She was interrupted by Don, who took a large slurp of his Champagne. “That’s delicious.” He smacked his lips.
“I was actually locked up with the daughter of Italy’s largest wine producer.” Agneta twirled her empty glass around.
“Seriously, Mom?” Bente sighed.
“Well, maybe not the largest producer, but her family was some kind of big deal down in southern Italy, the biggest producer of some table wine or other.” Agneta pointed to her empty glass, and Bente obligingly refilled it.
Don gazed with interest at Agneta as she kept talking.
“She told us so many crazy stories! They really did live the Mafia life down there. Oh my God. Everyone was terrified of her. One time sheand my cellmate had an argument about the last bit of marmalade at breakfast. The rest of us thought, Jesus, she has no idea who she’s messing with.” Agneta laughed. “And do you know what the Italian did?”
Don shook his head and leaned forward expectantly.
“Wrote a message on the mirrors when she was in the shower. None of the rest of us ever found out what it said, but it must have been something horrific, because my cellmate, who was also in for financial crimes, by the way—she was a bit of a snob, really—was too scared to go to sleep. And when she did finally fall asleep, she woke up the following morning to find the bed full of blood. I mean, it was actually lingonberry jelly, but she woke up and thought she’d been stabbed.” Agneta slammed her hand down on the table and guffawed. Don joined in the laughter.
Bente stole a glance at Didrik. If she could draw him into the conversation, get him to present the information they had so far, then maybe Don would listen? But Didrik was fully occupied with Lydia.
“History has society and people at its heart ...” she heard him say. Lydia was captivated by his deep voice, and Bente couldn’t help staring at that beautiful mouth for a second. “... the memory disappears but the history remains. However, it varies depending on who is writing it. That’s why it’s so important, everything depends on how we—you and I—choose our angle ...”
Didrik paused there, as if he sensed that he was being watched. Looked in Bente’s direction. She smiled apologetically, trying to convey that she hadn’t been staring athim, but at her aunt. He returned the smile and she felt her cheeks flush red.
Maybe it was the wine.
Meanwhile, Agneta was shaking her head at her Italian story. “PureGodfather.”
Uno’s face crumpled yet again. “The Godfather.Mirja and I used to watchThe Godfatheronce a year,” he burst out.
Bente turned to her mother. “I thought you guys were going to stay in the background,” she murmured.
Needless to say, Agneta took no notice whatsoever. “I love reality TV, it’s like psychoanalysis in prime time, of such interesting people. During my time in jail, I ...”
Bente got to her feet. There clearly wasn’t going to be a discussion about the show.
There was a natural pause as everyone started eating, and Bente seized her chance. “Like I said before, Don, we have a list of vineyards that might lead us to Sven Steen. I really think we could find out quite a lot if we had the opportunity to ...”
“Your mom should be on TV.” Don was beaming, not listening to a word Bente said.
“Absolutely. But I’m thinking that if we go to Bordeaux, I take my handheld camera, and we visit the city archive and maybe a few vineyards, we should be able to gather some really good material. What do you say?” She looked at Elnaz, who was laughing at something Hanna had said. Then Elnaz whispered something in Hanna’s ear that made her giggle. Giggle? Since when did her sister giggle? And Don wasn’t listening either; he was laughing at yet another of Agneta’s jail stories.
Bente sighed. She might as well just give up.
26
The balcony door was ajar, and Bente thought she could hear Didrik’s voice from outside. She peeped out and saw him sitting at the wrought iron table with Don.
As Bente went out to join them, Don got to his feet and held up his coffee cup. “Just going inside for a refill.”
Didrik looked up at her and pushed out the chair beside him so that she could flop down.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Not really. I’m afraid that this show is going to be reduced to some kind of nonsense where we talk about feelings with other celebrities, me wearing stripy Breton tops and you, creased linen shirts.”
“Don’t be too disappointed—I look really good in a creased linen shirt.” Didrik winked, and once again her stomach flipped. Creased linen shirts and Didrik Holgersson seemed like a lethal combination. His expression grew serious. “Don’t worry, we’ll bring them around.”
She nodded. “Thank you. It means a lot that you think the show is important too.” It was a great comfort to know that he was on her side, after all.
She allowed herself to gaze at him for a moment in the soft twilight, which would soon be swallowed up by darkness. His hair was more tousled than ever, and the stubble made him even more attractive.
