Chapter 38
The receipt was from an art dealer who had paid the money out.
Didrik saw that it had been signed by the dealer, and then he saw a familiar name.
Ida Steen. He’d seen that first name somewhere before—was she a relative of Sven’s, maybe his sister?
Did this mean that Sven’s family knew that he had been in Bordeaux?
He opened up his laptop and scrolled through their notes until he found the address list from the National Archive, which Bente had sent him earlier.
Ida Steen. Sven’s mother! He took a closer look at the receipt.
Ida had brought in some artwork to sell to the dealer, and the artist’s name was . . . Dejje Steen.
The receipt had been issued by Galerie Doré.
He googled the name and discovered to his delight that the gallery still existed.
A shudder of excitement ran through his body.
How he loved this kind of thing! He made a note of the address, checked the hours of business, looked at his watch.
They opened in half an hour. He went down to the breakfast room and ordered a baguette and a cup of coffee.
Then he drank the coffee quickly, took the baguette with him, and set off into the morning rush hour.
The art gallery was on a street of old buildings, its entrance tucked into an arched portal, the name painted in a handwritten style directly on the facade. Tall windows overlooked the street, and the glass doors were also modern in style.
Didrik walked in and took a deep breath. Paintings were displayed on every wall, from floor to ceiling. Behind the desk stood an older lady who was inspecting a small watercolor. She rubbed at the frame with her thumb, then set it aside as he approached.
“Good morning, my name is Didrik Holgersson.” He held out his hand.
“I’m a historian, and I’m looking for pieces by a Swedish man who lived here in Bordeaux just before the end of the Second World War.
He might have been known as Sven Steen or Dejje Steen.
” He took the receipt out of his pocket.
“I found this in the cellar of the vineyard where he was living. Do you know this artist?”
The woman examined the receipt, then said, “Goodness me. Dejje Steen.”
Didrik realized that he ought to be filming this. He clicked on the camera on his phone, then paused and asked: “Is it okay if I do some filming?”
The woman nodded. “It’s fine.” She took off her glasses and looked at him.
“I know Dejje Steen. He’s a local artist who has been popular for a long time.
A bit of a hidden gem, but hugely appreciated by those who have discovered him, particularly in this area.
We might even have something of his at the moment. ” She smiled. “Come with me.”
Didrik followed her through the room.
“Here we are.” She looked up at the wall. The only pictures hanging there were watercolors. None of them matched what he knew of Sven’s style. The woman picked up a low stool and clambered onto it with some difficulty.
“I can do . . .” Didrik began, but the woman simply reached up and took down a painting before he could finish the sentence.
It was a watercolor in a gilded frame, slightly larger than A4.
The subject was a vineyard, painted in muted shades of green—from the pale-green bunches of grapes to the emerald-green grove of trees at the edge of the picture.
The rows of vines were executed with sweeping strokes, yet gave off an air of precision.
A slender man was walking between the rows with his back to the observer, as if he were heading toward the horizon.
As a guess, Didrik thought the subject was middle-aged, based on his posture and the graying hair just visible below his hat.
“But this can’t be by Sven,” Didrik said hesitantly, looking more closely now. “Or rather, Dejje Steen. It looks so . . . new.” Had Sven perhaps had access to watercolor paints during the war?
“It definitely is.” The woman smiled and turned the canvas over.
And there it was, Dejje Steen on the back. But . . . it was dated 1979. And farther down, the word Mathieu.
“So you deal in paintings by Dejje Steen?”
“Sometimes. There are a few around.”
“And this is dated 1979.”
“It is.”
“But he died in 1944.”
The woman laughed. “I don’t think so. He’s probably dead now, but we were taking new paintings from him until the eighties.
Unfortunately, I never met him, even though I’ve worked here for many years.
He never came in himself; others brought the pieces in for him.
On one occasion it was a neighbor, as far as I recall, and on another his elderly mother, who didn’t speak a word of French. ” She laughed again at the memory.
“Can I buy this?”
“Of course—let me see how much it costs.” She went behind the desk, tapped away on her computer, then gave him an eye-watering price. Didrik didn’t need to think for too long; he took out his card, then watched with satisfaction as she carefully packed up the painting.
On the way back to the hotel, he let the information sink in. How could Sven have painted this picture? The only possible explanation was that he hadn’t died in the prison camp, as they had believed all along. Which made his sending of the wine bottle entirely logical.
