up to the flat his chest was tight and the right side of his diaphragm ached badly. After a few minutes, his breathing was more regular again. He took out his police ID and knocked at the door.
The man opened it at once. He said:
‘Police? I’m teetotal, have been for years.’
‘Inspector Jensen from the Sixteenth District. I’m conducting an investigation that has to do with your former employment and place of work.’
‘Yes?’
‘A few questions.’
The man shrugged. He was well dressed, and had a thin face and a resigned look in his eyes.
‘Come in,’ he said.
The flat was of the standard type, as were the furnishings. There was a shelf with about ten books on it, and on the table were a cup of coffee, some bread, butter and cheese and a magazine.
‘Please have a seat.’
Jensen looked about him. The flat resembled his own in all the essentials. He sat down and got out his pen and notepad.
‘When did you cease your employment?’
‘Last December, just before Christmas.’
‘You handed in your notice?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had you worked for the group for long?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you leave?’
The man drank some of his coffee. Then he looked at the ceiling.
‘It’s a long story. I scarcely think it can be of any interest to you.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘Okay, I’m not hiding anything, but it’s a bit hard to explain how it all happened.’
‘Try.’
‘To start with, the statement that I left of my own volition is a modification of the truth.’
‘Explain.’
‘It would take days, and you still might not understand. I can only give you a summary of the actual chain of events.’
He paused.
‘But first I want to know why. Am I suspected of anything?’
‘Yes.’
‘You won’t say what, I take it?’
‘No.’
The man stood up and went over to the window.
‘I came here when all these flats were newly built,’ he said. ‘It’s not that long ago. Just after that I was taken on by the group, more or less by unhappy accident.’
‘Unhappy accident?’
‘I worked for another paper before; I don’t suppose you remember it. It was run by the socialist party and the trade union movement, and it was the last weekly of any size left in the country that was independent of the group. It had certain ambitions, not least in the cultural sphere, though the climate on that front was getting difficult even then.’
‘Cultural ambitions?’
‘Yes, it made the case for good art and poetry, printed shortliterary fiction and so on. I’m no expert on that side of things; I was a reporter, dealing with social and political issues.’
‘Were you a socialist?’
‘I was a radical. In fact, I was on the extreme left wing of the socialist party, though I didn’t realise it myself.’
‘What happened?’
‘The paper wasn’t doing spectacularly. It didn’t make much profit, but it didn’t make a loss either. A fair number of people read it and depended on it. It was the only real counterweight to the group’s papers, and it opposed the group and the publishing house and criticised them, sometimes actively, and sometimes by its mere existence.’
‘How?’
‘Through polemic, leaders, open criticism. By dealing with various issues honestly. That lot in the Skyscraper hated it of course, and hit back in their own way.’
‘How?’
‘By publishing more, and ever more trivial, comics and story magazines; by exploiting people’s general tendency.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘To like looking at pictures better than reading, and if they read anything at all to prefer meaningless drivel to things that force them to think or make an effort or take a stance. That’s how it was even then, I’m afraid.’
He stayed at the window, his back to his visitor.
‘The phenomenon was known as intellectual laziness and was one of the temporary unhealthy consequences of the TV age, it was said.’
A jet plane roared over the house in the direction of an airport many
The man opened it at once. He said:
‘Police? I’m teetotal, have been for years.’
‘Inspector Jensen from the Sixteenth District. I’m conducting an investigation that has to do with your former employment and place of work.’
‘Yes?’
‘A few questions.’
The man shrugged. He was well dressed, and had a thin face and a resigned look in his eyes.
‘Come in,’ he said.
The flat was of the standard type, as were the furnishings. There was a shelf with about ten books on it, and on the table were a cup of coffee, some bread, butter and cheese and a magazine.
‘Please have a seat.’
Jensen looked about him. The flat resembled his own in all the essentials. He sat down and got out his pen and notepad.
‘When did you cease your employment?’
‘Last December, just before Christmas.’
‘You handed in your notice?’
‘Yes.’
‘Had you worked for the group for long?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you leave?’
The man drank some of his coffee. Then he looked at the ceiling.
‘It’s a long story. I scarcely think it can be of any interest to you.’
‘Why did you leave?’
‘Okay, I’m not hiding anything, but it’s a bit hard to explain how it all happened.’
‘Try.’
‘To start with, the statement that I left of my own volition is a modification of the truth.’
‘Explain.’
‘It would take days, and you still might not understand. I can only give you a summary of the actual chain of events.’
He paused.
‘But first I want to know why. Am I suspected of anything?’
‘Yes.’
‘You won’t say what, I take it?’
‘No.’
The man stood up and went over to the window.
‘I came here when all these flats were newly built,’ he said. ‘It’s not that long ago. Just after that I was taken on by the group, more or less by unhappy accident.’
‘Unhappy accident?’
‘I worked for another paper before; I don’t suppose you remember it. It was run by the socialist party and the trade union movement, and it was the last weekly of any size left in the country that was independent of the group. It had certain ambitions, not least in the cultural sphere, though the climate on that front was getting difficult even then.’
‘Cultural ambitions?’
‘Yes, it made the case for good art and poetry, printed shortliterary fiction and so on. I’m no expert on that side of things; I was a reporter, dealing with social and political issues.’
‘Were you a socialist?’
‘I was a radical. In fact, I was on the extreme left wing of the socialist party, though I didn’t realise it myself.’
‘What happened?’
‘The paper wasn’t doing spectacularly. It didn’t make much profit, but it didn’t make a loss either. A fair number of people read it and depended on it. It was the only real counterweight to the group’s papers, and it opposed the group and the publishing house and criticised them, sometimes actively, and sometimes by its mere existence.’
‘How?’
‘Through polemic, leaders, open criticism. By dealing with various issues honestly. That lot in the Skyscraper hated it of course, and hit back in their own way.’
‘How?’
‘By publishing more, and ever more trivial, comics and story magazines; by exploiting people’s general tendency.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘To like looking at pictures better than reading, and if they read anything at all to prefer meaningless drivel to things that force them to think or make an effort or take a stance. That’s how it was even then, I’m afraid.’
He stayed at the window, his back to his visitor.
‘The phenomenon was known as intellectual laziness and was one of the temporary unhealthy consequences of the TV age, it was said.’
A jet plane roared over the house in the direction of an airport many
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