Chapter 15
I know you had to leave the other day, but I really need to talk to you. Have you got time for a phone call?
The message woke Didrik the following morning. Lovisa had sent something similar the night before, making it three messages in total. She was obviously keen to talk to him. God, was she dying?
He put down the phone, pulled the soft, thick coverlet up to his shoulders, and closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about Lovisa and whatever she had to say.
Instead he thought about the evening. It had been fantastic—up to a point.
He and Bente had had an interesting and rewarding conversation. He had been curious about her, and she had listened to him. He realized that he had felt listened to for the first time in . . . months.
After a while, he got up and went for a run beside the Seine to clear the wine from his body, and while he ran he thought more about the evening’s conversation.
About Bente. About those green eyes that almost always sparkled, and about how she had shown her Paris to him and Elnaz with such enthusiasm.
He had meant it when he said that she was unexpected and interesting.
His first impression had been that she was a determined person, perhaps a little cold.
But in fact they had discussed things that meant something.
Bente had shared her thoughts and feelings.
Most of all, she had allowed him to talk about his failed marriage.
There had been something there, hadn’t there? Until he sabotaged it all by marching into her territory. Shit. He stopped to catch his breath, then stretched and gazed out across the river. An early tourist boat glided slowly by as the water sparkled in the morning sun.
What must Bente think of him after he had behaved with such a lack of concern? That he was an arrogant TV star who was used to getting his own way? Didrik set off again.
He vowed that he would think before he acted in the future. He didn’t want Bente to feel as if he had walked all over her. He knew how much she cared about this show.
Bente sat in the hotel’s inner courtyard wearing a dark-blue dress and low-heeled black shoes, her auburn hair loose. Le Monde lay open in front of her, next to a cup of coffee and a croissant.
Didrik went over to her table and said a cheery “Good morning!”
She smiled—not coldly, but with a certain reserve. “Morning.”
Elnaz emerged from the restaurant carrying a tray laden with bread, orange juice, and a large café au lait.
When Bente didn’t say anything else, Didrik turned and went in to the generous breakfast buffet.
He loaded up his tray with a fresh-baked baguette with salad and thick slices of rustic French cheese, a large café au lait, and freshly squeezed orange juice.
He could eat breakfasts like this for the rest of his life.
Back in the courtyard, he sat down on the white cast-iron bench by the wall, where lush green ivy scrambled up the white-rendered facade.
Bente was laughing at something Elnaz had said.
“There’s been a slight change to today’s schedule,” Bente informed him.
At last, Didrik thought. She seemed ready to get back to work, and ready to talk to him again; now maybe they could leave the awkwardness behind them and move on.
“Frederic contacted me,” she continued. “Apparently he has some information that might be useful, and he wondered if I had time to see him so he can tell me more.” Those green eyes sparkled. “I thought I’d meet him for lunch, so could we maybe postpone the visit to the museum?”
Didrik nodded. “No problem.” I thought I’d meet him for lunch, she’d said. Clearly she intended to go alone. “Or I could go to the museum by myself.”
“Why would you do that?”
“Just to stick to the schedule.” He took a bite of his baguette, which was perfectly crusty. “If I find anything helpful at the museum, we could go back tomorrow?”
It annoyed him that she wanted to change their plans for the sake of that unreliable guy.
Elnaz nodded. “Sounds good. We really need a breakthrough—we have no time to lose.”
Bente shrugged and turned her attention back to the newspaper.
After breakfast they headed off to the morning’s first meeting, with a historian specializing in the history of French wine.
The woman explained how the winemakers had lived during the occupation, about the challenges they’d faced, and the pride they’d felt as they continued to do their utmost to produce their beloved wine: both because they needed to bring in money and because making wine was a part of the cultural heritage of France, and such a large part of their personal lives.
They showed her the bottle and the box, and Didrik asked specifically about the little space in the latter. The historian told them that many winemakers had worked with the resistance movement. She added that some of those were collaborators who also worked with the Nazis and the French police.
Afterward they went for coffee at a small café just off Place de la Madeleine.
Elnaz, who seemed unaware of the tension between Didrik and Bente, was on the lookout for filming locations they could use with the production team later.
“I think we’ve found some good places,” she told them now, “like that sweet little museum. And it would be great if the two of you talked to the historian, if she wants to be on the show. And your friend Frederic—you could chat to him in a wine cellar, for example.”
Elnaz beamed at them, clearly hoping for an enthusiastic response.
“And I love the idea of us filming with our own camera sometimes—it feels really authentic. Like a nicer version of The Blair Witch Project. With wine.” She laughed, then sighed.
“But we need more material than we’ve got if we’re going to have enough for a series. ”
Bente nodded as she jotted things down in her red notebook. “I agree—we don’t know much at all.” She sounded resigned. “It’s going to be difficult to build a show on the fact that a bottle at the bottom of the sea had a Swedish inscription and was apparently on the way to an address in Vetlanda.”
“Where a man was born who later joined the Foreign Legion,” Didrik added.
“Yes, but we don’t know for sure that it was this Sven who sent the bottle.
We need more. Something at least. Where was the bottle from?
Which vineyard? From what we’ve heard from the people we’ve met so far, that all seems almost impossible to track down.
Of course we may find out more about this Sven, but even if we do, it still feels a bit . . . sparse.”
Didrik sensed a certain desperation in Bente’s voice and did his best to sound encouraging.
“Maybe Frederic will have information that will take us another step forward. Plus I’m meeting that military historian.
She might be able to point us in the direction of some good reading material if she doesn’t have any concrete details. ”
Bente gave a brief nod.
When they parted company, Didrik walked to the military museum.
He was met there by an elegant woman in her early fifties, wearing pants and a shirt, her hair in a neat chignon.
She greeted him with a firm handshake. As they walked around, she told him about all the exhibits—books, uniforms, old weapons—and talked about the development of the Foreign Legion throughout history, and its role during the Second World War.
She hadn’t heard of a Swedish legionnaire who ended up in Bordeaux during the occupation, but she gave Didrik an important tip: A legionnaire in occupied France probably would have traveled under a different identity, and might even have claimed to be of a different nationality.
She recommended a diary written by a priest who had been active within the resistance movement in Bordeaux—he might have mentioned Sven.
She pointed Didrik in the direction of one or two antiquarian booksellers in the city who might have a copy—apparently it was difficult to obtain.
When Didrik left the museum, he took a stroll in order to get some exercise and see a little more of Paris.
He hadn’t replied to Lovisa yet. He ought to just get it done.
Back in the hotel room, he called her right away, before he had time to change his mind. He sat down on the bed, and she answered after three rings.
“Thanks for calling.”
Didrik didn’t say anything.
“How are you? How’s Paris?” Her tone was hesitant.
“It’s great, but I’m mostly working. What did you want to talk about?”
“I wanted to tell you before you found out from someone else.” Her voice was trembling now. “Niklas and I, we . . .”
Niklas. It hadn’t even occurred to Didrik that her new partner had a name.
“We’re expecting a baby.”
“Expecting a baby? What, so you’re . . . pregnant?”
“Yes.”
Didrik took a deep breath. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Like I said, I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.”
“Someone else? I’m in Paris, I don’t know a soul here. Why couldn’t it wait until I got home?”
She was silent for a few seconds. “Because I’m showing . . .”
What had she said? She was already showing? She couldn’t be that far gone, they’d only just split up. What the hell? That must mean . . .
With a sigh of despair, he ended the call and flopped back on the bed.