‘If you’ve come with bad news I want it straightaway, Harry.’

Harry shook his head while drinking his coffee.

Wilhelm closed his eyes and mumbled something inaudible.

‘How’s the play going?’ Harry asked.

Wilhelm smiled weakly.

‘A woman rang from the culture desk at Dagbladet yesterday and asked exactly the same question. I explained how the artistic side of things was going, but then it turned out that what she really wanted to know was if all the publicity surrounding Lisbeth’s mysterious disappearance and her sister’s jumping into the breech was good for ticket sales.’

He rolled his eyes.

‘Well,’ said Harry, ‘is it?’

‘Are you crazy, man?’

Wilhelm’s voice boomed forebodingly.

‘It’s summer. People want to have fun, not mourn for some woman they don’t even know. We have lost our main attraction: Lisbeth Barli, the undiscovered singing star from C amp;W land. Losing her just before opening night is not good for business!’

A couple of heads deeper into the room turned, but Wilhelm continued in the same loud voice.

‘We’ve sold almost no tickets. Well, apart from for the opening night – for that the tickets went like hot cakes. People are so bloodthirsty, they can smell a scandal. Basically, Harry, we are entirely dependent on rave reviews to pull this one off. But right now…’

Wilhelm banged a fist on the white tablecloth and the coffee jumped in the air.

‘… I can’t think of anything less important than bloody business!’

Wilhelm stared at Harry. All the signs were that the outburst would continue when, without any prior indication, an invisible hand wiped the fury from his expression. He was dazed for a moment, as if he didn’t know where he was. Then his face fell apart and he quickly hid it in his hands. Harry saw the head waiter send them a strange, hope-filled look.

‘I apologise,’ Wilhelm mumbled from behind his fingers. ‘I don’t usually… I’m not asleep… Oh shit, I’m so theatrical!’

He sobbed, a sound that was somewhere between laughing and crying, he hit the table again with his hand and pulled a grimace which he managed to twist into a kind of desperate smirk.

‘What can I help you with, Harry? You look sorry for yourself.’

‘Sorry for myself?’

‘Saddened. Melancholic. Cheerless.’

Wilhelm shrugged and piled a forkful of herring and bread into his open mouth. The skin of the fish glistened. The waiter glided soundlessly by the table and poured Chatelain Sancerre from a bottle into Wilhelm’s glass.

‘I have to ask about something that is perhaps unpleasantly intimate,’ Harry said.

Wilhelm shook his head as he washed down the food with wine.

‘The more intimate, the less unpleasant, Harry. Remember, I’m an artist.’

‘Fine.’

Harry took another gulp of coffee to give himself a mental run-up.

‘We found traces of excrement and blood under Lisbeth’s nail. Preliminary analyses match your blood group. I would like to know if we need to run a DNA test on it.’

Wilhelm stopped chewing, put the index finger of his right hand against his lips and stared pensively into the air.

‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to bother.’

‘So her finger has been in contact with your… excrement.’

‘We made love the night before she disappeared. We make love every night. We would have made love during the day too, if it hadn’t been so hot in the flat.’

‘And then…’

‘You’re wondering if we practise postillioning?’

‘Eh…?’

‘If she fingerfucks me up the backside? As often as she can. But carefully. Like sixty per cent of Norwegian men of my age, I have haemorrhoids. That was why Lisbeth never let her nails grow too long. Do you practise postillioning, Harry?’

Harry choked on his coffee.

‘On yourself or with others?’ Wilhelm asked.

‘You should, Harry. As a man especially. Letting yourself be penetrated touches on absolutely fundamental things. If you dare, you will discover that you have a much greater emotional range than you imagine. If you clench up, you close others out and yourself in. But by opening yourself, making yourself vulnerable and showing trust, you quite literally give others the chance to come inside you.’

Wilhelm was waving his fork around.

‘Of course, it is not without risk. They can destroy you, cut you up from the inside. But they can also love you. And then you embrace all their love, Harry. It’s yours. We say that the man takes possession of the woman during sexual intercourse, but is that true? Who takes possession of whose sex? Think about it, Harry.’

Harry thought about it.

‘It’s the same for artists. We have to open up, make ourselves vulnerable, let them in. To have the chance of being loved we have to take a chance on being destroyed inside. We’re talking about serious high-risk sports, Harry. I’m glad I don’t dance any more.’

As Wilhelm smiled, two tears rolled down – one from each eye in turn – in a jerky parallel slalom down his cheeks where they disappeared into his beard.

‘I miss her, Harry.’

Harry concentrated on the tablecloth. He considered whether he should leave, but stayed put.

Wilhelm pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose with a loud trumpeting sound before he poured the rest of the bottle of wine into his glass.

‘I don’t wish to impose myself, Harry, but when I said you looked sorry for yourself I realised that you always look sorry for yourself. Is it a woman?’

Harry fidgeted with his coffee cup.

‘Several?’

Harry was going to give an answer that would fend off further questions, but something made him change his mind. He nodded.

Wilhelm raised his glass.

‘It’s always women. Have you noticed that? Whom did you lose?’

Harry looked at Wilhelm. There was something in the expression of the bearded producer, a pained sincerity, an unguarded openness he recognised and which said he could trust him.

‘My mother fell ill and died when I was young,’ Harry said.

‘And you miss her?’

‘Yes.’

‘But there are several, aren’t there?’

Harry hunched his shoulders.

‘Six months ago a female colleague of mine was killed. Rakel, my girl…’

Harry paused.

‘Yes?’

‘This is hardly of any interest.’

‘I guess we’ve got to the heart of the matter,’ Wilhelm sighed. ‘You’re going your separate ways.’

‘We aren’t. She is. I’m trying to make her change her mind.’

‘Aha. And why does she want to go?’

‘Because I am the way I am. It’s a long story, but the short version is that I am the problem. And she would like me to be different.’

‘Do you know what? I’ve got an idea. Take her to my production.’

‘Why?’

‘Because My Fair Lady is based on a Greek myth about the sculptor Pygmalion, who falls in love with one of his sculptures, the beautiful Galatea. He begs Venus to bring the statue to life so that he can marry her, and his prayer is heard. The performance will perhaps show Rakel what can happen when you try to change another person.’

‘That it goes wrong?’

‘On the contrary. Pygmalion, in the form of Professor Higgins, is entirely successful in his intentions in My Fair Lady. I only put on shows that have happy endings. That’s my motto in life. If there is no happy ending, I make one.’

Harry shook his head and gave a lopsided smile.

‘Rakel is not trying to change me. She’s a smart woman. She’ll go her own way instead.’

‘Something tells me that she wants you back. I’ll send you two tickets for opening night.’

Wilhelm signalled to the waiter for the bill.

‘What on earth makes you think she wants me back?’ Harry asked. ‘You don’t know anything about her.’

‘You’re right. I’m talking rubbish. White wine with brunch is a good idea, but only in theory. I’m drinking more than I should at the moment. My apologies.’

The waiter came with the bill. Wilhelm signed it without even looking and asked him to put it with the others. The waiter left.