C H A P T E R 1 7
Anna Fehn opened the door and looked at Sejer. She liked what she saw, but at the same time she felt anxious. The painting of Andreas stood on the easel, half finished. And now a policeman had come here to ask questions. How much should she tell him? What would he think? He didn't sit down when she pointed to the sofa.
"Why are you here? How did you find me?" He smiled briefly. "This is a small town. I'm just curious. Would it be possible to see the painting of Andreas that you've been working on?"
She led the way into another, bigger and brighter, space. The easel stood to the right of the window so that the light fell on it from the left. Sejer didn't recognise Andreas because the boy stood with his face tilted down, his eyes fixed on a spot on the floor. But the hair, maybe, the wild curls. Otherwise it was his body that she had wanted to portray. Sejer was struck by just how naked he was, more naked than he would have looked in a photograph. The body was in violent motion, more defined than his age would indicate. He was painted in blues and greens, only his hair was red.
"Does he like it? Posing?"
She nodded. "He seems to. He's good-looking, and he knows it." She laughed softly. "The first time he saw it, he said: 'Shit, that's fucking awesome!'" Sejer stuck his face close to the canvas. "It must take a certain kind of person. To pose like that."
"Why so?"
He shrugged. "I'm trying to imagine myself in the same situation. How uncomfortable I would feel."
"Maybe you take yourself too seriously." She noticed his eyes, which weren't brown, as she at first thought, but deep grey. His hair must have been raven black at one time. She guessed that he was a practical type; his hair was cut very short and he carried himself with controlled grace, without being ostentatious. Mature, she thought.
"Do the two of you do anything else besides pose and paint?"
She had been afraid of the question, but was unprepared for the speed with which it came. Was he being impudent or just unusually acute?
"Sometimes," she said evasively.
"Have a bite to eat together, or sometimes a beer?"
She coughed. "Er, yes. Sometimes."
"Sometimes what?"
He stared her down. A tiny smile took the sting out of his dark gaze. She started fidgeting with a brush sticking out of a jar. Stroked her chin with the soft bristles.
"We sleep together."
"Who took the initiative?"
"I did. What did you expect?" The reply was followed by dry laughter.
Sejer looked at the painting again, saw the enthusiasm in every stroke. The young body in which everything was tautly in place. And the force in it, the youth. Anna Fehn was in her early forties and Andreas was 18. Well, it was a familiar story. She looked at the floor. "To be honest, he never really seems to like it. But he does it anyway. As if he thinks it's expected of him, or that it's required, I'm not really sure which. I often wonder. Why he puts himself at my disposal like that." Sejer could understand perfectly why a young man like Andreas would grab such a chance if it was offered to him. Anna Fehn was not a dazzling beauty, but she was very attractive. Blonde and voluptuous.
"Do you know his friend? Zipp?"
"Andreas has mentioned him. In a patronising kind of way. As if he's impossibly hopeless."
"They've been friends for years."
"Yes. And I wonder whether his dissatisfaction is just a cover. That it's actually hiding great emotion. So great that it bothers him."
"What are you getting at?"
She went over to the window where the pale light fell across the naked body on the canvas.
"Call it woman's intuition, but I think that Andreas . . . There's no passion in him. You can feel. . . a certain lack of interest. I think he prefers boys. I think he's in love with Zipp."
Sejer stared at her in shock.
"Forgive me if I'm starting a hare. But I think I'm no more than a cover for him. Something he can brag about to others."
To Zipp, Sejer wondered. "He doesn't spend time with anyone else except Zipp."
"I know."
"But you're not positive about this?"
"At times it's quite blatant. I've had lots of models over the years, and many of them have been homosexual."
"What are the signs that make you think so?"
"I think we girls can see it faster than men. Think about it. I look at you. You look at me. We each think our own thoughts. We do this in a split second, before anything else. We appraise one another. Will I make love with this man, with this woman? Yes or no? When we've decided that, then we move on and attend to whatever is our real objective. And we can put the tension aside. But its always there to begin with. A tension that we get so used to throughout our lives that we don't even think about it. Until one day we're confronted with a man, and the tension isn't there. That's a strange experience. It makes us relax. Girls enjoy the company of homosexual men," she said. "Men evidently don't feel as comfortable in the company of lesbians. Isn't that strange?" She suddenly looked a bit hostile. He listened, astonished, as he retreated into himself. Was that the first thing he thought about when he met a woman? Surely that couldn't be true? Except for Sara, when he met her. But first of all Elise. And, very rarely, Mrs Brenningen on reception. But other times? Yes, if the woman was beautiful. But what if she wasn't attractive in any way? Then he rejected her. After first . . . He stopped what he was thinking. "Will the painting be finished soon?" He nodded at the canvas and the face that was still missing a nose and mouth. The eyes were only indicated, two green shadows beneath the red shock of hair.
"It will be a while. But I'm not going to do anything more with the head. I promised that noone would be able to recognise him, and I'm going to keep that promise. Where is he?" she asked.
"We don't know. All we have is Zipp, and he's not very informative. What will you do now?" he said. "He's missing, and you won't be able to finish the painting."
She shrugged. "I'm sure he'll turn up. And if not, then he'll never be more than a sketch. Would you consider posing for me?"
Sejer was so taken aback that he almost choked.
"I thought I made clear what my feelings on that score were."
"It's important to break down barriers," she said.
"To take off your clothes and let someone study you, to allow yourself to be properly seen through someone else's eyes – it's hugely liberating." Stand in front of this woman, he thought, without a stitch on. With her eyes everywhere, analytical eyes examining him until all that was left was an impression. And not what he really was. Just the impression he made on her. Which was unique to her. What would she see? A 50-year-old, sinewy body in good physical shape. A trace of eczema in a few places. The line at his waist where his skin was paler than elsewhere. A scar running down his right thigh, shiny and white. Hour after hour, until he was fixed on the canvas for all time. And someone would own it, hang it on their wall. Look at it. But why is that so much more frightening than being photographed? he thought. Because the lens is dead and can't judge. Was he afraid of being judged?
Would he overcome something if he agreed to pose? And if so, what would that lead to? Sejer decided he could live with his own curiosity. His expression was polite and proper when he thanked her for her help.
*
Andreas opened his eyes. His mien, when he finally understood, how shall I describe it? A tiny light that suddenly goes out.
"You didn't go there," he said, exhausted.
"Yes, I did!"
I wrung my hands and felt ashamed. Because I had failed him. But I was also furious at all the prejudiced people who don't really see us. Who just give us a quick look and jump to conclusions.