Shadow

8

Kristoffer got up from his desk and went over to the window. A steady rain was veining the glass and obscuring the view over the cemetery at Katarina Church. He pressed his forehead against the cool window and closed his eyes, not moving until he found the words he was groping for. Then he hurried back to the computer and typed them out standing up. After that he sat down again at the desk, took a deep breath and began to read the words on the screen.

ACT 2

(The MOTHER and FATHER are sitting at a kitchen table set for breakfast. Around the table are four chairs. The mother is dressed in high-heeled red patent-leather boots, a micro-miniskirt and a tiny glitzy top. The father is wearing a pin-striped suit. The room is dark except for a number of TV sets of varying sizes, all showing different programmes. News, adverts, porno, action, music videos.

The mother is knitting. The father is reading from a computer screen.)

(They sit in total silence for a minute.)

FATHER: What are you doing?

MOTHER: Knitting.

(They sit in silence for another minute.)

FATHER: What are you knitting?

MOTHER: Mittens.

FATHER: Why are you knitting mittens?

MOTHER: I’m going to give them to the collection for Rescue Africa.

FATHER: What do they need mittens for?

MOTHER: So they won’t freeze.

(The SON, 13 years old, comes onstage. He is dressed in a Guantánamo-orange jump-suit, a black blindfold and a wide rubber shackle connecting his ankles so that he can only take short steps. From his ankles, chains connect to his hands, which are handcuffed.)

SON: Could you lock me up?

(The mother locks the handcuffs.)

MOTHER: Do you really have to wear those today?

SON: Give me a break.

MOTHER: It’s below freezing outside. I don’t want you to catch a cold.

FATHER: Just make sure that outfit is clean on Saturday when we go to the Svenssons’ wedding.

MOTHER: You know what it cost? Four thousand kronor.

SON: I paid for it myself. With the money I got for Christmas.

MOTHER: Can you see anything at all?

SON: There are holes here, you know that.

(Lifts his cuffed hands as far as he can and points to tiny holes in the blindfold)

SON: Besides, it’s sewn from organic material. Certified.

(The mother makes an open sandwich and feeds the SON. Helps him drink from a glass. Suddenly she turns to face the audience.)

MOTHER: Can anyone help me?

(The mother goes back to her knitting as if nothing has happened.)

FATHER: Our stocks in African Fishing Trade have gone up.

SON: I’m out of here.

MOTHER: Don’t you have a late morning today?

SON: I won’t make it if I don’t leave now. (Points at the rubber shackle between his ankles)

FATHER: Watch out for cars and paedophiles.

(The son hurries off, taking little shuffling steps, and vanishes offstage.)

MOTHER: What stocks?

FATHER: The business concept is brilliant. Five hundred tons of filleted Nile perch per day are exported to Europe. They’ve managed to lower costs by using cheap Russian pilots and old freight aeroplanes. And the offal and fish-heads are left over for the local population, so those who say that the introduced Nile perch has killed off all the other fish in Lake Victoria will just have to shut up. Nobody’s going to come and say that African Fishing Trade aren’t doing their share. Besides, the young people can heat up the glue in the fish-crates and sniff it, so they’ll sleep better in the alleys at night. Their parents have all died of AIDS anyway. It’s a win-win situation for all concerned. We can thank our lucky stars we were in on it from the beginning and bought shares.

(They sit in silence. Suddenly the father turns to the audience.)

FATHER: Can anyone help me?

Kristoffer leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. He wasn’t completely satisfied. Something in the play didn’t sound quite right, and there were only four weeks left till the deadline. His eyes left the screen and sought out the mobile phone, which was turned off. He picked it up and weighed it in his hand. For a week he’d been cut off from the outside world, but the number of pages he’d been able to produce was still alarmingly small. It just wasn’t flowing. There was so much he wanted to say, but the words seemed stuck, as if screwed down in a space he couldn’t access. Isolation was usually the key. The freedom that opened up after he shut off his telephones and stopped checking his e-mail. The feeling of independence. An inviolable wild man with the right to spew his bile over the societal structure from which he had chosen to remove himself. This time it hadn’t worked. Instead he had felt lonely and cooped-up. And detached. Not detached the way he usually felt, when as an observer he registered what was happening though he wasn’t taking part; and with his moral irreproachability of the past three years, he had a right to criticise.

Instead he felt detached, as in lonely.

