Bente shrugged and turned her attention back to the newspaper.
After breakfast they headed off to the morning’s first meeting, with a historian specializing in the history of French wine. The woman explained how the winemakers had lived during the occupation, about the challenges they’d faced, and the pride they’d felt as they continued to do their utmost to produce their beloved wine: both because they needed to bring in money and because making wine was a part of the cultural heritage of France, and such a large part of their personal lives.
They showed her the bottle and the box, and Didrik asked specifically about the little space in the latter. The historian told them that many winemakers had worked with the resistance movement. She added that some of those were collaborators who also worked with the Nazis and the French police.
Afterward they went for coffee at a small café just off Place de la Madeleine.
Elnaz, who seemed unaware of the tension between Didrik and Bente, was on the lookout for filming locations they could use with the production team later.
“I think we’ve found some good places,” she told them now, “like that sweet little museum. And it would be great if the two of you talked to the historian, if she wants to be on the show. And your friend Frederic—you could chat to him in a wine cellar, for example.”
Elnaz beamed at them, clearly hoping for an enthusiastic response. “And I love the idea of us filming with our own camera sometimes—it feels really authentic. Like a nicer version ofThe Blair Witch Project. With wine.” She laughed, then sighed. “But we need more material than we’ve got if we’re going to have enough for a series.”
Bente nodded as she jotted things down in her red notebook. “I agree—we don’t know much at all.” She sounded resigned. “It’s going to be difficult to build a show on the fact that a bottle at the bottom of the sea had a Swedish inscription and was apparently on the way to an address in Vetlanda.”
“Where a man was born who later joined the Foreign Legion,” Didrik added.
“Yes, but we don’t know for sure that it was this Sven who sent the bottle. We need more.Somethingat least. Where was the bottle from? Which vineyard? From what we’ve heard from the people we’ve met so far, that all seems almost impossible to track down. Of course we may find out more about this Sven, but even if we do, it still feels a bit ... sparse.”
Didrik sensed a certain desperation in Bente’s voice and did his best to sound encouraging. “Maybe Frederic will have information that will take us another step forward. Plus I’m meeting that military historian. She might be able to point us in the direction of some good reading material if she doesn’t have any concrete details.”
Bente gave a brief nod.
When they parted company, Didrik walked to the military museum. He was met there by an elegant woman in her early fifties, wearing pants and a shirt, her hair in a neat chignon. She greeted him with a firm handshake. As they walked around, she told him about all the exhibits—books, uniforms, old weapons—and talked about the development of the Foreign Legion throughout history, and its role during the Second World War.
She hadn’t heard of a Swedish legionnaire who ended up in Bordeaux during the occupation, but she gave Didrik an important tip: A legionnaire in occupied France probably would have traveled under a different identity, and might even have claimed to be of a different nationality. She recommended a diary written by a priest who had been active within the resistance movement in Bordeaux—he might have mentioned Sven. She pointed Didrik in the direction of one or two antiquarian booksellers in the city who might have a copy—apparently it was difficult to obtain.
When Didrik left the museum, he took a stroll in order to get some exercise and see a little more of Paris.
He hadn’t replied to Lovisa yet. He ought to just get it done.
Back in the hotel room, he called her right away, before he had time to change his mind. He sat down on the bed, and she answered after three rings.
“Thanks for calling.”
Didrik didn’t say anything.
“How are you? How’s Paris?” Her tone was hesitant.
“It’s great, but I’m mostly working. What did you want to talk about?”
“I wanted to tell you before you found out from someone else.” Her voice was trembling now. “Niklas and I, we ...”
Niklas. It hadn’t even occurred to Didrik that her new partner had a name.
“We’re expecting a baby.”
“Expecting a baby? What, so you’re ... pregnant?”
“Yes.”
Didrik took a deep breath. “Why are you telling me this now?”
“Like I said, I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else.”
“Someone else? I’m in Paris, I don’t know a soul here. Why couldn’t it wait until I got home?”
She was silent for a few seconds. “Because I’m showing ...”
