Chapter 25
Elnaz arrived first, clutching a bunch of tulips. As Bente welcomed her in the hallway, the sound of cheerful voices came from the living room—so much for “staying in the background”—and Elnaz seemed to give a little start.
“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t get rid of my . . . family.” Bente gave a half smile and showed her guest into the apartment. The whole gang was standing there, at the ready. They stepped forward to say hello, one by one.
Elnaz shook Hanna’s hand for rather too long, while Bente’s sister gazed deep into her eyes.
Oh no, Bente thought, well aware of what that might mean. Hanna was not allowed to develop an interest in Elnaz, that would be a seriously bad idea. Bente knew her sister well, and she needed to keep her relationship with Elnaz and the production company on a professional footing.
The doorbell rang again and Bente went to answer it.
Didrik. It felt like forever since they had seen each other.
Now he was standing here, right in front of her, in his usual coat and with his hair slightly tousled, as if the spring breeze had ruffled it.
His gaze held hers, and for a little while they looked at each other in silence.
He smiled tentatively and her heart began to pound. She didn’t know what to say.
Didrik got there first. “Hi.”
She cleared her throat. “Hi! Come on in!” She made a vague sweeping movement with one hand, and he took a step toward her.
He surprised her by trying to give her a hug, but it turned into nothing more than an awkward pat on the back.
The brief touch was enough to make her body react. And his smell. Oh God. His smell.
Beneath his coat he was impeccably dressed as always—chinos, tweed jacket, a checked shirt in the same dark-blue shade as his chinos, matching tie.
He hung up his coat and handed over a flat package wrapped in shiny pale-gray paper.
“Thank you. Is this from . . . ?”
“From me. Just something small I thought you might like.”
She clumsily unwrapped the gift as if it were made of glass. Inside was a small watercolor. Tall trunks topped by fluffy treetops against a perfect sky, painted in matte pastel shades. Below the trees were the long boules courts where several men and women were playing—the Jardin du Luxembourg.
“I know you were thinking of buying a painting, and I found this one just before we were due to leave.”
“Thank you. It’s . . . it’s perfect.” She held it in front of her with both hands.
“I thought about you when I saw it, and—” He broke off.
Bente sensed that someone was watching them, and turned to see her mother standing by the kitchen island with sadness in her eyes. Dad. He’d brought home pictures from every trip. She found a vase and arranged the tulips Elnaz had brought.
Don arrived a couple of minutes later, and Bente took out the chilled bottles of wine and the large Chardonnay glasses—particularly well suited for oaked Chardonnay.
“To go with the appetizer, a Chardonnay from Burgundy.” She served them the buttery wine, perhaps not a common choice to accompany an appetizer, but she loved it. It was a little more robust, a little softer, and ideal for stimulating the appetite.
“I don’t drink Chardonnay, haven’t you got any Chablis?” Agneta asked, as she always did.
Bente rolled her eyes. “For the millionth time, Chablis is Chardonnay, it’s made entirely from Chardonnay grapes.”
Didrik gave her a meaningful look and Bente smiled.
“Well, I don’t drink that pretentious Chardonnay then.” Agneta sighed. “That’s because when I was in jail, one of the guards smuggled in wine for New Year’s Eve so we could have some fun. And it was sickly Chardonnay—I haven’t been able to touch it since.”
“You can’t compare this wine with something you were offered decades years ago. It’s excellent.” If they’d been alone, Bente would have pointed out how much it cost.
“You were in jail?” Don’s curiosity had been aroused.
“Yep. Serious tax evasion. Three years.”
“Wow.”
Bente looked wearily at her mother. “There’s Champagne if you prefer. It’s to go with the starter, but I can open it now.”
Uno had been silent so far, but suddenly his face crumpled and he let out a sob. “Mirja loved Champagne.”
Lydia patted his shoulder.
Bente looked apologetically at Don as she passed him a glass of wine. “His partner has just left him.”
“I understand—we’ve all been there,” he replied sympathetically.
“Sk?l and welcome,” Bente said, raising her glass in a toast.
Don immediately launched into a discussion with Agneta about what could be smuggled into jail.
Elnaz went and stood next to Hanna, praising the apartment.
Uno sat down by himself on the sofa, and Lydia had laid claim to Didrik.
Bente was standing with her mother and Don, but couldn’t find a natural way of bringing up the topic of the production.
It would just have to wait—she had all evening, so she went to heat up the hash browns she had already fried.
