‘You mean to tell me I have lost two hundred thousand kronor?’
‘As long as you don’t sell you haven’t lost anything.’
Humlin’s heart was starting to beat irregularly.
‘Do you think they will go back up?’
‘Of course they will.’
‘When?’
‘In all probability they will go up shortly.’
‘How can you know that? How soon?’
‘White Vision is a well-run company. If they don’t declare bankruptcy they will almost certainly grow strongly over the next few years.’
‘Bankruptcy?’
‘And in that case we can deduct your losses against the profits you’ve made in other deals.’
‘But I have no other shares!’
Burén looked at him sternly, and with a certain amount of pity.
‘I have been trying to tell you this for a long time,’ he said. ‘You should have diversified earlier. Then you would always be able to counter losses.’
‘I had no more money!’
‘You can always borrow.’
‘So I should have taken out a loan to buy shares that will be profitable so that I can deduct the losses of the shares I have that I lost everything on?’
Humlin felt completely crushed. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to beat up the spotty young man on the other side of the desk.
‘You need to keep a cool head in these situations,’ Burén said.
‘What I have is a pain in my head.’
‘The market always bounces back. Your shares have stabilised at a very satisfactory number. The company has already alerted investors about anticipated losses and cash-flow strain in the next quarter. But these things are never written in stone. How are the poems coming along?’
‘At least they haven’t lost all their value yet.’
Suddenly Burén leaned across the desk.
‘I should perhaps tell you that we will become colleagues soon.’
‘I will never set foot in the world of finance.’
‘That’s not what I mean. I’m writing a novel.’
For a split second Humlin imagined Burén publishing a book and being welcomed by the critics as the new hope, as Humlin himself was sidelined and forgotten.
‘What about?’
‘It’s a crime novel. It will centre on a terrible financial crisis.’
‘Will you figure in this novel?’
‘Not at all. The murderer is a woman. She is a ruthless investment broker who doesn’t simply stop at fleecing her clients.’
‘What else does she do?’
‘She literally skins them. I plan to finish the book next month.’
Humlin felt outraged that a man like Burén assumed he could master something as complicated as writing a novel. He wanted to protest, but of course said nothing.
Burén glanced at the computer screen.
‘They’re very stable. Nice and easy. Just levelling out at seventeen kronor.’
‘Five minutes ago they were up over nineteen, you said.’
‘These are negligible fluctuations. You bought for one hundred and twenty. What do you care if they are at nineteen or seventeen?’
Humlin was almost at the point of tears.
‘What is your professional advice?’ he asked.
‘To sit tight.’
‘Is that it?’
‘I’ll be in touch when things look better again.’
‘And when will that be?’
‘Shortly.’
‘How soon is that?’
‘In a few weeks. Ten years at most.’
Humlin stared at him. The chanting of Franciscan monks was coming from somewhere. Burén must have turned it on without him noticing. The music swelled to a deafening roar inside his head.
‘Ten years?’
‘That is the outer margin. Not more than that.’
Burén stood up.
‘I have to leave now. But please don’t worry. I’ll send you a copy of the manuscript when I finish. I look forward to getting your feedback.’
Humlin returned to the street in a daze. He searched in his head for some reassuring and calming thoughts but found nothing until he saw Tea-Bag’s smiling face. Then he started to come back to life, freed from the chill that had followed him from Burén’s dimly lit office. He wondered again if he should write that crime novel after all, if for no other reason than to make some money. The nagging thought that Burén would prove to be the more successful author wouldn’t leave him.
Humlin visited his mother that evening. He squirmed at the thought of having to confront her. When he called her to let her know he was on his way he sensed that she knew what he was planning.
‘I don’t want you to come over this evening,’ she said curtly.
‘What about the fact that I’m supposedly always welcome?’
‘Not tonight.’
Humlin immediately became suspicious. He was convinced there was a hint of a sexual moan in her voice even now.
‘Why exactly is this not a good evening for you, Mother?’
‘I had a dream last night that I shouldn’t have any visitors tonight.’
‘But I need to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘I’ll tell you as soon as I come over.’
‘I have already told you that’s not possible.’
‘I’ll be over around eleven.’
‘On no account are you to come over before midnight.’
‘I’ll be there at eleven-thirty, not a minute later.’
When he stepped into the apartment at exactly eleven-thirty he was assaulted by the smell of strong spices and smoke.
‘What is that smell?’ Humlin asked.
‘I’ve made a Javanese bamboo dish.’
‘You know I prefer not to eat in the middle of the night. Why do you never listen to what I say?’
