Lime's Photograph by Leif Davidsen

dizziness made the room swim momentarily. A few lines from an old poem by Sten Kaalø drifted into my mind.
    And here in the kitchen in Skåne with the radio on the blue wax cloth
    the sun has just risen above the hilltops
    and a little dizzy from the first morning cigarette
    I sit enthralled and listen
    Years ago a local eccentric called Sigvaldi had sold copies of the poem from a pram he pushed around Copenhagen. I had been fascinated by poetry when I was young. Perhaps I had wanted to be a poet. This memory appeared out of the blue, as if I was losing my mind and could picture the past quite clearly, while the present remained enveloped in a fog. My detachment baffled them. They read it as anxiety, which probably wasn’t so wide of the mark.
    “Calvo Carillo,” the man by the wall introduced himself. “My colleague is Santiago Sotello. There’s no reason to be afraid. How about talking business, Pedro? Surely this can be sorted out in a civilised fashion. We are, after all, mature and experienced men. We’re used to making our way in the world and leaving rash behaviour to the young. That being the privilege of youth.”
    I smoked and didn’t say anything, just watched his strange doll-like eyes. Eyes like Maria Luisa’s teddy bear. Stuck on with a blob of glue.
    “This could take a serious turn,” Carillo continued.
    “You haven’t got a case,” I said.
    “Serious in the sense that we can make life uncomfortable for you. Maybe you’ll be out in a couple of days. But then you’ll be back in again. The terrorist angle is flimsy, but every time there’s a killing we’ll haul you in for questioning. The assault charge is maybe a bit slim too, but the state has large resources at its disposal, and should we so wish we can find the witnesses to your brutal attack on a man in the service of the King. We would have to lock you up again, for further interrogation. For an identification parade. Do you get my drift?”
    I nodded. I knew he was right. They could give me a really hard time. As if reading my thoughts, he continued with the list of harassments available to a modern, civilised and strong state when dealing with its citizens, or perhaps more specifically those people who are not its citizens.
    He took a step forward.
    “You are a foreigner in our country, but a foreigner who has learnt our language, understands our culture and I believe I can say has a certain love of the life here, right? It can be difficult to get a residence permit extended. At least, the process can take a long time and in the meantime we would have to withdraw your work permit. Wouldn’t we? Then there are the tax authorities. They can be exacting too, and they can also be very slow. They can ask for all manner of documentation, receipts, accounts. Insist on meetings, auditing checks, search warrants; delve into the past, contact business associates, demand payments, impose fines, embark on drawn-out court cases. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
    “And the church could always excommunicate me, I suppose?” I said.
    Carillo smiled. The heavy glowered. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and rapped his thigh slowly and rhythmically with the baton that must have been there all the while, and which he now indicatedcould be put to use if I didn’t listen to reason. A thick, vicious-looking cosh which he had obviously made himself. A solid rubber tube undoubtedly stuffed with lead and iron. These men were about as subtle as bulldozers. They were evidently in a hurry.
    “No. There’s not really much the church can do, but the investigation could of course involve family and friends,” he said, without a trace of irony.
    “Keep my wife out of this,” I said.
    “When the wheels start turning, then the wheels start turning.”
    “But they can be stopped?”
    “They can.”
    “How can I be sure they won’t start turning again?” I asked.
    He looked at me, relieved. Now we had a negotiation under way. He was a