9

      Reidar and Veronica open the doors to the dining room and the throbbing music hits them in the chest. There’s a crowd of people dancing round the table in the darkness. Some of them are still eating the saddle of venison and roasted vegetables.

      The actor Wille Strandberg has unbuttoned his shirt. It’s impossible to hear what he’s saying as he dances his way through the crowd towards Reidar and Veronica.

      ‘Take it off!’ Veronica cries.

      Wille laughs and pulls off his shirt, throws it at her and dances in front of her with his hands behind his neck. His bulging, middle-aged stomach bounces in time to his quick movements.

      Reidar empties another glass of wine, then dances up to Wille with his hips rolling.

      The music goes into a quieter, gentler phase and Reidar’s old publisher David Sylwan takes hold of his arm and gasps something, his face sweaty and happy.

      ‘What?’

      ‘There’s been no contest today,’ David repeats.

      ‘Stud poker?’ Reidar asks. ‘Shooting, wrestling …’

      ‘Shooting!’ several people cry.

      ‘Get the pistol and a few bottles of champagne,’ Reidar says with a smile.

      The thudding beat returns, drowning out any further conversation. Reidar gets an oil painting down from the wall and carries it out through the door. It’s a portrait of him, painted by Peter Dahl.

      ‘I like that picture,’ Veronica says, trying to stop him.

      Reidar shakes her hand from his arm and carries on towards the hall. Almost all of the guests follow him outside into the ice-cold park. Fresh snow has settled smoothly on the ground. There are still flakes swirling round beneath the dark sky.

      Reidar strides through the snow and hangs the portrait on an apple tree, its branches laden with snow. Wille Strandberg follows, carrying a flare he found in a box in the cleaning cupboard. He tears the plastic cover off, then pulls the string. There’s a pop and the flare starts to burn, giving off an intense light. Laughing, he stumbles over and puts the flare in the snow beneath the tree. The white light makes the trunk and naked branches glow.

      Now they can all see the painting of Reidar holding a silvery pen in his hand.

      Berzelius, a translator, has brought three bottles of champagne, and David Sylwan holds up Reidar’s old Colt with a grin.

      ‘This isn’t funny,’ Veronica says in a serious voice.

      David goes and stands next to Reidar, the Colt in his hand. He feeds six bullets into the barrel, then spins the cylinder.

      Wille Strandberg is still shirtless, but he’s so drunk he doesn’t feel the cold.

      ‘If you win, you can choose a horse from the stables,’ Reidar mumbles, taking the revolver from David.

      ‘Please, be careful,’ Veronica says.

      Reidar moves aside, raises his arm and fires, but hits nothing, the blast echoing between the buildings.

      A few guests applaud politely, as if he were playing golf.

      ‘My turn,’ David laughs.

      Veronica stands in the snow, shivering. Her feet are burning with cold in her thin sandals.

      ‘I like that portrait,’ she says again.

      ‘Me too,’ Reidar says, firing another shot.

      The bullet hits the top corner of the canvas, there’s a puff of dust as the gold frame gets dislodged and hangs askew.

      David pulls the revolver from his hand with a chuckle, stumbles and falls, and fires a shot up at the sky, then another as he tries to stand up.

      A couple of guests clap, and others laugh and raise their glasses in a toast.

      Reidar takes the revolver back and brushes the snow off it.

      ‘It’s all down to the last shot,’ he says.

      Veronica goes over and kisses him on the lips.

      ‘How are you doing?’

      ‘Fine,’ he says. ‘I’ve never been happier.’

      Veronica looks at him and brushes the hair from his forehead. The group on the stone steps whistles and laughs.

      ‘I found a better target,’ cries a red-haired woman whose name he can’t remember.

      She’s dragging a huge doll through the snow. Suddenly she loses her grip of the doll and falls to her knees, then gets back on her feet again. Her leopard-skin-print dress is flecked with damp.

      ‘I saw it yesterday, it was under a dirty tarpaulin in the garage,’ she exclaims jubilantly.

      Berzelius hurries over to help her carry it. The doll is solid plastic, and has been painted to look like Spiderman. It’s as tall as Berzelius.

      ‘Well done, Marie!’ David cries.

      ‘Shoot Spiderman,’ one of the women behind them calls.

      Reidar looks up, sees the big doll, and lets the gun fall to the snow.

      ‘I have to sleep,’ he says abruptly.

      He pushes aside the glass of champagne Wille is holding out to him and walks back to the house on unsteady legs.