Canon shots. Though he doubts he’ll use a single one of them.
The young woman has dark, shoulder-length hair. He takes more pictures. She has an expression on her face he can’t quite decipher. She just stands there, in a world of her own. But there is something about her eyes. He moves closer and closer, until he is practically standing next to her. He pretends to be reading the mawkish cards.
‘Sad,’ he says, just loud enough for her to hear. It could be a statement or an invitation to a conversation. The young woman doesn’t reply. Without her noticing, he moves a step nearer. He stands there for a long time. His hair is starting to feel wet. He shields the camera to prevent it getting wet, too.
‘Did you know her well?’ Henning asks, addressing her directly for the first time. She nods briefly.
‘Were you on the same course?’
At last, she looks at him. He expects her to flinch at the sight of his face, but she doesn’t. She merely says:
‘Yes.’
He lets more time pass. He can see that she isn’t ready to talk, but she isn’t crying, either.
‘Are you Anette?’ he asks, eventually.
She is startled. ‘Do I know you?’
‘No.’
He pauses, giving her time to assess the situation. He doesn’t want to frighten her, he wants to arouse her curiosity. He can see she is studying him. A shiver of fear goes through her, as if she is bracing herself for what he might say.
‘How do you know my name?’
Her voice is anxious. He turns to her. For the first time, she sees his whole face, scars and all. Yet, she still doesn’t seem to really see him. He decides to put his cards on the table, before her fear gets the better of her.
‘My name’s Henning Juul.’
Her face remains unchanged.
‘I work for 123news.’
Her open face hardens instantly.
‘Can I ask you some questions, please? Not intrusive, nosy, insensitive ones, just a few questions about Henriette?’
The apathetic stare she gave the flickering tea lights is gone.
‘How do you know my name?’ she repeats, folding her arms defensively.
‘I guessed it.’
She stares at him with growing impatience.
‘There are a hundred people here and you just guessed that my name is Anette?’
‘Yes.’
She sniffs.
‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘Just a few questions, then I’ll leave you alone.’
‘You reporters only ever have a few questions, but you end up asking hundreds.’
‘One, then. I’ll leave you alone if you answer this one question. Okay?’
He looks at her for a long time. She lets him stand there in the silence, before she tenses and relaxes her shoulders. He attempts a smile, but senses that his charm, which works on most interviewees, is lost on her. She tosses her head and sighs. Henning interprets the movement as consent and says:
‘What was the work Henriette had started and which you intend to complete?’
She looks at him.
‘That’s your question?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not “how will you remember Henriette?” or “can you tell me something about Henriette that will make my readers sob?” or some crap like that?’
She makes her voice sound like that of a pestering child. He shakes his head. She snorts. Her eyes bore into his.
Then she tosses her head again, turns on her heel and walks off.
Great, Henning, he chastises himself. Well done.
And he thinks that the only interesting person in this landscape of mourners has just left. She is no great beauty. He bets she doesn’t sit in the front row in the lecture hall or pose for pictures. He imagines her looking in the mirror and sighing, resigned; sees her giving herself to guys with beer goggles, late at night, and going home before daybreak.
But Anette, he says to himself. You’re interesting. He feels like shouting it after her.
Then he realises what he saw in her eyes. He checks the camera as she disappears around the corner of a building. He scrolls to one of the first pictures he took of her, looks into her eyes. And he knows that he
The young woman has dark, shoulder-length hair. He takes more pictures. She has an expression on her face he can’t quite decipher. She just stands there, in a world of her own. But there is something about her eyes. He moves closer and closer, until he is practically standing next to her. He pretends to be reading the mawkish cards.
‘Sad,’ he says, just loud enough for her to hear. It could be a statement or an invitation to a conversation. The young woman doesn’t reply. Without her noticing, he moves a step nearer. He stands there for a long time. His hair is starting to feel wet. He shields the camera to prevent it getting wet, too.
‘Did you know her well?’ Henning asks, addressing her directly for the first time. She nods briefly.
‘Were you on the same course?’
At last, she looks at him. He expects her to flinch at the sight of his face, but she doesn’t. She merely says:
‘Yes.’
He lets more time pass. He can see that she isn’t ready to talk, but she isn’t crying, either.
‘Are you Anette?’ he asks, eventually.
She is startled. ‘Do I know you?’
‘No.’
He pauses, giving her time to assess the situation. He doesn’t want to frighten her, he wants to arouse her curiosity. He can see she is studying him. A shiver of fear goes through her, as if she is bracing herself for what he might say.
‘How do you know my name?’
Her voice is anxious. He turns to her. For the first time, she sees his whole face, scars and all. Yet, she still doesn’t seem to really see him. He decides to put his cards on the table, before her fear gets the better of her.
‘My name’s Henning Juul.’
Her face remains unchanged.
‘I work for 123news.’
Her open face hardens instantly.
‘Can I ask you some questions, please? Not intrusive, nosy, insensitive ones, just a few questions about Henriette?’
The apathetic stare she gave the flickering tea lights is gone.
‘How do you know my name?’ she repeats, folding her arms defensively.
‘I guessed it.’
She stares at him with growing impatience.
‘There are a hundred people here and you just guessed that my name is Anette?’
‘Yes.’
She sniffs.
‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘Just a few questions, then I’ll leave you alone.’
‘You reporters only ever have a few questions, but you end up asking hundreds.’
‘One, then. I’ll leave you alone if you answer this one question. Okay?’
He looks at her for a long time. She lets him stand there in the silence, before she tenses and relaxes her shoulders. He attempts a smile, but senses that his charm, which works on most interviewees, is lost on her. She tosses her head and sighs. Henning interprets the movement as consent and says:
‘What was the work Henriette had started and which you intend to complete?’
She looks at him.
‘That’s your question?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not “how will you remember Henriette?” or “can you tell me something about Henriette that will make my readers sob?” or some crap like that?’
She makes her voice sound like that of a pestering child. He shakes his head. She snorts. Her eyes bore into his.
Then she tosses her head again, turns on her heel and walks off.
Great, Henning, he chastises himself. Well done.
And he thinks that the only interesting person in this landscape of mourners has just left. She is no great beauty. He bets she doesn’t sit in the front row in the lecture hall or pose for pictures. He imagines her looking in the mirror and sighing, resigned; sees her giving herself to guys with beer goggles, late at night, and going home before daybreak.
But Anette, he says to himself. You’re interesting. He feels like shouting it after her.
Then he realises what he saw in her eyes. He checks the camera as she disappears around the corner of a building. He scrolls to one of the first pictures he took of her, looks into her eyes. And he knows that he
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