He wondered whether it had to do with the money. Each month a varying amount was sent to him from an anonymous giver, but this month it hadn’t come.

He closed the screen on his laptop and went into the kitchen. Opened the fridge, then the freezer. The number of frozen meals had run low, and he needed to go shopping. Maybe he should give Jesper a ring. Grab a quick bite and talk for a while. Jesper, who at the risk of coming down with scurvy was struggling with his novel the way Kristoffer was struggling with his new script.

A year had passed since the little theatre had produced his first play. Provocative, some critics had called it. Others had claimed that it was insistent. He took that as a good sign. Several of the performances had sold out. He had sat there in the dark and mouthed the words spoken on the stage. No one could hear him, but in his head his voice had been exultant. And when the applause came he was always filled with the same wish.

Imagine if my parents could see me.

Now the theatre wanted a new play, and he had promised to deliver it in a month. It was a matter of producing something new yet retaining his distinct style. To attack, yet soften the blows so that only after a while would a hole open up and the criticism could slyly slink in. Human nature went on the defensive if it was ambushed. That was something in the genes. But the rage and frustration he felt about the state of everything made it hard to hold back.

He picked up the cordless phone from the kitchen worktop and punched in Jesper’s number. He wasn’t ready yet to turn on his mobile. Then the spell would be broken for good, and he needed to get down another few pages before he gave up for the day.

‘Hey, it’s me. Where are you?’

‘I’m down at Café Neo. How about hanging out for a few?’

He hesitated only a second, then gave in.

‘Okay, I’ll be there in ten.’

He went out to the hall and pulled on his trainers and duffel coat. He left the umbrella after a glance out of the window; it had stopped raining. He locked the door and chose to walk down the stairs; he needed the exercise after sitting for a week. He let his hand glide along the banister. Let himself be filled by the ambivalent feeling at the thought that so many hands had glided there before his. That he was a part of the whole. That everything belonged together, but everyone had his own responsibility, and he had realised that he had to start carrying his own. It was the idea that had guided each step for the past three years.

His new journey had begun then, when as a 32-year-old bartender he was standing behind a bar in Åre and felt that he could no longer breathe. He realised that he was about to go under. He had looked about among the drunken people and ascertained that the total IQ in the pub corresponded to that in the ape house at Kolmården Zoo. With the crushing difference that the inhabitants of the ape house behaved with more dignity. It was as though a cloudy lens had been removed. He had suddenly felt like an alien from outer space who wanted to know how we intelligent humans lived our lives here on Earth. Everything had all at once become inexplicable. He had seen all the fumbling attempts. All the bullshit that never led anywhere except possibly to people staggering home to a rented hotel room where they could screw in drunken abandon.

The bunch of girls on the other side of the bar, the ones who had told him the night before that they were studying nursing together and were there on their annual trip; their shocking pink T-shirts with the slogan I’M HERE FOR THE GANGBANG; the conversation some of them were trying to have with three muscle-bound men who had a hard time standing up straight – all desperate padding, people who were trying to endure although something was missing. And he and his colleagues who facilitated the idiocy that was going on, dressed in uniforms emblazoned with distillers’ names, they kept serving more shots, beer and brightly coloured cocktails to people who were already so drunk they could barely lift the glass to their lips. Yet they had chosen this condition voluntarily.

They were having fun.

The revelation that he was definitely one of them.

He stopped at a crossing and pressed the button. Across the street a van with a beer logo along its side had stopped to unload grey barrels outside a restaurant. Two men from the staff wrestled the heavy metal cylinders in through the door. In the next few days the contents would enter an unknown number of human brains in their hunt for peace of mind.

