“Here we are!” Didrik announced.
There were boxes of various sizes piled up all around the desk, as if someone had begun to sort everything out but had given up the attempt.
They began to look through the boxes, but found only old newspapers and books filled with notes on the harvesting of grapes and the storage ofwines. Didrik shone the beam of his flashlight around the room while Bente kept on searching. He walked over to the bookshelves where there were several old wooden boxes.
He opened one, then called, “Look at this!”
Bente joined him. He shone the flashlight into the box while she filmed. It contained yellowing sheets of paper covered in pencil sketches.
They took one out to look more closely and saw it was an image of two hands, one resting on the other. The hands were strong, male hands. It was a very simple drawing, but intimate. Bente couldn’t explain how, but the artist had managed to convey something incredibly tender and loving in those hands. Perhaps it was because the thumb of the upper hand appeared to be stroking the other person’s wrist—she couldn’t quite put the impression into words.
They unrolled another sheet of paper. This one was a drawing of a naked man. Judging by the style, it had been done by the same artist, who was clearly extremely talented. Once again, the artist had managed to convey so much. The eyes of the man in the picture were filled with desire, so much so that Bente almost felt embarrassed, as if she had walked in on an intimate moment, the beginning of a sexual act. She wondered if Didrik had had the same reaction. In the bottom corner was the letterM—as if it were the name of the subject rather than a signature.
“TheMis drawn the same style as the oak tree on the plaque,” she said.
“You’re right.” Didrik nodded and looked straight at the camera, which Bente was still holding. They turned the paper over, and there it was.
Sven Steen, 23 June 1944.
Their eyes met.At last.
“He was here,” Bente said, smiling at Didrik before zooming in on the signature.
“We’ve finally found Sven.” Didrik reached for her hand in the darkness, and they clasped their fingers together.
Bente turned the camera on herself. “So we’ve discovered drawings done by Sven Steen here in Bordeaux, in the cellar of the former vineyard where the coordinates on the cork led us. We still don’t know who arranged for the bottle to be put on the ship—we’re guessing it was Sven, but what were his intentions for it? And how does that fit with the fact that he was sent away to a prison camp and died before the bottle could have been posted?”
She continued looking through Sven’s intimate drawings of the winemakers’ son. “They were in a relationship,” she said quietly. “Sven and Mathieu.”
Didrik nodded. Gazed at the images. “Undeniably.”
They switched off the camera and carried on looking through the boxes. Once they were done, they gathered up the drawings and put them back in the wooden box. They took some items that seemed relevant—notebooks, letters, and so on—and then retraced their steps.
At least they had something to work on now.
After they’d reemerged, Sylvie showed them into a room where they could study what they had found by daylight.
Bente started with a box that contained items that she thought had probably belonged to Sven. Small half-finished drawings.
And a bundle of half-written notes.
34
Didrik filmed Bente as she read aloud:
“Open the wine bottle. Your Dejje.”
She opened several notes, each one a variation on a single message, as if the writer had been trying out different phrases.
Open the wine bottle. Then you’ll find me. Your Dejje.
Drink the wine. Find me. Your Dejje.
Your Dejje. The same words as on the brass plaque on the wine bottle.
“Since the note is in Swedish, Sven must be the one who wrote it,” Didrik said, and Bente agreed.
“Maybe he’d intended to send the note with the bottle.”
