She felt out of place. She didn’t belong in this aggressive audience. It was very different from the world of ballet and dance. The clothing alone was frightening. In the row immediately behind her were three women who had war paint on their faces and in their garish team shirts and scarves they looked more like goddesses of revenge than sports fans. The man to her left had a good-size belly and whitewashed overalls. From time to time he slapped his rolled-up program against his thigh in an ominous way, alternating from one to the other, apparently only for the sake of the sound. The seat on her right was empty for a long time but someone arrived at the last minute—a thin reed of a man who wound in and out among people and made his way down the row in a long, elegant slide that ended at her side. He greeted her with an insipid smile and a slight lisp. She nodded curtly and gave a cursory smile in return.
The umpire started the game and she tried to follow along. It was hard because the events transpired quickly and with a practiced ease. Then the audience exploded as one and gave a synchronized roar. Alarmed, she shrank down in her seat while the man to her left took the commotion as an opportunity to place a hand on her shoulder, and the commentator’s voice came booming through the loudspeaker with a recitation of names. Her gaunt neighbor did not take part and she thought that perhaps he was preoccupied.
But bit by bit she became caught up in the atmosphere, picked up the basics of the game, not least from the insightful utterances of the supporters who interpreted the events on the court with expert ease, and soon she was enjoying the passionate outbursts and eye-catchingly synchronized movements of the crowd. Like the leaves on a tree, which elegantly fall in line with the wind. She carefully clapped along and rose out of her seat at a goal, howling at appropriate moments.
People restored themselves in the breaks, rested their voices and built up their resources. Popcorn, chocolate, apples, and bananas were sold, while outdated music filled the air. She smiled at her neighbor to the left and he slapped his rolled up program in friendly reply.
She was ready when the whistle blew for the second half. The whole hall was seething and bubbling, and she was as loud as anyone. A preliminary climax arrived when the home team finally drew even and the crowd exploded in roars of triumph and popcorn. She cheered and jumped. An apple came sailing toward her in a gentle arc, lost, not thrown. Her neighbor on the right caught it with an impressively quick reaction. He licked his lips and took possession of his catch. But his selfish action and his total lack of engagement provoked her, so she prodded him roughly and shouted, “Today we’re going to win!”
A sigh rippling through the crowd must have drowned out her words because he misunderstood her comment and helpfully extended the piece of fruit. She grabbed his gift and tossed it indifferently into her bag to rid herself of his kindness.
The teams were neck and neck, creating excruciating tension as the clock ticked, and for a while it looked as if they were headed for a tie, but then came the decisive play. Five players in a counteroffensive before the ball finally landed in the opponent’s net. The goal caused a spring to go off in her body and she flew up into the air, screaming in delight. Then she threw herself deliriously into the arms of her other neighbor, patted his round cheeks, and received his joyful drool on her neck. Then she jumped up onto the chair and leaned back with her arms outstretched in victory, confident that someone would catch her.
After the game she steered her course to the café. Adjusting to the world of work felt strange and she had to concentrate in order to chase the feelings of rapture from her body. She managed it completely only when she laid her eyes on the man who was sitting alone at the back of the room, easy to pick out. A nice-looking gentleman in his late forties, well groomed, elegantly dressed, and neatly trimmed. Berg did not shake his hand—that would have been unprofessional—but she gave him a quick nod in greeting before she sat down.
She began with a test, to see if he was lying: “Thanks for coming. Did Allan Ditelvsen sell illegal videos from his hot-dog stand?”
She had to wait for an answer. He stared at her throat and she struggled with a feeling of aversion.
“Don’t bother with your games. I’m only here because of your gestapo methods and I see that on top of everything else you’re a Christian. By this sign thou shalt conquer.” He pointed to her necklace, which had fallen out of her shirt during her victorious rapture and was now visible. A prettily melded X and P in gold that she had been given a couple of years ago by a Greek boyfriend. It was their initials. “And you can’t even acknowledge other people’s views on love.”
She quickly tucked her necklace inside her shirt. “Drop that bullshit; it makes me sick.”
“The cultured veneer is thin, I see.”
“Since you obviously want to know, then yes. You rape and violate children one day and call upon cultural values and the protection of the law the next. Sometimes I wish that society didn’t give a damn about protecting the freedom of expression and human rights.”
“That’s a good start to this conversation, then.”
The meeting had become completely derailed. Berg pulled herself together.
“Just answer my question and we’ll both get this over and done with.”
The man appeared to see reason. “Yes, Allan sold videos,” he said.
Nothing else followed, even when Berg continued to wait.