For thirteen years this had been his life. Visby in the summertime and Åre in the winter. Après-beach and aprèsski parties were deceptively similar. Released on holiday, people had to make up for all the lost time; the caveman in them was set free for a while to get some air. After the workday was over he would join in the fun. Seasonal work was a lifestyle that possessed everything for maintaining a distance from a dull contemptible life, that of some faceless suit with a mundane routine. Parties that started at closing time and went on till morning, a few hours’ sleep so you could handle the evening shift that lasted till the next party started. A superficial life in which he let himself float away like a feather on the breeze. It all went so fast, so fast, and depended on the whim of a second. A constant search for kicks, a blissful mixture of sex, alcohol and other drugs. Just as long as it heightened his sense of being alive and raised him above mediocrity, silencing what was tearing at his soul because he didn’t want to acknowledge it. He was ready for anything, and if something did go wrong it was always possible to blame his blood alcohol level. He had taken the trouble to become a member of the ‘ski club’, the ones who had sex in the small gondola lift. He’d become a dangerous competitor in the beer-chugging contests and the riskiest off-piste runs. He’d stood in queues to hotel rooms where girls had set up a system with guys writing their names on condoms that were then placed in a cooler in the corridor while awaiting their turn. He’d taken penicillin for chlamydia and on one occasion was admitted to the hospital with kidney pains after weeks of hard partying. In countless places he’d woken up covered in his own vomit, yet he couldn’t remember how he’d got there. He’d done things that afterwards had filled him with shame. But nothing had made him question his behaviour. Life had been a closed cocoon unaffected by the world outside. There was nothing but the night’s escapades and the morning’s remorse. The hellish anxiety that came with the hangover, which nothing but the hair of the dog could remedy.

And he had enjoyed the camaraderie with the other seasonal workers, who were equally homeless and flitted from summer to winter.

Almost as if he’d had a family.

On the main street he met an elderly lady with a dog. She gave him a fleeting glance and he broke out in a big smile. She hurried on with her eyes lowered, and Kristoffer continued in the opposite direction. He’d done it to amuse himself really. A friendly smile from a stranger always seemed to arouse confusion. But no good person thought that way. And he was good. Nowadays.

Years had passed and finally it had begun to gnaw at him, an uneasy feeling that something important had passed him by. The nagging thought he had every time he served an overbearing party of customers with reliable credit cards and receding hairlines. The reminder that genuine success also took time, at least if it was going to survive the in-crowd list on the slate behind the bar.

And the nagging feeling had spread. Not even alcohol had been able to drive it away, when he was drunk and in some strange way was able to talk to himself in a voice that came from somewhere else. The voice had suddenly begun to wonder where he was headed. Is this really me? it had asked. Was it really me who just got up from the table, and if so, why did I do that?

Up until now he had regarded his life as a temporary arrangement. Whatever was going to make it start for real had not yet happened. His naïve belief that he didn’t have to initiate anything himself, that everything would fall into place if he just waited long enough. But then, when he began questioning this attitude, he had realised that this makeshift arrangement was not so easy to get rid of. Maybe it was the anonymous money that had been sent to him every month that had lured him into the delusion that his real life was actually going on somewhere else. During the black anxiety of his hangovers he had come to the conclusion that his life resided in the vacuum that existed inside the atoms of his body.

And no one, not even himself, knew where this body had come from.

It was the need for an answer to this mystery that legitimised his diversionary tactics during the waiting period. The monthly payments that proved there was somebody out there who knew.

He stopped at the window of Pet Sounds. He usually allowed himself a CD now and then, even if the price in his new life without tips was a bit steep for his wallet. Downloading music for free was not part of his world-improving ideology. The door opened and a guy in his twenties came out holding a chocolate bar in his hand. As he passed by he threw the colourful wrapper on the street.

‘Excuse me, you dropped something,’ said Kristoffer.

The guy gave him a quick look. ‘It’s just rubbish.’

‘Yes, I can see that, but who do you think is going to pick it up for you?’

The guy stopped short. He looked about and gave Kristoffer an uncertain smile, as if to check whether he was kidding. Kristoffer stood there waiting, looking him straight in the eye, but this time he wasn’t smiling. A few seconds passed before the guy bent down and picked up the wrapper, shamefaced. Only when he’d left did Kristoffer smile, pleased with himself and his action.

Nowadays these were the types of kicks he sought, since the ones he’d been getting from sex and alcohol were suddenly gone. Tortuous anxiety had already crept in before the new kicks had managed to soothe him. In despair he’d realised that he’d reached a blind alley, that the cost of the only thing that helped actually scared him as much as what he was trying to escape. Only then had he understood how hard it was to change his behaviour. How the alcohol and the other drugs demanded their place even though he didn’t want them any more. What he’d thought was voluntary had proven to be a necessity. His most dangerous enemy lived inside him, feeding on his brain and preventing him from making his own decisions. The air that no longer reached down into his lungs, the restlessness that demanded constant motion even though he didn’t dare. The longing for relief, to escape from his own thoughts, but at the same time the fear of what it would cost – the life-threatening anxiety of the hangover. The fee for a few hours of grace. He’d no longer had any defence against what was tearing at his soul. The panic of feeling something slowly break down, letting something ghastly force its way out.

