‘You say you have a brother by the name of Adamah. He has a restaurant where I often eat, apparently.’
She turned her back to him and curled up so that all he could see was her braided hair against the pillow. In a few seconds she had fallen asleep. He looked at the contours of her body under the covers and thought about what she had said:
When he woke up in the morning the other side of the bed was empty. It was half past seven in the morning. Andrea had already left. He got up and walked to the study. Tea-Bag was also gone. The train ticket he had bought her was lying on the floor. She’s disappeared again, he thought. I still don’t know why or where she’s gone.
The phone rang and when he heard on the answering machine that it was Anders Burén he picked up.
‘I hope I’m not calling too early?’
‘Writers work best in the morning.’
‘I thought you said writers worked best at night. But that’s not why I’m calling. I’ve just returned from my monastery. For a meditation retreat.’
Humlin knew that Burén went out to some monastic health spa in the archipelago about four times a year. Rumour had it that the place was run like a private club and cost a small fortune in membership fees.
‘And did you think of a way to raise the prices of my White Vision shares?’
‘White Vision is unimportant.’
‘Not for me.’
‘I have had a brilliant idea. We are going to make you an incorporated company.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘It’s very simple. We start a company and call it “Humlin Magic”. I own fifty-one per cent, you forty-nine. The company consists of your publishing contracts and copyrights.’
Humlin interrupted him.
‘For an author to even try to present himself as an investment opportunity he surely has to be someone who actually makes money. The only incorporated authors I know are ones who write crime fiction. Which I do not.’
‘You didn’t let me finish. Your contracts and the like are negligible in this context.’
‘Thank you.’
‘What I mean is that
‘And how does that work?’
‘We divide you up into shares and sell you. It’s the same principle as selling timeshares in a mountain retreat.’
‘I’m not sure I enjoy being compared to a holiday rental.’
‘Where’s your sense of imagination? I thought writers had imagination.’
‘I use my imagination to write books.’
‘Don’t you see what a brilliant idea this is? People buy shares in you, in your future books. I’m thinking the first public offering will bring in around fifty million. We’ll divide you into a thousand shares. People with money like new ideas. Then the board of directors will meet once a year to decide what you should write. If the worst comes to the worst we’ll declare bankruptcy, liquidate the company, wait until you write something good and then try again.’
‘When I hear the word “liquidate” I think of the Mafia and tough guys executing unpopular members by shooting them in the neck. I take it all this is your idea of a joke?’
‘On the contrary, I am already drafting the first mission statement for “Humlin Magic”.’
‘You can go ahead and stop wasting your time right now. I have no plans to sell my soul.’
‘No one wants your soul, Humlin. I am simply suggesting a way to make the most of your value as a writer. Nothing more. Think about it. I’ll call you back in a few hours.’
‘I won’t be here. How are my shares?’
‘They are wonderfully stable. At yesterday’s closing they were at fourteen fifty.’
Humlin slammed the phone and held his receiver down against the base as if he were drowning it, foreswearing any future calls from Burén. He finally let go and it remained silent.
The small amount of light coming in from the windows was grey. The noises from the street were soft and muffled. Humlin stood frozen on the spot and held his breath. He felt he was going to have a dizzy spell. All these damned problems, he thought. An investment broker who wants to turn me into an incorporated company and a girl called Tea-Bag who sleeps on my couch and only fears the nightmares she carries on the inside. Where do my fears come from? From the knowledge that my shares are losing value and that Andrea places demands on me I can’t meet. I fear my mother will write a masterpiece. I am afraid that my publisher is going to drop me and that my next book will only sell a thousand copies. I’m afraid of scathing reviews, and of losing my tan. In short, I am afraid of anything that will reveal that I am a person devoid of passion and true character.
