the book: Lord of the Flies.
The water is like a mirror. Nothing stirs.
It’s enough to make anyone crazy.
Frank zooms out, letting the pool fill his line of vision. A cloud drifts across the sky, giving the water a darker hue. His head is boiling. If only he could slip into that water, let it envelop and cool him.
He takes a sip from his sun-warmed water bottle.
One million .
Someone has been here. Someone has been sitting in that deck chair, read Lord of the Flies and set it down. Amanda. It has to be Amanda. Roberto—can he even read?
All they have to do is come out that door—Frank follows their path with his finger—walk up to the edge of the pool and…kiss. A kiss, a simple little kiss and click: Frank is saved.
But they don’t come, they don’t want to save Frank, and he hates them. When the sweat stings his eyes and his back is aches and boredom nibbles at his soul, he occupies himself with dreaming and hating.
Wouldn’t you?
Someone can save you with a kiss, but refuses. Maybe that is all that Judas wanted: a kiss. When he didn’t get it, he answered in kind. Thirty pieces of silver—what were those to him? He had given his answer. Then he went and hanged himself.
Frank stares at a thick branch above his head and a little to the side. He imagines a rope and feels his own fall, the sound when his neck snaps— chapack —the connection between body and soul is severed and one is free as a little blue bird in a night without end.
The surface of the water is blue, blue before his feet and his thoughts get lost. Minutes go by, hours. A mosquito lands on his lower arm and he watches with interest as it sucks his blood. Paparazzi. Apparently Fellini invented the name to sound like an irritating mosquito. Paparazzi, paparazzi.
When the insect withdraws its proboscis and—stuffed—makes its preparations for launch, Frank kills it. It becomes a smeared stain on his skin. He moves his arm up to his eyes and studies its remains. Black spider-web legs are stuck in the red blood, like a calligraphic sign.
The sun drags itself across the sky, alters the reflections in the pool, dazzling him. He holds a hand in front of his eyes and moves a little. He hears a crack. A club bangs into the small of his back and pain shoots up from his tailbone, exploding in his head. He lets out a scream, is on the verge of pitching forward but manages to grab the branch overhead.
The camera glides out of his lap, jerks on the old neck strap that
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