He had left his place behind the bar and gone home to the cubby-hole he shared with another seasonal worker. He had sat for hours on the unmade bed, having a hard enough time just breathing. The thought of what his parents would think if they could see what he’d become.

The shame he felt. Over what he’d done, how for so many years he’d humiliated himself. The experience of being in debt, both to himself and to all existence. He had felt utterly flayed, lost and alone.

He had packed his bags and taken the train to Stockholm. Made use of his many contacts after his years in the pub business and managed to find a flat. A sublet contract for an indefinite period; the owner was doing research abroad. Kristoffer didn’t know what sort of research except that the books on the shelves suggested it was something in the natural sciences. The first few months he had locked himself in the flat and didn’t dare go out. The days he’d been forced to go grocery shopping had been a nightmare. At least he had enough money in his bank account, after saving up all his tips, since his food and drink had been free. In the hope of leaving everything behind, he had broken all contact with his old life and alone had begun to fight his inner demon. One by one he had browsed through the books on the shelves, often incomprehensible, but at least they offered some distraction. At night he sat at the computer. He found an Alcoholics Anonymous chat room in and got help making it through the small hours. He had woken up each morning with the choice of giving in to his all-consuming longing, or making up his mind to get through another day. Tiny, tiny steps, which taken together led him forward.

After six months he ventured outside to take long walks around Stockholm. He walked endless distances as if trying to leave something behind.

He was standing on Fjällgatan when it happened. Enjoying the view. It was springtime and the shimmering green shifted in endless nuances. The white ferry to Slussen sliced through the water, which glittered as though strewn with diamonds. All this beauty had surprised him. An unexpected wonder. It couldn’t have been there before, could it, since he’d never noticed it? It had come from deep inside, a tingling, dazed sense of joy, impossible to resist. Even though there were people all around him, he had let his laughter echo across the street and further out over all of Stockholm, and he had felt that finally, finally he was free. That everything before him held possibility. He’d always felt that he was meant for something great, and now the time had come. He would make a contribution, do something significant. Everything had now acquired a meaning. From the moment his consciousness opened, there was no turning back. Then each waking moment became a struggle for change, an eternal refusal to adapt or accept the way things were. The world was a swamp, and it was the responsibility of everyone to drain it. To become, like him, an advocate of humanity’s self-defence, a champion against everything shallow.

Jesper was sitting in the far corner at the table where they always sat. He had finished his latte and on the inside of the tall glass the foam had dried in an irregular pattern. The first thing that struck Kristoffer was the lack of the obligatory notebook, Jesper’s constant companion that he always placed within reach wherever he sat down. The notes that were later spun into his attempt at a novel, Nostalgia – A Strange Feeling of Manageable Sorrow. Jesper was a lone wolf, just like Kristoffer. Maybe that was why they got along so well.

Kristoffer hung his duffel coat over the back of the chair. ‘So. Would you like anything?’

Jesper shook his head, and Kristoffer went over to the short queue at the counter. He stood a little too close to the person in front of him. Just as a test. The man took a step forward and Kristoffer followed. The man’s discomfort was apparent, but he did his best to hide it. He stood his ground, looking out of the corner of his eye as if he wanted to watch Kristoffer without being noticed. Why was it so threatening when a stranger got too close? Kristoffer had long pondered why it was so important to keep one’s distance. Maybe it was precisely there, in the discomfort, that the unconscious touched upon the knowledge that everything that exists is a unity, that everything is interrelated. He had read that in the science books on the shelves in the flat, that atoms never die but only change form. It was enough to see a photograph of the earth taken from space to sense the truth. If that realisation were ever taken seriously, the prevailing worldview would come crashing down. No one would any longer be able to watch what was going on without being forced to take action.

The man in front of Kristoffer took another step to increase the distance. Kristoffer let him be. He ordered a double espresso, and while he waited he watched Jesper. He was still sitting with his chin resting in his left hand, drawing invisible figures on the tabletop with his right. Gloomy, Kristoffer thought. Not the first time. Jesper was an open book when it came to where he was on the emotional scale, and gloomy was not that unusual. Kristoffer thrived on clarity. There was nothing vague that could create brooding, only visible messages. He suddenly felt himself smiling as he looked at Jesper, struck by how much he valued their friendship. Jesper was a teetotaller for ideological reasons, which made their interaction easier. Since Kristoffer had stopped drinking he needed to avoid certain situations. Enjoying a whole evening in a pub was like being a diabetic at a cake party. He could still get thirsty, and sometimes he really had to steel himself not to take that first drink; the one that would produce that numbing sense of relaxation, the peaceful sensation that everything became smoothed out and tolerable, the feeling he used to spend so many nights trying to recapture, even though it passed so quickly.

