Elnaz tried to reassure her. “Maybe he got the time wrong, in which case we’ll wait for him in Hamburg.”
Before starting this project, Bente should have made absolutely certain that it wasn’t a mistake. Didrik seemed to be the kind of person who was completely on top of departure times, who had all the details of the trip printed out and safely tucked into one of those plastic folders that looked like an envelope, but had a little button so that there was no danger of anything falling out. The folder would be carried in a practical rucksack or a briefcase with a shoulder strap. Now she wasn’t so certain about any of that.
She was about to sink back into her seat when she saw him, running along wearing a woolen coat and carrying a leather duffel bag over his shoulder.
“There he is!” she exclaimed.
He jumped on the train a second before the doors closed.
Elnaz sighed and rolled her eyes. After a few minutes, as the train left the central station, he arrived in their carriage, making his way along the aisle, every head turning toward him as the passengers realized who he was. Before he reached Bente and Elnaz, he was intercepted by a woman requesting a selfie; needless to say, he obliged with a smile.
“Sorry I’m so late, but I ... I had to post a letter. It was impossible to find a mailbox.”
“There’s one at the entrance to the City terminal, and Vasagatan,” Bente informed him tersely.
“What?”
“In fact, there are lots of mailboxes at the central station—surely you must know that?”
Didrik appeared taken aback. “Well yes, now you come to mention it ...”
She had seen right through him. Why lie about something like that? Maybe he was simply unreliable, an airhead who was too fond of his drink, in spite of everything—and who always got away with it?
Once they had passed the city of Mjölby, Bente and Didrik went to buy lunch while Elnaz took a phone call. The dining car was relatively quiet, so Bente seized the opportunity to speak to Didrik privately. She took a deep breath.
“I can’t work like this. I just want to make that clear from the start.”
Didrik looked inquiringly at her as he chose a Caesar salad from the shelf in front of them.
“You hesitated before you said yes to the show, and ever since then you’ve been bad at answering emails and ... and it feels as if you’re not completely on board.” He was the star—was it dumb of her to speak to him like this? But she had to clear the air. “And you almost missed the train. I have to know if you’re committed to this project. If you’re not, you need to say so right now. You didn’t have to come on this trip, you could just appear in front of the camera later.”
“I was late, that’s all. Like I said, I had to post a letter.”
“I know a white lie when I hear one.”
He remained silent for a moment, and then he looked at her, his expression serious. “I really do apologize for being late and worryingyou and Elnaz, but I’m here now, aren’t I? And Idowant to be on this trip.”
Bente nodded. He was already a bigger part of the project than she was, despite the fact that she had spent several days preparing the trip and planning the show. She had to give him a chance. She had no choice. She was going to have to let go of her resentment.
They changed trains in Copenhagen. When Bente and Elnaz ordered wine with their meal, Didrik went for mineral water. Bente relaxed a little; it seemed that alcohol wasn’t his problem. It must be something else.
Next they caught the sleeper train in Hamburg. She and Didrik worked until late, and got along very well now that they’d said what had to be said. Listening to him talking about history was captivating—he came alive as he related anecdotes and described exciting events that they could incorporate into the production. It was obvious that he was capable of raising the show to another level with his knowledge of history. The passion he felt for his subject was clear.
Bente could see now what others saw in him.
11
The production company had booked a small boutique hotel in the heart of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, a stone’s throw from Notre-Dame. Didrik’s room wasn’t especially large, but it had an enormous bed, and the first thing he did was sprawl across it. The decor was sober, with gray-beige walls—or greige, wasn’t that what they called it? There was a high headboard in dark wood, a small desk in the same kind of wood, and a chair upholstered in black-and-white-striped fabric. The only pop of color was the soft bedspread made of emerald-green velvet, which lay folded at the foot of the bed.
Getting away from home and establishing a physical distance from Lovisa and the house they had shared was a relief; he felt as if he could think again. He’d enjoyed working on the train, as he and Bente had shared their knowledge of history and wine, and he had managed to suppress his thoughts about everything else.
Only a couple of days earlier he had signed the divorce papers and mailed them. Then, on the morning that Didrik was getting ready to set off for the station, Lovisa had contacted him, wondering if he was at home. He was, he replied. However, he was determined not to let her message distract him.
He had checked the plastic folder containing all the printed-out travel documents—the folder that had always irritated Lovisa, even though she claimed to love his meticulous approach. Not that he gave much credence to such assertions now. She had cheated on him,and—what was worse—it had been going on while they were still living together. He felt so betrayed. To think that he had imagined she loved him, when in fact she’d been sneaking around behind his back. Worse, she had destroyed their life together, all his dreams; she had simply trampled on everything as if it were worth nothing.
Another text message had arrived.
On the way to you now. Need to talk. About something important.