She slid them onto plates, then topped them with roe, chopped red onions, sour cream, dill, and lemon wedges.
She carried the plates to the table, took two bottles of Champagne out of the refrigerator, and asked everyone to sit down.
“Once again, sk?l. I’m so pleased you could come.” She looked at Elnaz and Don, then at Didrik. Her heart rate shot up, and she quickly turned away and looked at the members of her family. “And you too. So pleased.” She couldn’t quite hide the sarcasm.
They all sipped their Champagne and began to chat about the show.
“I thought we could talk over the format one more time and see where we might take it. I know you guys have discussed a slightly more personal angle,” Bente began, hoping Don and Elnaz would join in.
“But there’s one thing we haven’t had time to dig into yet, which might lead us to the right vineyard.
We now know which vineyards used brass plaques back then, and it would be well worth traveling to Bordeaux to see if we can find more information once we’re there on the ground.
” She looked from Elnaz to Don, but Elnaz’s attention seemed to be elsewhere. On Hanna, to be precise.
“Elnaz?”
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“I said that—”
She was interrupted by Don, who took a large slurp of his Champagne. “That’s delicious.” He smacked his lips.
“I was actually locked up with the daughter of Italy’s largest wine producer.” Agneta twirled her empty glass around.
“Seriously, Mom?” Bente sighed.
“Well, maybe not the largest producer, but her family was some kind of big deal down in southern Italy, the biggest producer of some table wine or other.” Agneta pointed to her empty glass, and Bente obligingly refilled it.
Don gazed with interest at Agneta as she kept talking.
“She told us so many crazy stories! They really did live the Mafia life down there. Oh my God. Everyone was terrified of her. One time she and my cellmate had an argument about the last bit of marmalade at breakfast. The rest of us thought, Jesus, she has no idea who she’s messing with.
” Agneta laughed. “And do you know what the Italian did?”
Don shook his head and leaned forward expectantly.
“Wrote a message on the mirrors when she was in the shower. None of the rest of us ever found out what it said, but it must have been something horrific, because my cellmate, who was also in for financial crimes, by the way—she was a bit of a snob, really—was too scared to go to sleep. And when she did finally fall asleep, she woke up the following morning to find the bed full of blood. I mean, it was actually lingonberry jelly, but she woke up and thought she’d been stabbed.
” Agneta slammed her hand down on the table and guffawed. Don joined in the laughter.
Bente stole a glance at Didrik. If she could draw him into the conversation, get him to present the information they had so far, then maybe Don would listen? But Didrik was fully occupied with Lydia.
“History has society and people at its heart . . .” she heard him say.
Lydia was captivated by his deep voice, and Bente couldn’t help staring at that beautiful mouth for a second.
“. . . the memory disappears but the history remains. However, it varies depending on who is writing it. That’s why it’s so important, everything depends on how we—you and I—choose our angle . . .”
Didrik paused there, as if he sensed that he was being watched. Looked in Bente’s direction. She smiled apologetically, trying to convey that she hadn’t been staring at him, but at her aunt. He returned the smile and she felt her cheeks flush red.
Maybe it was the wine.
Meanwhile, Agneta was shaking her head at her Italian story. “Pure Godfather.”
Uno’s face crumpled yet again. “The Godfather. Mirja and I used to watch The Godfather once a year,” he burst out.
Bente turned to her mother. “I thought you guys were going to stay in the background,” she murmured.
Needless to say, Agneta took no notice whatsoever. “I love reality TV, it’s like psychoanalysis in prime time, of such interesting people. During my time in jail, I . . .”
Bente got to her feet. There clearly wasn’t going to be a discussion about the show.
There was a natural pause as everyone started eating, and Bente seized her chance. “Like I said before, Don, we have a list of vineyards that might lead us to Sven Steen. I really think we could find out quite a lot if we had the opportunity to . . .”
“Your mom should be on TV.” Don was beaming, not listening to a word Bente said.
“Absolutely. But I’m thinking that if we go to Bordeaux, I take my handheld camera, and we visit the city archive and maybe a few vineyards, we should be able to gather some really good material.
What do you say?” She looked at Elnaz, who was laughing at something Hanna had said.
Then Elnaz whispered something in Hanna’s ear that made her giggle.
Giggle? Since when did her sister giggle?
And Don wasn’t listening either; he was laughing at yet another of Agneta’s jail stories.
Bente sighed. She might as well just give up.