Jesper was the only person he could call a friend. His lonely work sitting at the computer and his abstinence from pub life had not gained him a big circle of acquaintances since he’d broken off with the old ones.

But even to Jesper he hadn’t revealed his secret. It was so fraught with shame that the very words refused to come out. Thirty-one years had passed, and he had not told anyone.

The fact that at the age of four he had been found on the stairs at Skansen amusement park.

That he had been rejected.

He went back to the table.

‘How’s it going, anyway?’

Kristoffer sat down at the table and began to sip his double espresso. Jesper didn’t say a word. Gloomy, Kristoffer thought again.

‘I don’t know, I suppose I should be happy. But I’m not.’

‘What is it?’

Kristoffer drank some more coffee. Jesper leaned back and stretched as if he wanted to shake off something unpleasant. And then he said the words that made the room turn inside out.

‘They want to publish my book.’

Kristoffer froze, his hand in mid-air, and was shocked at his own reaction. He ought to be happy, ecstatic, jump up from his chair and buy a cake. The way a good person would react. His best friend, after all his struggles, had reached the goal of his dreams. But instead of rejoicing on his behalf Kristoffer sat as if paralysed, invaded by a huge, black envy.

‘Well, that’s fantastic,’ he managed to say. And the blackness grew bigger.

‘Is it?’

Jesper didn’t look the least bit happy. Kristoffer gratefully welcomed the confusion that began to compete for space.

‘Of course it is. Isn’t it? Isn’t that why you wrote the book?’

There was a moment’s silence. Jesper wasn’t one to say something unless he had first deliberated carefully. A trait that Kristoffer admired. The world would be a better place if there were more people who chose their words carefully.

‘Mostly I think it feels empty somehow, almost as if I’ve been robbed.’

‘What do you mean, robbed? Now you can start eating something besides noodles for a change.’

He could hear it in his own voice. That the words concealed what he actually felt.

‘I don’t mean the money, you know that. I mean, I don’t know how to say it, my life has sort of been robbed. What the hell am I going to do now? I’ve been writing that fucking novel for so long that I don’t know what I’ll do when I can’t work on it anymore.’

‘Then you’ll have to write another one.’

The idea did not seem appealing, and another silence settled in.

‘But what if I can’t?’

‘Stop it. You can at least give it a try before you give up. Besides, you’ll have to go out and promote the book, travel around and do interviews, go on TV chat shows and give readings.’

He could feel the envy growing. The dream of success. To be in demand and finally have your worth confirmed.

‘But that’s just it. How the hell do you think I could manage to go on a talk show? Can you see me sitting there? Can you? Or doing interviews? What would I say? Read the book, you fucking idiot! Everything I wanted to say is in there. How do you think that would come across?’

Kristoffer didn’t answer. He had seen Jesper get tongue-tied just trying to order coffee and realised that to some extent he was right. And yet he couldn’t help being irritated at his whining.

‘And anyway, I’m too ugly.’

‘Give me a break.’

‘It’s easy for you to say, with that cherub face of yours.’

‘It doesn’t matter one damn bit what you look like.’

‘Yeah, right.’

Jesper looked utterly hopeless. He put his head in his hands and sighed. Kristoffer finished his coffee and shoved his cup away. If only it had been him. Maybe he should write a novel himself. If Jesper could get his published, he could manage it too.

‘It’s obvious that I want the book to be read by as many people as possible, obviously I want that, that’s why I wrote it. Because I want something. But I didn’t think about what it would really involve. You know me, I can’t cope with being the centre of attention. This was my way to try and say something anyway. I simply don’t fit as a brand name. The people I met at the publishing company, I told them the truth, that I didn’t know if I could handle a lot of interviews and stuff like that.’

‘So what did they say?’

‘They didn’t exactly jump for joy.’

‘Well, shit, there must be some other way.’

‘I knew they were disappointed when they met me. They were so positive on the phone after they’d read the book, but that was before they met me.’

