Lawrence Block - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 2. Whole No. 834, February 2011

Her story was miserable enough, but it didn’t affect him in the slightest. He had heard far too many of the same type, and the fools had only themselves to blame. He was more inclined to yawn or doze off, but he didn’t let her suspect that. He gently caressed her chubby hands, stroked her cheeks, which the wine had given color. The words spilled forth from her, and she spoke of disloyal girlfriends, malicious employers, numerous bodily ailments, and strict parents who had no understanding of her. This made him prick up his ears, and he gently probed her to expand on the issue, so that it only sounded natural when he inquired:

“Where do your parents live?”

“At Silverwood, they have a lovely villa there.”

He had to concentrate to avoid smacking his lips. Silverwood was a name that spoke more than a thousand words. She had to be far more well-to-do than he had dared to hope. And she was an only child! He listened intently as she described her mother, who was “strict, hard, but basically has a good heart.”

Finally, the bottle of wine was empty, and she grew quiet, empty of words and repressed emotions. Now it was his turn.

“And now, Kristian. I want to know everything about you.”

He had several “stories of his life” in store, and he chose the one of the orphan who went to sea at an early age but who returned ashore to get an education, about the small business he had established, but which had burnt to the ground, about his marriage to Lovise, about all the lovers she took while he rebuilt his business, about how she had revealed all of his trade secrets to one of them, his greatest competitor.

Johanne gripped his hand and squeezed it tightly.

“How could she be so mean? So vile? How do people become like that?”

She had tears in her eyes, and using an old trick, he managed to produce some of his own. They sat holding each other for a while, and he thought: Curtain call, Baby Fool, let’s proceed to the third act.

Things went exactly as predicted.

“Will you accompany me home, Kristian? For a cup of coffee and a cake I have baked... for you.”

Twenty minutes later, they were in her apartment. While she was in the kitchen, he looked around with practiced eyes. Everything exceeded his expectations: expensive furniture, paintings, and objects. Her parents may have been strict, but they were nevertheless very generous.

She served him coffee, and the cake she had baked, a sugary, sticky affair that revealed that she was as inept in the kitchen as she was at the writing desk. Finally, she fetched a bottle of liqueur, and when they had finished a couple of glasses, she leaned towards him, breathing heavily.

“Kiss me, Kristian. Kiss me hard.”

He closed his eyes and let himself go. After the embrace, he gasped for breath and loosened his tie. He had to undergo the ordeal once more, but to his relief, she suddenly tore herself away from him and said:

“No, Kristian. No! We cannot go any further. Not until... I mean, only if we were to be... married. I’ve been burned before and I just want everything to be right between us. Do you understand, Kristian?”

He understood perfectly, and sighed with relief. “The heights of passion” was what he had feared most. At least he didn’t have to worry about that.

He had to suffer an interminable and nauseating farewell ritual before they separated. They agreed to meet the next day to go to the cinema.

“Goodbye, Kristian,” she said at the door, with a low, tender voice. “I love you.”

“Goodbye,” he groaned, pale with exhaustion.

“Goodbye, you inane, marriage-crazed creature,” he mumbled to himself as he descended the stairs.

During the following weeks they met every day. He struggled along quiet paths in the woods, forced down the dreadful meals she served, and sat holding her hand on the sofa, listening to her selection of sickly love songs. (“Likes all types of music, except country and western.”) Finally he felt that he had gained her complete trust, and he popped the question he had been waiting with for so long.

“Johanne,” he said, flicking her nose playfully, “isn’t it time your parents got to meet their future son-in-law?”

She threw herself at him with full force and kissed him intensely.

“Kristian, do you really want to marry me?”

“Yes,” he whispered, his guts turning. “I finally feel sure that I have met the right one. I love you, my darling little Johanne.”

A few days later she announced, with a voice full of emotion, that her mother wanted to meet him.

“Father is in South America on some important business, so you will meet him later. He will be so happy, I know it. Mother is expecting us at seven tonight.”

He made an extra effort with his looks for this important meeting, had his hair cut at the city’s best hairdresser, donned his new, expensive suit.

Mrs. Nadja Kram — Johanne’s mother — received him in the hallway. She was slim, dark-haired, and refined, and her green eyes inspected him for a long while. However, his slanted, melancholy smile appeared to convince her of his pure intentions.

A few glances at the huge living rooms spoke of prosperity and wealth beyond his wildest imagination. They sat down to a set table, and Mrs. Kram rang a silver bell. A young, attractive maid appeared.

“Britt, will you serve the coffee now, please. And bring out the best cognac for Kristian.”

The girl disappeared, and Nadja Kram offered him a cigarette from a silver case. Then she took one herself, inserted it into an ivory holder, and smoked with lazy deliberation, while asking him the questions a mother asks on behalf of her daughter in such circumstances. He was well-prepared, and his modest, emotional answers appeared to deeply move her.

Later on, a delightful evening meal was served. He had rarely felt so comfortable, and confirmation that everything was going according to plan came when Nadja drew him aside and said:

“Dear Kristian, I can see that you are an honorable fellow. I am so happy for Johanne. You have no idea what she has been through. But now she is over the moon. Poor little Johanne, things haven’t always been easy for her. She is — well, I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so — so hopelessly naive. Stupid, some might say. I believe it comes from her grandfather on her father’s side. He studied for the priesthood. But she has a heart of gold, and she will always love you. I trust you feel the same way?”

“Yes,” he said, his eyes fixed on a shimmering candlestick. “I love Johanne just the way she is.”

Nadja Kram smiled and patted his hand.

“Do you like the candlestick, Kristian? Pick it up, feel its weight.”

He did as she said.

“Is it... gold?”

She smiled even wider.

“Yes, gold. Old family inheritance. I would like to present it to you as a wedding present. Well, in addition to certain other things, of course.”

A week later, he and Johanne once again visited Nadja Kram. She seemed efficient and determined, and asked to speak with him privately.

“I have been in touch with my husband concerning the plans for the wedding and for your and Johanne’s future. He was very happy, and sends his regards. He would like a simple ceremony, but we agreed to give you Strandheim as a wedding gift.”

“Strandheim?”

“Our former property in Sandby, Johanne’s beloved childhood home. We made the mistake of selling it when she married José Barca and moved abroad. But now she wants to live there with you. My husband can arrange for a job at his factory in Sandby, if you are interested. Don’t worry about being overtaxed. The most important thing for us is that you take care of Johanne. She desperately wants a new child, you know.”