hours’ time.’
‘Fine. Where are you?’
‘You’ll find out, all in good time.’
‘Sleep tight,’ Kravtjov said with a chuckle.
Vuk hung the ‘ Nicht Stören ’ sign on the door and locked it. No one knew where he was, but he called reception anyway, from the bedside, and said he did not wish to be disturbed. His teeth needed brushing, but he lay down just for a moment and promptly fell fast asleep.
Chapter 7
L ooking back on the last few days, Lise Carlsen could well understand why she was tired. What she found harder to comprehend was why she should be so strangely exhilarated. She couldn’t explain how she felt. And she had given up trying to talk to Ole about it. She didn’t know what was the matter with him. He came home late every evening, reeking of booze and the pub, then he would take a beer from the fridge or a bottle from the wine rack and just sit there drinking. She’d been avoiding him; she didn’t like the thought of him touching her. She knew it was wrong, but she couldn’t help it: if he tried to give her a cuddle, if his hand so much as brushed hers at the dinner table she instinctively shrank away. Nonetheless, she endeavoured to keep up the pretence, kissing him hello and goodbye. She hated herself for it, detecting as she did an incipient repugnance inside herself to which she did not dare give full rein.
The nights were still hot. And she dreamed of Per Toftlund. Weird, never-ending dreams. In one of these he was riding a motorbike, in another hauling a net out of an ocean. The net was full of silvery fish with little monkey faces, and the muscles of his tanned back bulged as he pulled in the fine-meshed, green net. The fish flopped and floundered, their scales glinting like silver coins in the pale, gold light. On the horizon was a reef beset by masses of birds. They were yellow and big as gulls. She wanted to warn Per, because she was afraid that the yellow birds would eat the dancing silver fish. But she couldn’t make him hear her.
She woke up bathed in sweat. Ole was asleep beside her. He stank of tobacco and alcohol. Lise got up. She was naked, and she shivered in the cool night air. She pulled on her dressing gown, padded through to the kitchen and got herself a glass of milk. It was a few minutes to four. Soon the first lightwould appear as a bright band on the horizon. She was tired and yet wide-awake : a clear sign of stress. She ought to know that.
Maybe it was because things had been so hectic, after the announcement on the evening news of Sara Santanda’s visit to Denmark.
Tagesen had been furious. Although she wasn’t sure whether he was mad because the word had got out, thus increasing the threat to Sara’s life, or because Danmarks Radio, and not Politiken , had been first with the news. She had been given something approaching a bawling out. As if it were her fault. When it was so obvious that the information had been leaked from Christiansborg. Toftlund wanted the visit cancelled or postponed indefinitely, but neither Lise or Tagesen would agree to that. Nor, thank goodness, would Sara Santanda. She remained adamant. She was a brave woman. They might be able to put the visit off for a couple of weeks. Most news stories were soon forgotten, although this one had, of course, made the headlines in all the papers. Lise herself had reported on it for her own paper and written a portrait of the writer. She had also been interviewed on the radio and on both national TV channels. She had appeared on talk shows morning, noon and night: Fax, Stax, Pax – whatever they were called, all those radio programmes. A record and then a chat about some weighty issue. Ole hated that sort of thing. In fact, he loathed all electronic media, so more often than not she watched the television news on her own. All things considered, she might as well have been living alone: they no longer seemed to have anything in common. They couldn’t even be bothered arguing about things
‘Fine. Where are you?’
‘You’ll find out, all in good time.’
‘Sleep tight,’ Kravtjov said with a chuckle.
Vuk hung the ‘ Nicht Stören ’ sign on the door and locked it. No one knew where he was, but he called reception anyway, from the bedside, and said he did not wish to be disturbed. His teeth needed brushing, but he lay down just for a moment and promptly fell fast asleep.
Chapter 7
L ooking back on the last few days, Lise Carlsen could well understand why she was tired. What she found harder to comprehend was why she should be so strangely exhilarated. She couldn’t explain how she felt. And she had given up trying to talk to Ole about it. She didn’t know what was the matter with him. He came home late every evening, reeking of booze and the pub, then he would take a beer from the fridge or a bottle from the wine rack and just sit there drinking. She’d been avoiding him; she didn’t like the thought of him touching her. She knew it was wrong, but she couldn’t help it: if he tried to give her a cuddle, if his hand so much as brushed hers at the dinner table she instinctively shrank away. Nonetheless, she endeavoured to keep up the pretence, kissing him hello and goodbye. She hated herself for it, detecting as she did an incipient repugnance inside herself to which she did not dare give full rein.
The nights were still hot. And she dreamed of Per Toftlund. Weird, never-ending dreams. In one of these he was riding a motorbike, in another hauling a net out of an ocean. The net was full of silvery fish with little monkey faces, and the muscles of his tanned back bulged as he pulled in the fine-meshed, green net. The fish flopped and floundered, their scales glinting like silver coins in the pale, gold light. On the horizon was a reef beset by masses of birds. They were yellow and big as gulls. She wanted to warn Per, because she was afraid that the yellow birds would eat the dancing silver fish. But she couldn’t make him hear her.
She woke up bathed in sweat. Ole was asleep beside her. He stank of tobacco and alcohol. Lise got up. She was naked, and she shivered in the cool night air. She pulled on her dressing gown, padded through to the kitchen and got herself a glass of milk. It was a few minutes to four. Soon the first lightwould appear as a bright band on the horizon. She was tired and yet wide-awake : a clear sign of stress. She ought to know that.
Maybe it was because things had been so hectic, after the announcement on the evening news of Sara Santanda’s visit to Denmark.
Tagesen had been furious. Although she wasn’t sure whether he was mad because the word had got out, thus increasing the threat to Sara’s life, or because Danmarks Radio, and not Politiken , had been first with the news. She had been given something approaching a bawling out. As if it were her fault. When it was so obvious that the information had been leaked from Christiansborg. Toftlund wanted the visit cancelled or postponed indefinitely, but neither Lise or Tagesen would agree to that. Nor, thank goodness, would Sara Santanda. She remained adamant. She was a brave woman. They might be able to put the visit off for a couple of weeks. Most news stories were soon forgotten, although this one had, of course, made the headlines in all the papers. Lise herself had reported on it for her own paper and written a portrait of the writer. She had also been interviewed on the radio and on both national TV channels. She had appeared on talk shows morning, noon and night: Fax, Stax, Pax – whatever they were called, all those radio programmes. A record and then a chat about some weighty issue. Ole hated that sort of thing. In fact, he loathed all electronic media, so more often than not she watched the television news on her own. All things considered, she might as well have been living alone: they no longer seemed to have anything in common. They couldn’t even be bothered arguing about things
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