The Man In The Window [Mannen i vinduet - no]

'Didyou prostitute yourself?'

Shesighed and gravely shook her head to emphasize how stupid she thought thequestion sounded. 'No,' she said. 'I have never prostituted myself. And itwould never enter my head to do so.'

'Striptease?'

Shesent him a condescending look and shook her head. 'Do I look that cheap?'

Thepoliceman bided his time. 'Well, what did you do?'

'I'man actress. I perform theatre.' She smiled at the policeman's facialexpression. 'Folke paid me to appear in a play which he had written anddirected. Folke never tried it on with me. Never.'

'Whydo you call him Folke?' Gunnarstranda asked.

'Noidea. I don't like Reidar. Reidar just sounds silly.'

'Howlong have you been doing this?'

'What?'

'Thisplay-acting stuff.'

'Ayear and a half.'

'Whatsort of man was Folke Jespersen?' Gunnarstranda asked.

Shedeliberated before answering. 'Nice. A decent guy,' she concluded. 'He was old- impotent – which he talked about without any inhibitions. We became veryclose – by playing the same roles time after time. But he didn't want to beclose to me in a physical way.'

'Andyou?'

'Idon't know,' she answered, leaning forwards with her hands folded -concentrated. 'But I would maintain that the feelings we had for each otherwere… a kind of love,' she said, focusing on some point in the far distance. 'Asmall, pallid love which we re-played again and again in that little room, foran hour or two – after intervals of many weeks.'

Gunnarstrandawaited. She wasn't finished.

'Hewas… knowledgeable, had a sense of irony, was mysterious and…'

Shefaltered.

'And…?'the policeman asked.

'Hewas captivated by me. That's important: he was captivated by me.'

Asilence descended over them.

'Hewas proper,' she added. 'Always well turned out. He smelt of coffee andcigarettes and… a particular scent…' Her lips quivered with emotion for amoment.

'Howcome you were performing your play on this day of all days?'

'Idon't know.'

'Whythis day of all days?' he repeated slowly.

'Idon't know. It wasn't supposed to have been then.'

'Pardon?'Gunnarstranda's voice deserted him as he leaned forward with sudden interest.

'Itwasn't supposed to have been then. Relax, you seem so hyper.'

'Whatdo you mean? It hadn't been planned for that day?'

'No,he called me.'

'When?'

'Herang at about – between two and half past. He asked if we could bring thearrangement forward. In fact, the meeting had been set for the 23rd.'

'Didthat often happen – that he would ring you and re-schedule?'

Sheshook her head. 'Never.'

Gunnarstrandaleaned back. His fingers were trembling. 'He never re-scheduled once overeighteen months, never changed an arrangement?'

'Right.'

'Didhe give a reason this time?'

'No.'

Thepoliceman waited.

'Ididn't ask,' she said.

'Whynot?'

'BecauseI was happy he had asked me to come.'

Gunnarstrandaregarded her with scepticism. 'But what kind of play was it?'

'Iplayed a woman and had two chunks of dialogue.'

'Andit took you an hour to say two chunks?'

'Itwas theatre – improvisation. I had fixed lines, two things that had to be said everytime – however our conversations developed. There were several conversations,the same framework, the same point of departure, a play that was repeated againand again – but which finished in a different way every time. The two chunkswere two fixed points in a larger, unrehearsed performance. But the lines wereso important that I was only taken on after an audition. 'Yes,' she nodded andgrinned at the policeman's open mouth. 'I went to an audition… You think I'mkidding, don't you? But this was serious.'

'Soit was just rubbish that your father knew Folke Jespersen?'

'Itwasn't rubbish. It was a lie.'

'Well,what were the lines you were given?'

Shereclined in the sofa. 'The scene was the same every time. He covered the tablewith a white cloth and put out two glasses of sherry. On the window sill therewas an old cassette player with a terrible sound…'

Impatient,Gunnarstranda waved her on.

'…and he sits there…' She pointed to a chair next to her desk. She got to herfeet, crossed the floor, went to the front door and stood with her back toit.'… I knock…' she said, tapping on the door behind her. She continued: '… Iwalk in… and we start any old conversation.

Oh,and I'm wearing a red dress – I can show you it… and a dark wig.'

'Awig?'

'Yes,a wig. Long, black hair down to my shoulders.'

'Anythingelse?'

'Abeauty spot.' She indicated her left cheek. 'A mole, painted on, here…'

Thepoliceman breathed out, whistled. 'A mole on the cheek,' he repeated.

Shenodded.

'Andthe lines?' he asked, impatient, following her with his eyes as she floppedonto the sofa.

Shespoke with her eyes closed, as though it cost her an enormous effort: 'When the essence of life is reduced to memories – they are always fragments ofthe good things that have happened. It is these which survive and make memoryyour greatest asset – the ability to remember, not only to retrace your steps,but also to hold onto your soul and who you are.'

'Andyou had to say that every time?'

Shenodded. 'At some point during the hour I said those words – very often I brokethem up. One clause first, the next whenever it fitted. It became a game – hewaited for the following part, put obstacles in my path and plunged the conversationinto directions which made a conclusion difficult. It was theatre – tough,demanding – but theatre.'

Theinspector flipped over a blank page in his notepad, and passed her the pen andthe pad. 'Write it down,' he requested. 'The dialogue.'

Shetook the pen and paper, and wrote. She was left- handed and held the pen in asomewhat awkward manner.

'Wasthere anything else?' he asked when she had finished.

Shehunched her shoulders. 'A lot was left to me – how I started the conversationwhen I entered – what sort of mood, state of mind I was in. Sometimes it couldgo off at a complete tangent – almost. But all within the same framework – thesherry, Schubert…'

Shefaltered.

'Schubert?'

'Yes,it was always Schubert's eighth on the cassette player – the Unfinished.'

'Whatwas the topic of conversation that day?'

'Forgiveness.'

'Uhuh,'Gunnarstranda said impatiently.

'Wetalked about forgiveness, discussed forgiveness as a phenomenon.'

'Wereany names mentioned?'

'Noneat all.'

'Wereany specific events mentioned?'

'Notfrom his side, if that's what you're wondering.'

'Buthe wanted to be forgiven by you?'

Shenodded.

'Whatfor? Why did he want to be forgiven?'

'It wasnever clear. Apart from…'

Gunnarstrandawas waiting with bated breath, but she said nothing. She looked away. Hecleared his throat. 'Have you any idea what the purpose of this performancewas?'

'Ispeculated at the beginning, of course. But, as time went on, it gave me…' Shepaused.

Gunnarstrandastared at her.

'Isuppose it was fairly obvious. He wanted me to be someone else, a woman hedreamed about, but he never attained. I'm not so keen on that sort of thing.'

'Whynot?'

Shegave him a doleful smile. 'He was dreaming about an unattainable woman, but hehad me. A part of my personality which existed at that moment, in that room. Atthe start he asked me to pretend to be another woman, but – initially I thoughtthat was how it would work, that I would be his secret dream of a woman Ididn't know, but it didn't turn out like that. No,' she burst out and shook herhead in desperation, as though what she was going to say was stupid.

'Sayit,' the detective exhorted.

'OnceI was ill. It must have been six or seven meetings back, about six months ago -I had flu – a temperature of almost 40 and I had to cry off.' She smiled. 'Hewent berserk. I had found a substitute, another actress – excellent, but Folkewouldn't take her. He wanted me.' She looked up. 'Do you understand?' sheasked. 'It was me he wanted! No one else but me. Even though I wore the sameoutfit, the same wig, it wasn't her any longer, it was me!'