‘I’m going now,’ Törnblom said. ‘Amanda will stay behind for a while. I’ll take you to the station tomorrow morning so we can agree on a date for your next visit.’
Humlin didn’t bother answering. Amanda went to get him a glass of water. Humlin looked admiringly at her backside, then thought about Tanya and immediately felt a little better. That bleeding heart had touched something in him. He had also been affected by her looks. But then he pushed these thoughts aside. He wasn’t coming back. The whole idea behind this writing seminar was ludicrous. Or at least he was the wrong man to do it. For the first time it seriously occurred to him that maybe he should try to write this crime novel. Maybe there had been something to what Lundin had said, and that he might actually be able to come up with something unexpected, something innovative that would leave all the conventional crime thrillers dead in the water.
Törnblom drove him out to the airport the following morning. Humlin still had a great deal of pain in his left cheek and the swelling had not yet started to go down.
‘That was a very interesting evening last night,’ Törnblom said. ‘People have already been asking me when you’ll be back.’
‘I’m never coming back.’
‘In a few days everything will look different. You’ll realise what an important experience this was. When is the best time for you?’
‘Wednesday. But only on one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That the girls only have
‘That’s a tough one.’
‘It’s non-negotiable.’
‘I can ask them to cut the numbers down.’
‘I’m taking it for granted that the man who hit me will not be there again.’
‘I can’t do that. He’ll be insulted.’
Humlin was outraged.
‘
‘He wants to give you the rugby ball to make up for it.’
‘I don’t want a rugby ball.’
‘Just take it. You can always get rid of it later. But you have to accept his apology.’
‘What if he hits me again?’
‘You are filled with prejudice, Humlin. You really don’t know much about this country and the people who live here.’
‘Why was he there in the first place?’
‘He’s considering sending his daughters to your next seminar.’
‘What next seminar? There will not be a next time.’
The pain in his cheek had increased while he talked. Humlin sat quietly for the remainder of the trip. He was also unsure of how to counter the accusation that he was filled with prejudice, since it was probably true. Törnblom dropped him off at the airport in the wet snow. Humlin hoped no one recognised him. His cheek had turned purple and blue.
When he got home he went straight to the bedroom, shut the curtains and crawled into bed. The phone woke him up a few hours later. He hesitated before answering, but picked up on the seventh ring. It was Törnblom.
‘The reporter wrote great things about you.’
‘Nothing about the fight?’
‘There was no fight. You received a blow to the face that can only be described as a perfect uppercut. But he didn’t say a word about it. He writes about “an admirable initiative by one of our leading poets”.’
‘He wrote that?’
‘To the letter.’
Humlin sat up.
‘What else did he write?’
‘That other writers would do well to do the same. “Why write crime novels when one can engage with reality?”’
‘Really — he said that?’
‘I’m quoting straight from the article.’
For the first time in many days Humlin felt the relief of feeling like a real person again.
‘Next time he wants to interview you. I’ve also had some calls from TV.’
‘Which channel?’
‘Two different ones.’
‘I’m happy to speak to them.’
‘See, I told you this would all start falling into place once you felt better.’
‘I don’t feel better.’
‘Let me know when you’ve booked your flight or train and I’ll arrange to come and pick you up.’
Humlin hung up and stretched out between the cool sheets. Even though he was still troubled by the situation in Stensgården and was not sure how to get out of it he was pleased that he was finally getting some media attention that did not simply paint him as a respectable but boring poet. The most pleasing aspect was how this news would affect Lundin and Viktor Leander. Lundin would most likely break the oars of his rowing machine in a fury over the fact that one of his authors had not taken his good advice.
Humlin recalled a time when he had been invited to Lundin’s apartment on the exclusive Strandvägen. Expensive art filled the walls. Late that evening, when Lundin had had more than a little to drink, he had wobbled around with an equally unstable Humlin and told him which authors had made him the profits to buy which paintings. They finally stopped in front of a miniature watercolour landscape by a lesser-known west-coast artist in one corner of the hallway which Lundin announced — with a certain measure of needling disapproval — that Humlin had managed to scrape together the money for.
