Chapter 34
Didrik filmed Bente as she read aloud:
“Open the wine bottle. Your Dejje.”
She opened several notes, each one a variation on a single message, as if the writer had been trying out different phrases.
Open the wine bottle. Then you’ll find me. Your Dejje.
Drink the wine. Find me. Your Dejje.
Your Dejje. The same words as on the brass plaque on the wine bottle.
“Since the note is in Swedish, Sven must be the one who wrote it,” Didrik said, and Bente agreed.
“Maybe he’d intended to send the note with the bottle.”
Didrik thought for a while, trying to piece the story together. “Perhaps it was Mathieu’s parents who shipped the bottle, after he’d died. They might have added a note of their own, but it perished in the water?”
Bente nodded. “Could be.”
They gathered up all the papers and put them back in the box, just as Sylvie appeared with yet another box.
“Good news! Jér?me is having a good day today, and he’d be happy to see you tomorrow, if you like?”
Didrik glanced at Bente, who looked as eager as he felt.
“Absolutely!” he said as Bente nodded.
“Great—I’ll give you the address.” Sylvie placed the box on the bench where they were working.
“This might be of interest too. Jér?me’s mother corresponded frequently with her sister in Paris, so I wondered if there could be something helpful in the sister’s letters.
You’re welcome to take them back to your hotel. ”
“Yes, please,” Bente said. “That’s very kind of you.”
“To be honest, I’m glad that someone is doing the job for me.
I’d love to know the history of these vineyards, but the thing about the war is that you have to dig for information people wanted to hide back then.
Which makes the search more exciting, of course.
” She glanced at the other boxes on the bench. “You can take those too.”
As they walked through the hallway, Bente stopped in front of a pencil sketch hanging on the wall. A naked man.
Sylvie followed her gaze. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Bente nodded. “We found several similar drawings down in the cellar—the artist is the Swedish guy we asked about. Sven Steen.”
“Oh, really? I didn’t know he was Swedish.
Now that you mention it, I remember Jér?me saying that someone at Chateau de Chênes did quite a lot of drawing, and that he was very good.
Apparently several of his pieces have been sold and can be found all over the area.
If you contact an art dealer, you might be able to track down more.
I know Jér?me tried to find as many as possible.
I guess he didn’t know he had such treasures in the cellar. ”
Bente smiled. “Once again, thank you so much for all your help. We’ll be very careful with the drawings and the documents.”
At that, Didrik couldn’t help smiling too.
Sylvie didn’t know that the last time they had borrowed something old, French, and valuable, they had literally drunk every last drop.
That evening, they went out to eat, choosing an empty table outside a restaurant on a square. A street musician was playing melancholy pieces on a violin in the warm evening. Twilight was already falling.
All the tension between them had melted away, thanks to the progress they had made in their search.
They were able to relax a little more tonight.
It was as if the two men’s love story had impacted their own.
They talked about what it must have been like to live as lovers—and homosexuals—during that period, and in occupied France.
How the war must have affected the men, even if neither Bente nor Didrik could really imagine it, of course.
All at once Bente’s own problems seemed so insignificant—and maybe they were?
After they’d eaten, they ordered a café crème each and sat in silence for a while, letting everything sink in.
In this fresh environment, Bente wondered: What kind of life was it that she was choosing, one that involved constantly worrying about what others thought of her?
Why chase fame and recognition from people she didn’t care about?
Her reaction to the newspaper headline, her obsession with updating and searching for negative comments .
. . Suddenly she found herself viewing it all as if from a distance, and could see the matter from outside herself. Was what she was doing even worth it?
“Are you okay?” Didrik’s voice brought her back to reality, and she put down her cup.
“I just have some stuff to think about. That news piece on what I said about Dad on Krissie . . . I had such a weird reaction when you showed it to me.”
“Tell me.” His eyes were full of concern.
“My heart started racing. Everything went black and I thought I was going to faint. It was so . . .” She shook her head.
“My reaction was totally out of proportion to what the article said. It was as if I was reliving everything that was written before, during that terrible time. As if the feelings are still there, lying dormant in my body.”
“If I’d known, I would never have shown it to you.”
“You couldn’t have known. But after reacting so strongly, I’ve been doing some thinking. Why do I want to get back into it all? Why do I need the attention?”
“Redress,” Didrik said quietly, almost as if he was talking to himself.
“Sorry?”
He cleared his throat, sat up a little straighter, and gazed out across the square. The violinist fell silent, and the gentle hum of conversations around them took over. “You’ve been through so much—is it that you want some kind of redress? Restitution?”
Bente nodded. She’d considered that explanation herself, but at the same time she didn’t really care what their friends and acquaintances from her childhood thought of her.
At least that’s what she’d told herself.
“And validation.” As she said the word, everything became obvious to her.
Her thoughts fell neatly into place inside her head, as if she had just solved a crossword she’d been working on her entire life.
“The kick of being popular. When I was most in demand, when all the invitations for appearances came flooding in, I got totally high on the whole thing.” She looked at him. “It made me feel accepted.”
“You and I are driven by different things. For me I guess being on TV is maybe some kind of revolt. For you it’s validation. And now that you know that, you can handle it in the right way.”
She nodded pensively. Didrik was also driven by passion. She was passionate, too, at least about this project, but she still didn’t know if that passion was worth everything that went with it. The reasons why she wanted to go on TV were complex. And possibly not entirely healthy.
On their way back to the hotel, Bente stopped walking and looked at Didrik.
“Hanna has invested in a wine bar, and she wants me to help her run it. Rendezvous.”
“Seriously? Wow!”
“Seriously! I think it could be really good.” She felt so happy, and at that moment she knew she wanted to run the bar.
Somehow she would make it work with the TV show.
“Something occurred to me,” she went on.
A nagging anxiety, a thought that she would have preferred to dismiss, but one that had taken root in her mind.
“Sven finished up in a prison camp, and no one seems to know anything about Mathieu. If Sven and Mathieu were in a relationship . . . what if they got caught? Is that why we haven’t found any more information? ”
They looked at each other in silence. A homosexual couple who’d gotten caught during the time when the Nazis occupied Bordeaux.
Didrik didn’t say anything. Bente’s heart ached—she hoped she was wrong.
That night they made love slowly and tenderly, driven by a sense that they needed to make the most of what they had because nothing, not even love, could be taken for granted.