“I thought you were the type who drank quite a bit.”
He gave her a questioning look.
“When I came to your office that day, I got the impression you’d put away half a bottle.”
“Right. Yes. I tried the same thing then as now. Isn’t that what brooding, distinguished men do when they’re trying to numb their feelings?”
“It’s very Don Draper.” Bente picked up her glass and knocked it back in two gulps. “I think I needed that. So how are you? Why do you need to numb your feelings?”
“My wife—sorry, ex-wife—is pregnant by her new boyfriend.”
“Fuck.”
He nodded. Sipped his drink and pulled a face. He didn’t seem to like the taste. “So what did Fredrik have to say?”
She gave a half smile. “Fredericdidn’t really have any more information. The meeting was probably just ...”
“An excuse to see you?”
She nodded.
“I thought so.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I know his type.”
“So how did your meeting with the military historian go?”
“It was helpful. She pointed me in the direction of some useful reference material, and made me realize that we might be taking the wrong approach in our search for Sven.”
“How so?”
“If he sent the bottle, and he was in Bordeaux during the occupation, he was probably using a different identity, and possibly a different nationality.”
“Why?”
“My best guess is he was working for the resistance.”
Bente sighed. “That makes it even more hopeless—we don’t even knowwhowe’re looking for.”
Didrik stared blankly into space. “Exactly.”
Bente buried her head in her hands. “I just don’t see how we’re going to make any progress.”
Didrik said nothing. She had hoped for words of encouragement, but he seemed incapable of stepping up, and she could understand why. He was now watching as the bartender inserted a corkscrew into a bottle and opened it with a loud plop. Didrik’s hair was tousled, his glasses lay on the bar, and his shirt was partly unbuttoned. He had a very attractive three-day stubble that made the manly contours of his face appear even more pronounced. He took a sip of whiskey and grimaced again, but looked like maybe it didn’t taste quite so bad this time. Being off his game really suited him. This was something very different from the neat tweed jackets and the perfect bow ties, a look that was reinforced by his round glasses.
He dragged his attention away from the bartender. “Listen, that business yesterday evening. I’m sorry I took liberties with the show. I should have checked with you first.”
Bente nodded. “It’s fine.” She knew she had overreacted, but she didn’t want him to see that his involvement in the show bothered her; she didn’t want to come across as anxious. “So far the show has existed only in my head, so it’s kind of hard to relinquish control. But I guess I have to, sooner or later.”
“You do. And you’ve come up with a fantastic idea. I’ll do my very best to make the show as good as possible.” He was smiling now.
“I don’t doubt that for a second.”
He adjusted his wristwatch with a slightly clumsy movement, then ran his fingers through his already messy hair. The gesture gave him the look of a cute high school guy with a guitar. Bente had loved guys with guitars when she was in high school. She felt warm inside. What was it she actually found attractive? The way everyone’s darling Didrik was off-kilter—was she seeing something more genuine there?
“Okay,” he said after a while, putting on his glasses. “Shall we tackle the rest of the day? We have a few more meetings.”
