Thomas Enger - Burned

‘I see.’

‘The script needs some work, if I can put it like that, but the story has great potential.’

Henning nods to himself.

‘And Yngve Foldvik came to you with this script?’

A pause follows.

‘Yes.’

‘Is that common?’

‘What?’

‘Supervisors tipping off former colleagues about a script written by a student?’

‘I don’t know, but why not? I don’t see anything wrong with it. If you’re planning on writing some crap suggesting that, you can — ’

‘Oh, no, I’m not going to write about it. I’m merely curious. It was my understanding that your co-producer, Henning Enoksen, wasn’t party to the discussions which ended up with you buying the option. Why wasn’t he?’

‘Because we trust one another’s judgement. Have you any idea how many scripts are sent to us, Juul? Every day. How many meetings we hold, how much paperwork we have to plough through in order to make the films we want to, how hard — ’

‘I know,’ he interrupts. ‘What was your impression of Hagerup?’

Henning hears Leirvag take a deep breath.

‘She was a really attractive girl. I can’t believe what has happened to her. She had such a zest for life. So open and hungry, so trusting. Not arrogant or pretentious.’

‘I presume that you had meetings with both Foldvik and Hagerup, given that he introduced her to you?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘What was the chemistry like between them?’

‘What do you mean? Chemistry?’

‘You know, chemistry. The way they looked at each other. Did you pick up any sexual tension between them?’

Another silence. A long one.

‘If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, then you can fuck off,’ Leirvag says in a rising, braying Bergen accent. ‘Yngve is a decent man. One of the very, very best. He tried to help one of his students. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Do you ever go window-shopping, Juul?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you always buy the things you like?’

‘No.’

‘No. Precisely.’

Henning isn’t put off by the irritation in Leirvag’s voice.

‘What happens to the script now?’

Leirvag sighs.

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘But you still have your option, even though the writer is dead?’

‘Yes. I think it would be sad if we didn’t complete something she started. She would have wanted the film to go ahead.’

Nice PR point Henning thinks.

‘What does Yngve think?’

‘Yngve? He agrees with me.’

‘So you’ve already discussed it, then?’

‘No, I, eh, we — ’

Henning smiles to himself and wonders if this might have been what was on the tip of Henning Enoksen’s tongue. That Leirvag was busy planning the film’s future life without Henriette — and with Yngve.

‘Thanks for talking to me, Truls. I don’t have any more questions.’

‘Listen, you’re not going to write about this, are you?’

‘About what?’

‘About Yngve and the film and all that?’

‘I don’t know yet.’

‘Okay. But if you do, I want copy approval. You know, check quotes and so on.’

‘I don’t know if I’ll be quoting you at all, but if I do, I’ll be in touch before it goes to print.’

‘Great.’

Leirvag gives him his e-mail address. Henning pretends to be writing it down, but is in fact standing in front of his piano, wishing he could play it again. Leirvag hangs up without saying goodbye.

His legs hurt. He has walked a lot in the last two days, much more than he usually does. I should start taking my Vespa to work, he thinks, then I won’t need to take a taxi if I have to go from one place to another.

He is amazed at how quickly the time has gone. Before he went back to work, he was grateful when only an hour had passed. Now he feels he is losing track of time.

He looks at the clock and wonders what to do with the rest of his evening. Now that he has had a nap, there is no point in going to bed. He might as well do something productive before night comes, before Jonas’s eyes bore into him again.

I could always go to D?lenenga, he thinks, but knows he won’t be able to sit still tonight. What can he do? Seek out the lion in his den by paying a visit to Omar Rabia Rashid? Or perhaps it’s time to call on the very obliging Yngve Foldvik?

Henning strangles a yawn and hears that Gunnar Goma is stomping up and down the stairs again. Henning pads across the filthy parquet floor and opens his front door. Goma is at the bottom of the stairwell, panting. More footsteps. He sounds like an elephant as he tramples upstairs at a slow but steady pace. He comes round the banister and catches sight of Henning.

‘Oh, hello,’ he says and stops. He is gasping and rests his hands on his knees to breathe more deeply.

‘Hi,’ Henning says, trying quickly to remember the number of the emergency ambulance. Is it 110, 112 or 113? He can never remember.

‘You gave me a fright,’ Goma says, exhaling. He is growing a moustache.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,’ Henning says and studies his neighbour. Goma takes a few more steps. Bare-chested as always. The smell of acrid sweat is strong, even from a distance. He is wearing his usual red shorts.

‘I was wondering about something,’ Henning begins. He waits for Goma to stop, but he doesn’t.

‘You carry on talking,’ Goma says, and walks on. ‘I can hear you. Bloody good acoustics in here. I could screw one of my girlfriends and entertain the whole neighbourhood, ha-ha.’

Henning isn’t sure how to phrase his next question without giving away too much or sounding weird. And it’s not easy to concentrate with a frisky 75-year-old elephant disappearing higher and higher up the stairs.

He opts for the direct approach.

‘You’ve a spyhole in your door, don’t you?’

He already knows the answer, but asks nevertheless.

‘Bet your life I do, ha-ha.’

Goma stops again and wheezes.

‘Arne on the third floor, HI ARNE,’ Goma shouts, before he continues: ‘Arne on the third floor gets so many lady visitors at night. Sometimes, I watch them through the hole in the door, ha-ha.’

Arne? Arne Halldis?

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘I’m not going to be at home much tonight, but it’s possible I might get a visitor. I was wondering, if you’re in anyway and if you hear someone, please would you have a peek through your spyhole and take a good look at them?’

Henning closes his eyes while he waits for Goma to reply; he must sound like a teenager taking the girl of his dreams to the cinema for the first time. Goma is clearly questioning Henning’s sanity.

‘What on earth do you want to know that for? If you’re not in, they’ll just come back another time, won’t they?’

‘Yes, but I’m not entirely sure that I’ll enjoy this visit.’

Silence. Even the acoustically perfect stairwell is quiet.

‘Lovesick woman, is it?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Not a problem. I’ll keep my eyes peeled.’

Stomp, stomp.

‘Thank you.’

The old man would have made a brilliant interview subject, Henning thinks. The only question is what would I interview him about? He also thinks, for some inexplicable reason, that the story would be subject to fairly heavy censoring by the news desk. Nevertheless, he leaves his flat certain in the knowledge that the stairwell is safely guarded for the rest of the evening.

He has a hunch that something might happen.

As he is wearing a helmet, it will be hard for anyone to recognise him, especially since he has lowered the visor. He makes sure to pull his jacket high up under his chin.