“Yes, I ... I know.” He shook her hand.
“We met at Rendezvous with Elnaz—I used to work there.”
“I remember.” What was she doing here?
“I believe Elnaz emailed you with an idea for a show last week?”
He made an effort to think back. Last week? Then he remembered that Bente’s name had been mentioned in connection with the history show linked to wine—in the email he hadn’t read all the way through. “Right, yes ... I haven’t had time to reply.” Had she been sent here to pressure him?
“I understand, I just wanted to ask ...” She was glancing around as she spoke.
He followed her gaze; the room was tidy, and there was no sign of the pillow. Should he invite her to sit down?
“Take a seat.” He nodded in the direction of the sofa, hoping she couldn’t tell that it was also being used as a bed.
She marched over and sat down, while he remained standing. “I just wanted to know what you think. If you’re interested. We really want you on board.”
“Interested in what?”
“The idea Elnaz sent you,” Bente said slowly. Did she sound annoyed?
“The idea, right, yes, let me see ...” Didrik went over to the desk and opened up his laptop with clumsy hands. “I’ll just find the email ...”
“Or I can give you the pitch, if you like.”
“Okay, fine, yes.” He closed the laptop, sat down, and rested his chin on one hand, but his elbow slid along the surface of the desk. What the hell was wrong with him? Fucking whiskey. What a stupid idea! He hadn’t been expecting a visit, plus there was the matter ofhis lack of sleep. He didn’t even want to think about how he must be coming across.
Bente adjusted her position; the sofa sagged in the middle, as if he had a lot of visitors. Which wasn’t surprising—everyone seemed to love Didrik Holgersson. And she had to agree—the way he appeared on TV, he really was lovable. A person you couldn’t dislike. However, he looked quite different now. His hair was much messier than when she’d met him at Rendezvous, and he’d developed dark circles under his eyes. The respectable history nerd from the television looked almost crazy. He seemed clumsy, generally confused, making her think of the archetypal absent-minded professor. She gave a little smile, because the effect was unexpected and almost attractive. Beneath the smooth surface, she was catching a glimpse of a different man, one much more serious and subdued.
A week had passed without the production company hearing anything from Didrik. Elnaz had also explained that their research had come to a standstill.Our team is having difficulty finding any more information about the bottle and the man who was in the Foreign Legion. Meanwhile, we’re looking into a few different angles—will be in touch!
Bente had therefore come here on a charm offensive. She needed Didrik, so she started talking.
He nodded as she plowed on. He was almost too attentive, as if he was making a huge effort. She noticed that he couldn’t sit still and kept changing position; plus his gaze wasn’t entirely focused. Jeez, had he been drinking? Wasn’t there a smell of booze in here? Yes, come to think of it, she’d picked up something of the scent when she walked in. Then again, it could just as easily be hand sanitizer—people who had just sprayed their hands smelled worse than Hanna’s cocktails.
Oh well. Whatever possible issues Didrik had with alcohol, she would just have to put up with them.
After receiving Elnaz’s email, Bente had realized that she was going to have to do this herself if she wanted the show to match her vision. She had decided to take her camera and travel to Paris to carry out her own research. Meet up with contacts, try to find out more about the bottle, the shipwreck, and Bordeaux. But she couldn’t do any of that unless she was sure that Didrik was on board with the show, so she had to choose her words carefully, sell him the whole concept. He had to say yes! Maybe she should stress the historical aspect?
“I want to follow the wine bottle, its origin and thehistorysurrounding the wine. Travel around France, speak tohistoriansin Paris. And possibly go on to Bordeaux to research the area during theoccupation, how the winemakers coped, how the people livedin the past.”
Didrik kept nodding, as if he were taking in what she was saying and considering it.
“I think it sounds very exciting,” he began. Bente felt a surge of hope through her whole body. “I’d love to do it, but ...” he added quickly.
The hope died away. “But . . . ?”
“But the situation at home is ...” He sighed deeply. “There’s a lot happening on the home front. I can’t give you a definite answer today.”
Bente simply nodded. An unequivocal yes from Didrik was exactly what the production company and TV24 were demanding.
“We really do need you,” she pleaded. “The production company has asked some junior researchers to carry out the research, and they haven’t found anything. I need someone with your expertise to tell us what to look for, to help me understand the history and find the truth.” He was a researcher, after all—surely the truth and a story, together, must mean something to him.
“Okay ... How far have you got? What have you learned?”
“Only that the bottle was sent to an address in Vetlanda in 1945. There was an inscription on a plaque attached to it, a picture of a big oak tree and then some words in Swedish. I don’t know where it was sent from, or why, but the people who lived at the address in Vetlanda were the parents of a man who left home to join the French ForeignLegion just before the start of the Second World War. He was arrested by the Germans in France toward the end of the occupation and died in prison—before the bottle was sent. I have no idea whether he sent it somehow, but there’s definitely a connection. I want to look into the origins of the bottle.” She took a deep breath. “Like I said, we need your expertise.”
Something about him seemed to change, maybe because now he felt needed. She got the sense that this kind of thing was important to Didrik.
