Typical—now that he was in a hurry, it suited her to talk.
Catching a train, no time to talk now. Have sent in the divorce papers, if that’s what you’re stressing about.
Three dots pulsated on the screen. Then:
It’s not that. Please wait. I have to tell you something important. In person.
Something important? He had a feeling it wasn’t something that was going to make him happy. Was she planning to remarry?
At that moment the prospect left him strangely indifferent. It was already clear that the two of them were finished—there was no going back. She had hurt him too much, and everything they’d had—their relationship, all the things they’d shared—had been ruined.
The cab he’d called to take him to the City terminal had pulled into the driveway. He waited for a couple of minutes in case Lovisa showed up, then realized that if he didn’t go now, he would miss the train, messing things up for Bente and himself. Was it really worth waiting for Lovisa?
His lack of interest in what she had to say really made him think. It had crept up on him during the weeks since she had left—therealization that the situation between him and Lovisa had been far from perfect. Something had clearly been wrong. At the same time, Didrik had believed that they could get over it, that it was nothing more than a bump in the long road that was their marriage. But when hereallythought back, he realized that he hadn’t felt loved or appreciated by his wife, and in all honesty, he wasn’t sure he had been a loving and appreciative husband to her either.
Then and there, in the hallway of what had been their shared home, he made a decision: He had to let this go. Lovisa had moved on; he didn’t know if he was ready to do the same, but he accepted that they would never be a couple again. So he opened the door, locked it behind him, and got into the cab. He sent a message to Lovisa, saying that he didn’t have time to wait for her.
He met up with Bente and Elnaz outside the hotel, and they crossed the street to a small café that was so Parisian it seemed to Didrik almost to be too much, but he quickly changed his mind about that when they walked in and he saw the beautifully made pastries. They ordered coffee, a baguette each, and a basket of croissants, and he suddenly felt hungry. He realized he hadn’t eaten much lately; he’d had no appetite. But maybe this trip was the beginning of a new chapter in his life?
The clouds in the sky above Paris had begun to disperse, and the sun peeped through as he sipped his coffee and gazed at the pale sunbeams with narrowed eyes. The coffee tasted different here—the way it always did overseas. Each country had its own coffee flavor.
As they were going through the day’s meetings, Bente’s phone buzzed. She picked it up and a foolish smile played over her lips. A French lover? She had mentioned during the train journey that she used to live in Paris.
Once they had cleared the air, they’d had a very pleasant time together. Something told him that she wasn’t the kind of person whousually confronted others; he had noticed that she looked uncomfortable as she raised her concerns, and he had detected a hint of uncertainty. But that had made it clear to him just how important the show was to her, and he’d felt ashamed of the way he had behaved. This only served to strengthen his feeling of freedom as he slowly began to release himself from thoughts of Lovisa.
Who was messaging Bente, making her laugh quietly to herself? He couldn’t help being curious. Eventually she put down the phone and took off her leather jacket. It was warmer now as the sun gained strength, so he followed her example and hung his jacket on the back of his chair. The waitress served them more coffee, and Bente smiled at her. She was different now from when she had come to his office—more relaxed, content, and at ease with herself. This city clearly was her true habitat.
As they enjoyed their breakfast, Elnaz took notes, and they fine-tuned their plans for the next few days.
Bente cleared her throat. “So a friend of mine just got in touch.”
A friend.Didrik smiled to himself. Maybe that was what he needed down here himself, a “friend.” Someone to help him get over Lovisa and their marriage once and for all.
“His family owns a vineyard in Bordeaux, and he knows a lot about the area—can we squeeze him in?”
“I’m sure we can.” Elnaz checked her notes and jotted something down.
“Hopefully Frederic—that’s his name—will be able to help us find out information about the bottle. But I thought we could also talk with him about Bordeaux during the 1940s, how the winemakers lived during the occupation. Frederic has told me about his family, and about how the very best wine was hidden in those days. The Germans requisitioned the wine, and the producers put dust on the cheaper wine bottles to make them look as if they were older vintages.”
“That’s so interesting!” Elnaz said. “I’m sure that information would work really well. Do you think he’d be willing to appear on camera?”
Bente put down her cup. “Frederic loves any kind of attention.” She gave a knowing smile.
Didrik’s phone buzzed next, notifying him of an email from a man he had met up with the previous week, who ran a blog about Swedes in the Foreign Legion, and had promised to provide photos of the subject in question.
“Look—this is Sven.” Didrik turned his phone toward Bente and Elnaz. The photos showed a broad-shouldered man with hair so blond it was almost white. He was wearing the classic white hat of the Foreign Legion. It was hard to tell what color his eyes were, as the photo was black-and-white, but Didrik guessed they were blue.
“The photos come from that guy who runs the blog about Swedish members of the Foreign Legion,” Didrik explained. “I emailed you about him—he found the photos in one of his many books.”
“Oh, so you’ve been in touch with him?” Bente didn’t look pleased. “I thought he didn’t have time to see us until after the trip?”
“He had a window, and I rearranged a couple of things, met up with him a week ago. Unfortunately, all he knew about Sven was that he’d been taken prisoner in France and died in the prison camp—information that was already in the blog. He had no details abouthowhe ended up in France.”
Bente scrutinized the photos. Nodded with a distinct lack of enthusiasm.
Did she think he should have checked with her first? That struck Didrik as illogical—after all, it was his TV show, too, wasn’t it? Surely anything that moved the show forward had to be good?
The first meeting after breakfast was with Bente’s friend Camille, in a different café with a red awning that shaded the windows. A woman with her dark hair cut in a bob and wearing bright-red lipstick got upfrom one of the sidewalk tables and came to meet them. She and Bente exchanged hugs and air-kisses, chatting rapidly in French.