So what had actually happened to Sven? Had he managed to escape from the camp?
Didrik supposed that, unlike in Hollywood movies, the Foreign Legion probably didn’t hunt down its deserters over land and sea.
But if Sven had left the Legion and remained here in Bordeaux, and his identity had become known, he would certainly have faced a jail sentence for deserting.
If he had stayed in France, then it was likely that he would have used his nickname, Dejje Steen, for his paintings.
According to everything Didrik and Bente had read, Sven had been an outstanding legionnaire and a dedicated soldier. Giving all that up and deserting must have been a big thing—so big that he had decided it was better to let the world believe he had died.
This was too much to take in. He had to tell Bente! He didn’t want to do this on his own. He took out his phone and called her without the slightest hesitation.
But there was no answer.
Didrik returned the boxes to Sylvie later than day, and told her what he’d found out. She urged him to contact Jér?me again.
“Sometimes he has better days.”
That was probably true, but it was already late, and his brother was due to arrive soon. Plus he wanted to talk things over with Bente; conducting research without her just wasn’t the same. If he was going to see Jér?me again, then Bente had to be there. They would do it together.
His brother drove up to the hotel in a rental car. Didrik was waiting and gave him a hug right away.
They had dinner at a small bistro. Didrik ordered wine confidently, and Victor was impressed by his newfound knowledge.
“So Bente has already gone home?” Victor said when their main courses were served.
“Yes—we were intending to travel together, but I changed my ticket so I could meet up with you.”
“Cool. How’s it going, working with her?”
“Pretty well . . . but to be honest, there were other reasons why I didn’t want to catch the same train. She . . . we . . .” He didn’t know quite how to put it, but Victor picked up on his discomfort. For some reason Didrik wanted to talk about what had happened.
“Have you fallen out?” Victor helped him out.
Didrik sighed. “Kind of. There was definitely something between us, but somehow it’s slipped through my fingers. I feel like I need time to think.”
Victor nodded. “Maybe it’s too soon after the divorce?”
Didrik shrugged. “It’s not that exactly, it’s just that we both have things to consider.
We’re very different.” He leaned across the table and looked at his brother.
“I’ve spent my whole life trying to fit in, being a version of myself that doesn’t actually reflect the person I really am.
Starting with Mom’s dream that we follow her into an academic career . . .”
“Which you did.” Victor grinned.
“Absolutely, and I enjoy what I do, but then Lovisa had her say and constantly told me that all this TV stuff was a bad idea.”
“So what does Bente want? Does she find your public profile difficult to deal with?”
“I don’t think so. It’s just . . . She’s unsure about children. She says she doesn’t want kids, it’s not her thing. And I’ve always wanted a family, it’s always been my dream. That’s what life’s about.” He spread his hands wide.
“Hang on, isn’t that also something that Mom has always drilled into us?
” Victor took a sip of his wine. “I mean, I do want to be a dad, but for as long as I can remember, she’s made her opinion crystal clear.
It’s always ‘When you have children, when you become a dad, when you have a family,’ as if there’s no alternative. ”
“You’re right. She always been pretty pushy on the subject.”
“Is it possible you’re fooling yourself, Didrik?
Are kids really your dream? Is having a family the main goal for your life?
Or is this about Mom’s expectations of you?
Surely you have plenty of other qualities?
And imagine what this is like for Bente.
You’re in the process of getting divorced, you’ve just started seeing each other, and you start asking about children.
Then suddenly you need time to think. If I were Bente, I would absolutely feel like I was just your rebound. ”
Maybe Victor was right? If so, the thing that had driven him all his life, the dream of what he thought would make his existence perfect, had once again caused destruction.
Old sorrows and conflicts were destroying the wonderful joy that Bente had brought with her.
Didrik had looked at life quite differently ever since he’d gotten to know her, and yet all his old baggage had continued to affect their relationship.
Dreams and goals were important, and he had always lived by the belief that a person should allow their dreams to guide them.
At the same time, Bente had shown him something new.
She didn’t limit him. She opened up fresh possibilities.
Maybe children weren’t the most important thing, after all—and certainly not at this moment.
Plus with Bente he felt more alive than he ever had in the past. Wasn’t that worth pursuing?
Suddenly he knew, he felt it in every fiber of his body: He had made a big mistake.
It was Bente he wanted, more than anything else.
And he had to tell her. Right now.