The Sandman

The padded seat feels oddly soft beneath the thin soles of his shoes.

Muted laughter and cries can be heard from the party below and for a few moments Reidar closes his eyes and thinks of the children, their little faces, wonderful faces, their shoulders and thin arms.

He can hear their high-pitched voices and quick feet running across the floor whenever he listens – the memory is like a summer breeze in his soul, leaving him cold and desolate again.

Happy birthday, Mikael, he thinks.

His hands are shaking so much that he can’t tie a noose. He stands still, tries to breathe more calmly, then starts again, just as he hears a knock on one of the doors.

He waits a few seconds, then lets go of the rope, climbs down onto the floor and picks up his jacket.

‘Reidar?’ a woman’s voice calls softly.

It’s Veronica, she must have been peeking while she was counting and saw him disappear into the passageway. She’s opening the doors to the various rooms and her voice gets clearer the closer she comes.

Reidar turns the lights off and leaves the nursery, opening the door to the next room and stopping there.

Veronica comes towards him with a glass of champagne in her hand. There is a warm glow in her dark, intoxicated eyes.

She’s tall and thin, and has had her black hair cut in a boyish style that suits her.

‘Did I say I wanted to sleep with you?’ he asks.

She spins round slightly unsteadily.

‘Funny,’ she says with a sad look in her eyes.

Veronica Klimt is Reidar’s literary agent. He may not have written a word in the past thirteen years, but the three books he wrote before that are still generating an income.

Now they can hear music from the dining room below, the rapid bass-line transmitting itself through the fabric of the building. Reidar stops at the sofa and runs his hand through his silvery hair.

‘You’re saving some champagne for me, I hope?’ he asks, sitting down on the sofa.

‘No,’ Veronica says, passing him her half-full glass.

‘Your husband called me,’ Reidar says. ‘He thinks it’s time for you to go home.’

‘I don’t want to, I want to get divorced and—’

‘You mustn’t,’ he interrupts.

‘Why do you say things like that?’

‘Because I don’t want you to think I care about you,’ he replies.

‘I don’t.’

He empties the glass, then puts it down on the sofa, closes his eyes and feels the giddiness of being drunk.

‘You looked sad, and I got a bit worried.’

‘I’ve never felt better.’

There’s laughter now, and the club music is turned up until the vibrations can be felt through the floor.

‘Your guests are probably starting to wonder where you are.’

‘Then let’s go and turn the place upside down,’ he says with a smile.

For the past seven years Reidar has made sure he has people around him almost twenty-four hours a day. He has a vast circle of acquaintances. Sometimes he holds big parties out at the house, sometimes more intimate dinners. On certain days, like the children’s birthdays, it’s very hard indeed to go on living. He knows that without people around him he would soon succumb to the loneliness and silence.

9 (#ulink_1a8b0d33-6b1b-5928-b0b9-ae67f972759d)

Reidar and Veronica open the doors to the dining room and the throbbing music hits them in the chest. There’s a crowd of people dancing round the table in the darkness. Some of them are still eating the saddle of venison and roasted vegetables.

The actor Wille Strandberg has unbuttoned his shirt. It’s impossible to hear what he’s saying as he dances his way through the crowd towards Reidar and Veronica.

‘Take it off!’ Veronica cries.

Wille laughs and pulls off his shirt, throws it at her and dances in front of her with his hands behind his neck. His bulging, middle-aged stomach bounces in time to his quick movements.

Reidar empties another glass of wine, then dances up to Wille with his hips rolling.

The music goes into a quieter, gentler phase and Reidar’s old publisher David Sylwan takes hold of his arm and gasps something, his face sweaty and happy.

‘What?’

‘There’s been no contest today,’ David repeats.

‘Stud poker?’ Reidar asks. ‘Shooting, wrestling …’

‘Shooting!’ several people cry.

‘Get the pistol and a few bottles of champagne,’ Reidar says with a smile.

The thudding beat returns, drowning out any further conversation. Reidar gets an oil painting down from the wall and carries it out through the door. It’s a portrait of him, painted by Peter Dahl.

‘I like that picture,’ Veronica says, trying to stop him.

Reidar shakes her hand from his arm and carries on towards the hall. Almost all of the guests follow him outside into the ice-cold park. Fresh snow has settled smoothly on the ground. There are still flakes swirling round beneath the dark sky.

Reidar strides through the snow and hangs the portrait on an apple tree, its branches laden with snow. Wille Strandberg follows, carrying a flare he found in a box in the cleaning cupboard. He tears the plastic cover off, then pulls the string. There’s a pop and the flare starts to burn, giving off an intense light. Laughing, he stumbles over and puts the flare in the snow beneath the tree. The white light makes the trunk and naked branches glow.

Now they can all see the painting of Reidar holding a silvery pen in his hand.

Berzelius, a translator, has brought three bottles of champagne, and David Sylwan holds up Reidar’s old Colt with a grin.

‘This isn’t funny,’ Veronica says in a serious voice.