Who’s this she? Jeanette wondered.
‘It’s bang in the middle of the city, in ?stermalm! Fuck, I can hardly believe this is happening!’
‘?ke, calm down. Why haven’t you said anything?’
Admittedly, he had hinted that something was in the works during that meal after the film, but at the same time she couldn’t help thinking how he had spent twenty years meandering about at home, how she’d supported him and encouraged him in his art. And now he’d taken his paintings to a gallery without saying a word.
She could hear him breathing down the phone, but he wasn’t saying anything.
‘?ke?’
He came back after a few moments. ‘Yes … I don’t know. It was just an idea I had. I read an article in Perspectives on Art and decided to go and talk to her. Everything seemed to match what she said in the article. I was scared at first, but I probably knew all along that it was the right move to make. It was time, basically.’
So that’s why he didn’t come home last night, Jeanette thought.
‘?ke, you’re talking in riddles. Who did you go to?’
He explained that the woman representing one of Stockholm’s biggest art galleries had been completely bowled over by his work. Using her contacts she’d already managed to sell paintings worth almost forty-five thousand kronor before the exhibition had even opened.
The curator reckoned they could reach four times that, and had promised him another exhibition at her Copenhagen branch.
‘Almost the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art.’ ?ke laughed. ‘Even if it is just a small gallery in Nyhavn.’
Jeanette felt warm inside, but while she was glad something was finally happening, she had a gut feeling that something wasn’t right.
Was his art really his alone?
She’d lost count of the number of nights they’d sat up discussing his work. It usually ended with him in tears, saying it wasn’t working, and she’d have to comfort him and encourage him to continue along the path he’d chosen. She had believed in him.
She knew he had talent, even if she was hardly an authority on the subject.
‘?ke, you never cease to surprise me. But this really takes the biscuit.’ She couldn’t help laughing, although she would rather have asked him why he’d kept all this secret from her. This was what they’d been talking about for years, after all.
‘I suppose I was scared of failure,’ he eventually admitted. ‘I mean, you’ve always supported me. Hell, you’ve basically been paying for me to keep going. Like a patron. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.’
Jeanette didn’t know what to say. A patron? Was that how he saw her? Like a personal cash machine?
‘And do you know what? Do you know who’s exhibiting in Copenhagen at the same time as me? At the same place?’
He spelled it out: ‘D-i-e-s-e-l–F-r-a-n-k,’ then laughed out loud. ‘Adam Diesel-Frank! Look, I’ve got to go now. I’m meeting Alexandra to go through a few details. See you this evening!’
So her name was Alexandra.
Gamla Enskede – Kihlberg House
AS JEANETTE TURNED into the drive of the house she had to slam the brakes on to avoid running into the unfamiliar car that was parked in front of the garage door. The red sports car’s number plate revealed who owned it. Kowalska was the name of the gallery ?ke had contacted, and Jeanette concluded that the car’s owner must be Alexandra Kowalska.
She opened the door and went into the house.
‘Hello?’
There was no answer, so she went upstairs. She could hear voices and laughter from ?ke’s studio, and knocked on the door.
The voices fell silent, and she went in. Several of ?ke’s paintings were spread out on the floor, and at the table sat ?ke and a strikingly beautiful blonde woman in her forties. She was wearing a tight black dress and discreet make-up. So this is Alexandra, Jeanette thought.
‘Do you want to celebrate with us?’ ?ke pointed at the bottle of wine on the table. ‘You’ll have to get a glass, though,’ he added when he realised there wasn’t one there for her.
What the hell is this? Jeanette thought as she saw the bread, cheese and olives laid out.
Alexandra laughed and looked at her. Jeanette didn’t like the woman’s laugh. It sounded false.
‘Maybe we should introduce ourselves?’ Alexandra pointedly raised an eyebrow and stood up. She was tall, considerably taller than Jeanette. She walked over and held out her hand.
‘Alex Kowalska,’ she said, and Jeanette could tell from her accent that she wasn’t Swedish.
‘Jeanette … I’ll get another glass.’
Alexandra – or Alex, as she evidently preferred to be called – stayed until almost midnight before calling for a taxi. ?ke had fallen asleep on the sofa in the living room and Jeanette was left alone in the kitchen with a glass of whisky.
It hadn’t taken Jeanette long to realise that Alex Kowalska was a manipulative person.
During the course of the evening Alex had promised ?ke another exhibition. In Kraków, where she appeared to have not only her roots but also significant contacts. An awful lot of what she said about breakthroughs and success struck Jeanette as blatantly provocative. Her superlatives about ?ke’s work and her grand plans for the future were one thing. But then there were the compliments. Alex described ?ke as a uniquely social person, and she regarded him as an incredibly talented and exciting artist. His eyes were clear, intense and intelligent, and so on. Alexandra had even said that his wrists were beautiful, and as ?ke had looked down at them with a smile, she had run her finger over the veins on the back of his hand and called them the lines of a painter. Jeanette was appalled. Had this woman no shame? She thought that most of what Alex had said during the evening was pathetic, but ?ke had obviously been delighted by her flattery.
This woman is a snake, Jeanette thought, already beginning to suspect the disappointment ?ke would feel when his hopes weren’t completely realised.
How had the relationship come to this? Was this the beginning of the end?
She turned out the kitchen light and went into the living room to wake ?ke from his snoring. But it was impossible to shake any life into him, and she went up to bed on her own.
Jeanette slept badly, having nightmares, and when she woke up she felt pretty low. The sheets were wet with sweat, and she had no desire whatever to get up. But she couldn’t just lie there.
It would be so nice to have a normal job, she thought. The sort of work where you could have a day off if you called in sick. A workplace where you could be replaced and your responsibilities postponed for a day or two.