Kristoffer stopped arguing with him and they sat quietly for a moment. He tried in vain to silence the thought that the publishers’ reaction was a relief to him. Desperately he struggled to shove the envy back into the rubbish-heap it had crawled out of, because what sort of person reacted the way he had done? In an attempt to pull himself together he reached out and patted his friend’s hand. The gesture was so unlike him that Jesper gave a start at the touch.

‘I’m sure it will all turn out fine.’

Kristoffer pulled back his hand and smiled.

‘Shit, I know a real author!’

But the words only intensified his envy. He had always been the one who was more successful; their respective roles had been well-established. Their entire friendship hinged on those unwritten rules, but now the balance had been disturbed. He wanted to go home and keep working on his play, see to it that every critic would end up prostrate with rapture.

‘You’ll have to think of another way to promote the book. Do something that nobody has ever done, so the book gets attention even if you don’t put in an appearance.’

If you think it’s too much trouble, he wanted to add, but didn’t.

‘What would that be?’

‘I don’t know, you’ll have to think about it.’

They said goodbye out on the street, and Kristoffer headed off to buy groceries. He was weighed down by guilt, a despicable person who was incapable of being happy for a friend. The goodness and competence he had always striven for had at the slightest provocation yielded to the selfish instincts that belonged to a second-rate nature. He knew so well that moral value does not come from desire but from duty. And yet he had failed. In an attempt to rectify it he began to mull over Jesper’s dilemma, trying to think of what would make the media notice the book. Inside the supermarket he stopped in front of the magazine racks and read the headlines: I slept with 4,000 women / Booze, sex and total decadence – we were there / Get rich with file-sharing / Sin, gambling and strippers / We can only say Wow! when hot Emma takes off her wet blouse inside / Win a computer! Download all the porn you want!

Kristoffer sighed. Since he was a man and the headlines were aimed at men, he felt humiliated. That just because he was a man he was expected to be an idiot. It wasn’t that he had anything against naked women. Even though he wasn’t proud of it, he did have some well-thumbed magazines in his flat. He lived alone, what was he supposed to do? But he found it insulting that his lowest instincts were appealed to without finesse. He picked up one of the magazines and looked at the masthead. Nothing but men in editorial. He wondered who these men were. Why had they no higher ambitions? And if they had, what was it they wanted? Once he had phoned a newspaper and asked this very question.

‘We have an obligation to our shareholders to focus on what makes people pick up the paper,’ he’d been told. ‘Unfortunately world crises don’t sell.’

Well, Jesper, he thought. This isn’t going to be easy. A headline about Jesper Falk writing a thought-provoking novel about his generation would hardly cause a stampede at the news-stand.

He sidestepped and found himself in front of the shelves filled with women’s magazines. Beautiful eyes – get the sultry look! / Shopping frenzy – 500 best buys / How to walk in high heels / Are breast implants a good idea? The whole thing was so confusing, the fact that all these magazines apparently did sell; the fact that so few women demanded more than this, to feel themselves enlightened.

On the far right he caught sight of the magazines for teenage girls. All the dirt on celebrity girls’ bitching / Vote for Hollywood’s cutest puppy dog / 7 Miss Teens we want to diss / Tricks to make him fall for you. All women in editorial, except for a man or two in production. He wondered how these women brought up their children. Whether in their private lives they were also inclined to stereotype all the gender roles and see to it that their daughters became infantile bimbos, or whether they just did the job as long as it paid.

One more time the thought raced through his head – where were the intelligentsia? Why was it that some people spent so little time thinking and had so few thoughts? Why did they make themselves so insignificant that they were convinced their actions made no difference?

Since the possibility of numbing his mind had been taken from him, he’d had a harder and harder time tolerating reality. Could it be that the human brain needed to be blunted occasionally, so that it could overlook all the stupidity and manage to feel some hope?

‘Are you in the queue or not?’

He was roused from his contemplations and began putting his items on the conveyor belt. With a new supply of frozen dinners he headed home. His thoughts had given him a new idea, and he was feeling good again, ready to keep working on his play.

The door to his building was in sight when he decided to turn on his mobile. He had three new messages. One from the theatre, wondering how it was going; the second from Jesper. It wasn’t until he listened to the third one that time stood still. He put down his bag of groceries and had to lean against the wall.

Something about a will in which he was named the sole beneficiary.