Death Sentence

However, having four rooms was a gift. I got my own study with books from floor to ceiling and we had a separate living room, dining room and bedroom. Apart from my study, all rooms were sparsely furnished with second-hand items we were given or bought cheaply at flea markets. This left plenty of room for Line to do her stretching exercises on the living-room floor with me as her always attentive audience.

Despite our modest surroundings I thought the flat was cosy. Line had a talent for getting a great deal out of very little and she never minded getting stuck in if she had to. If we needed a picture she would paint one herself, if a lamp needed hanging she would do it before I came home, even reupholstering soft furnishings posed no challenge for her. It was very much Line’s home, but I enjoy it and felt settled.

I made only slow progress with my next novel, however. I juggled several jobs that left very few hours each day for writing. It took me more than two years to write my second book, The Walls Have Ears, and it was, to put it mildly, awful. It had a hopelessly constructed plot about a hotel room which told the story of the events that had taken place within its four walls, ranging from suicide to drunkenness and fornication. To this day, I have no idea why my publisher accepted it, but he did and was left holding most of the first edition. Only one hundred copies were sold across the country.

Still, I made some money out of it. It wasn’t much, but the advance was big enough for me to take Line on a night out. We treated ourselves to a trip to Tivoli, dinner at D’Angleterre, the ballet and a club. All transport was by taxi until it was time for us to go home. At Line’s suggestion, we walked. It was four o’clock in the morning, but it was summer so it wasn’t cold and the sun was coming up. At Islands Brygge we sat down on the quay, embraced each other and looked across the water at the Copenhagen skyline. Line kicked off her shoes and snuggled up to me. Her breathing was steady and I thought she had fallen asleep. I was starting to get uncomfortable, but didn’t want to stir for fear of waking her.

‘Now would be a good time to propose,’ she suddenly said.

I grinned, but soon stopped when I realized she was right and that I really wanted to. At that moment, I couldn’t think of a single reason not to propose; on the contrary, I simply couldn’t imagine life without her.

I gave Line a hug and pulled her to standing. Then I went down on one knee and told her how much I loved her. She said nothing, but she smiled. She knew perfectly well the effect her smile had on me and it gave me the courage to carry on, tell her all the things I loved about her, every part of her body I worshipped, every one of her actions I admired. It must have been a dreadful load of sentimental nonsense, but we were both tipsy and it felt right.

I had no ring, of course, but I pulled out the Penol 0.5 felt-tip pen I always carried and drew a ring directly on her finger. It tickled, she said, and giggled while I finished the ring with the outline of a large stone in which the letter ‘F’ was embossed.

Line accepted my proposal with the words, ‘Of course, you idiot.’

* * *

Due to our hard-pressed finances, I had to borrow money from my parents to afford the wedding Line wanted. I had never liked asking them for help, but they were surprisingly willing. No doubt they were hoping I would finally get myself a ‘proper’ job to support my wife. I didn’t care what they thought; I just wanted to give Line her dream wedding, a wedding fit for a princess, with a church, a wedding breakfast in a hotel and the whole shebang. The total cost was close to 60,000 kroner, but the result was perfection. Her family outnumbered mine by far and their cheerful presence rubbed off on the rest of the guests, so even the most vociferous opponent of the tradition had to admit they had enjoyed themselves. Bjarne clearly fell under the spell: a few days later he plucked up the courage to propose to Anne.

So much for our attitude to the institution of marriage.

After the wedding I was convinced we would be together for ever and everyone who knew us was of the same opinion. We suited each other, they said, and we were both invited whenever her or my circle of friends held a party. I wouldn’t go as far as to say we were inseparable. We gave each other space and did many things independently of one another, but it was in the certain knowledge that at the end of the day there was always someone to come home to.

There was no jealousy between us in those days. Line’s work was much more sociable than mine; she worked in practically every theatre and came into contact with countless people. Being a dancer is a very sensual profession and viewed from the outside dancers may seem more uninhibited than most people, but I never feared she might be unfaithful to me. A couple of times I forced myself to imagine it, mainly as an exercise to inspire myself to write about that very feeling, but had to shake my head every time. The idea of Line involved in a secret affair just didn’t seem plausible. The wedding ring might have played its part. Even though I didn’t believe in the ritual, I had to admit it made a difference. We had given ourselves to each other and this declaration of trust bestowed a certain serenity on our relationship.

If there was any kind of jealousy between us, it was rooted in money.

The bigger flat was more expensive and Line’s income was the more reliable. I had various casual jobs, but I never earned enough to pay my fair share of the rent. It wasn’t something we discussed or made a big thing of, but there were times when my vanity reared its ugly head. It didn’t help that I found it very difficult to write in the years that followed our marriage. My jobs often involved antisocial hours or were physically so demanding that I didn’t have the energy to sit down in front of my computer or think creatively in my spare time.

The failure of The Walls Have Ears lingered at the back of my mind and my frustration at not producing anything grew day by day. For the first time in my life, I started to doubt if I was cut out to be a writer. Perhaps I had burned out before I had even begun? When I wrote, it was at odd hours fitted in between casual jobs and doing things with Line. I would often be under the influence of alcohol, a habit that had followed me from the commune and did nothing to improve the quality of my work. The next morning I would frequently delete everything I had written in a whisky haze the night before and yet I still convinced myself that I needed alcohol to get started. The only effect it had was to make me so drowsy that I struggled to hold down my casual jobs and found it even harder to sit down at my desk.

By contrast, Line’s career was taking off. She was in constant demand, she was cast in roles where she had solo performances and she was praised in several reviews. I attended as many of her performances as I could and I could see that she was good, not that I knew anything about dance. It provided me with an excuse to get out of the flat, away from my desk and it meant I visited theatres in Copenhagen I would probably not have gone to on my own. Sometimes Bjarne and Anne would come with me and afterwards the four of us would go out. Despite having danced the whole evening, Line was happy to carry on dancing and she always manage to drag me out on the dance floor, even though I often didn’t feel like it. It was her smile that did it. She knew how to smile – and I surrendered.

Every time.

11

FINN HAD GIVEN me some complimentary tickets for the book fair.

Over time it had become a ritual that I would visit my parents and present them with two. They expected it. Not because they were short of money. They were both retired, had generous pensions and considerable equity in their bungalow in Valby and their holiday cottage in Marielyst. Even so, they refused to pay the modest entrance fee to the book fair and at times felt the need to remind me of this several months in advance. They also expected me to deliver the tickets in person as I was in town anyway, a tradition we had observed for many years. It was now the only occasion I saw them, once a year for dinner, red wine and conversations about books, the safest topic we could think of.

My father, Niels, used to teach and his interest in literature stemmed from that. My mother, Hanne, had carried on the family tradition and qualified as a doctor at a relatively young age. They read many books in her