He wanted to screw young girls. Young girls didn’t want anything to do with him in that way, he was under no illusions. But with the right preparation he could create a situation where young girls felt it was
He thought he had the situation more or less under control when he got up from his tangled sheets at two o’clock and took a sleeping pill. Twenty minutes later he was sleeping peacefully, and was woken by the clock radio at half past seven. He got up, groggy but determined, and began to gather together his paraphernalia.
At nine-thirty he was ready and waiting in room 214 at the Diplomat Hotel. During the past two years he had met seven wannabe artists here. Two of them had ended up on their backs in the fair-sized double bed, one had given him a half-decent blow job, and one had let him cop a feel before she drew the line. A reasonable success rate.
But this success rate depended on the fact that the ground had been prepared in advance. He had hinted at opportunities, coaxed half promises from girls who weren’t exactly wet behind the ears, then cashed in. Tora Larsson would be a challenge.
He didn’t really have any memory of the actual sex, since it had been over-written by the films he had made at the time, then watched over and over again. The number of times he had masturbated while watching himself having sex so far exceeded the number of times he had actually had sex that his real memories were not in his head, but on his DVD shelf.
The room was a good shape. When he mounted the camera on its stand, the viewfinder showed the generous floor space in front of the bed where the girls would do their little audition. When they had finished, he would zoom in on the bed while pretending to switch off the camera. All he could do then was hope for the best.
After setting up the camera he got out the champagne and put it in the bucket he had filled with ice from the machine in the corridor. Well, it was actually sparkling wine rather than champagne, the same thing at half the price, but he’d like to see the teenager who could tell the difference, even the experts are hard pushed to do that. Next to the bucket he placed two slender long-stemmed crystal flutes; they were the genuine article, and even came in their own case.
He took a shower without wetting his hair. He had arranged his hairstyle very carefully that morning: the eight hundred strands in his fringe had cost thirty kronor apiece and they were swept back to achieve just the right kind of tousled look. He snipped off a couple of nasal hairs, smoothed a discreet tinted moisturiser over his face, dabbed on a couple of drops of Lagerfeld.
He was forty-seven years old but on a good day, a day like this, he could pass for forty. He might be a pig but he was no dirty old man. Max Hansen looked at himself in mirror and did the usual pep talk, telling himself he looked pretty good, that there was nothing strange about a young girl getting it on with this guy. He winked at himself in the mirror.
When he was dressed he sat down on the bed and waited, his mind an empty chess board, the pieces not yet set out. This was what it was all about: not taking anything for granted, being flexible. In this case his adaptability stretched to the point where he could accept it if he didn’t even get to first base today. He wanted to go further with this girl, whatever happened.
At quarter past ten there was a soft tap on the door. Max Hansen wiped his palms on his trousers, smoothed down the bedspread and cast a final glance at himself in the mirror. Then he opened the door.
A strikingly unattractive girl was standing there. Small, deep-set eyes in a fat face framed by mousy hair plastered shapelessly to her skull. Her plump body was covered by a faded hoodie, and if the concept
‘Hello,’ said the girl. ‘Are you Max?’
‘I am. And who are you?’
The girl glanced at something just out of sight. Max couldn’t help stepping forward and looking out, and there she was. The apple in the Garden of Eden, and all that. Clad in jeans and a T-shirt under a thin, open jacket, Tora Larsson’s figure was more boyish than it had looked on TV, but the mere outline of the small breasts beneath the cotton fabric was enough to send a warm quiver through his groin. It was almost hard to believe she was old enough to take part in
Her face was small, dominated by the lips and two big blue eyes which gazed at a point just to his left, not blinking at all. Max had seen girls who were prettier, more beautiful, more exciting, whatever. But never anything as
‘Hi,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘So you must be Tora?’
Tora looked at his outstretched hand without taking it, and the central plank of his strategy fell to pieces right there. In one single movement he withdrew his hand and gestured towards the room: ‘Come on in.’
The other girl took a step forward and Max placed one hand on the doorpost, blocking her way.
‘Hang on a minute,’ he said. ‘You’re not Tora, are you?’ The girl shook her head. ‘No. So what exactly do you think you’re doing?’
‘I’m coming with her.’
‘I’m sorry, but this is a matter of contract negotiations. It’s a discussion between two parties. No outsiders. That’s how it works.’
His authoritative tone made an impression. The girl looked at Tora, seeking support, and Tora said, ‘Teresa is coming with me.’
Max decided to risk everything on one throw of the dice. Without more ado he said, ‘Sorry, in that case we have nothing to discuss,’ and closed the door. Then he stood just inside the room, his heart pounding. The doors were heavily soundproofed, and he couldn’t hear what the girls were saying. He was
After perhaps thirty seconds there was another knock at the door. Max let out a long breath, waited for ten rapid heartbeats, then opened the door with an irritated, ‘Yes?’
Tora was standing there this time. The other girl was sitting on the floor opposite the door. ‘Teresa will wait,’ said Tora, stepping into the room as the other girl glared at Max, who took out his wallet and held out a fifty- kronor note.
‘Here. Go and sit in reception and get yourself a soft drink or something. Sorry, but that’s the way it works in this industry.’ The other girl took the note, but made no move to get up. Max closed the thick, heavy door as if he were sealing a bank vault. First stage completed.
Tora stood in the middle of the room, arms at her sides. She looked at the camera, but as Max was about to launch into his carefully prepared spiel, she had already turned her gaze to the champagne bucket. Max took this as an encouraging sign and said, ‘Let’s have a drop of bubbly, shall we? To celebrate.’
Tora watched as he filled two glasses. As he passed her a glass it almost slipped out of his sweaty hand, which had started to tremble on top of everything else. Tora’s calm silence was confusing him. He had seen every possible variation: hysterical gabbling, rock-hard attitude (assumed or genuine), hesitant seductiveness or something close to panic. Everything but this. A visiting princess who knows that
He clinked his glass against Tora’s and took a large gulp. When she didn’t move he said, ‘Try it. It’s absolutely delicious. Excellent label.’
Tora sipped the sparkling wine and said, ‘No. It isn’t delicious. It tastes bad.’
Something snapped inside Max Hansen and he slumped down into an armchair where he rested his cheek on his hand and simply looked at her. Then he clicked a button to start the camera. If nothing else came of this he would at least have a short film of her. Tora was standing in the middle of the floor with the glass in her hand, gazing at the window.
‘Sing something,’ said Max Hansen.
‘What shall I sing?’
‘Whatever you like. Sing “A Thousand and One Nights”.’
Without hesitation Tora began to sing, and after just a few seconds it was as if a clear, cool stream was flowing through Max Hansen. Her voice washed away his anxiety, and he felt pure inside.
