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Authors: Håkan Nesser
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brown hair.
No other reason at all.
The cinema was called Rymont, and the mere existence of such an establishment in Sorbinowo was just as surprising as the films it was showing. Evidently something called a ‘Quality Film Festival’ was on offer during the summer, and when he discovered that a showing of the Taviani brothers’ Kaos was due to start in about two minutes, there was not a lot of time to hesitate.
He entered the auditorium just as the lights were being dimmed, but that gave him ample time to greet the rest of the evening’s audience. It comprised five people comfortably spread over the back few rows: four gentlemen and a lady – all of them past the first flush of youth, but with the kind of features characteristic of genuine cinema enthusiasts, Van Veeteren was pleased to note.
With a satisfied sigh he slumped down a few rows further forward – his satisfaction being intensified when it transpired that there would be no advertisements, and that the main film would begin at the exact time stated on the billboards.
So there is still a grain of quality left in this world of ours, he thought. Even a blind chicken can sometimes discover that fact occasionally.
Afterwards none of the audience was in much of a hurry to leave the premises. Two of the gentlemen launched into an animated discussion of the film. Comparisons were suggested with Pirandello’s texts and with other films by the Italian brothers, and it was clear to Van Veeteren that this was no ordinary group of people he’d found himself a part of. When he eventually stood up, another member of the audience came up to greet him – a short grey-haired gentleman exuding an aura of energy.
‘A new face! It’s a pleasure to welcome you!’
He held out his hand, and Van Veeteren shook it.
‘Przebuda. Andrej Przebuda. Chairman of the Sorbinowo Film Society.’
Van Veeteren. I just happen to be passing through . . .’
He searched his memory.
‘Life is a series of coincidences.’
‘Yes indeed,’ said the chief inspector. Very true. Hmm . . . I’m delighted to see that the cinematographic arts are still alive and kicking even outside the metropolitan centres.’
‘Well,’ said Przebuda, ‘we do our best – but as you can see, there aren’t all that many of us.’
He gestured towards the others.
‘And we’re not exactly spring chickens either.’
He smiled broadly and ran his hand apologetically over his almost bald head.
‘Andrej Przebuda?’ said the chief inspector – the penny had dropped at last.
‘Yes.’
‘I think we have a mutual friend.’
‘You don’t say? Who?’
‘W.F. Mahler.’
‘The poet?’
Van Veeteren nodded.
‘He claimed that you appreciated his poems.’
Przebuda burst out laughing and nodded enthusiastically. He was certainly closer to seventy than anything else, Van Veeteren thought. But the intensity in those eyes of his suggested the timeless twenties; and when the chief inspector looked more closely it seemed to him that the man’s face was distinctly Jewish. He realized – or suspected at least – that he was talking to one of those rare people who had been ennobled by suffering. Who had passed through fire and brimstone and been hardened rather than cracked.
But that was only a guess, of course. One of those sudden surges of speculation that demanded to be considered, and he was old enough to do so.
‘A damned fine poet, that Mahler,’ said Przebuda. ‘Fastidious, and as clear as a mountain tarn. I think I’ve reviewed every collection he’s published, right from the start. But how . . .’
It was another ten minutes before Van Veeteren was able to leave the Rymont cinema, armed with an insistent invitation from Andrej Przebuda to meet again and get to know each other better in the very near future – either in the editorial offices of his magazine, or at his home, which was nearby.
If the fact of the matter was that the chief inspector had come to Sorbinowo on official
No other reason at all.
The cinema was called Rymont, and the mere existence of such an establishment in Sorbinowo was just as surprising as the films it was showing. Evidently something called a ‘Quality Film Festival’ was on offer during the summer, and when he discovered that a showing of the Taviani brothers’ Kaos was due to start in about two minutes, there was not a lot of time to hesitate.
He entered the auditorium just as the lights were being dimmed, but that gave him ample time to greet the rest of the evening’s audience. It comprised five people comfortably spread over the back few rows: four gentlemen and a lady – all of them past the first flush of youth, but with the kind of features characteristic of genuine cinema enthusiasts, Van Veeteren was pleased to note.
With a satisfied sigh he slumped down a few rows further forward – his satisfaction being intensified when it transpired that there would be no advertisements, and that the main film would begin at the exact time stated on the billboards.
So there is still a grain of quality left in this world of ours, he thought. Even a blind chicken can sometimes discover that fact occasionally.
Afterwards none of the audience was in much of a hurry to leave the premises. Two of the gentlemen launched into an animated discussion of the film. Comparisons were suggested with Pirandello’s texts and with other films by the Italian brothers, and it was clear to Van Veeteren that this was no ordinary group of people he’d found himself a part of. When he eventually stood up, another member of the audience came up to greet him – a short grey-haired gentleman exuding an aura of energy.
‘A new face! It’s a pleasure to welcome you!’
He held out his hand, and Van Veeteren shook it.
‘Przebuda. Andrej Przebuda. Chairman of the Sorbinowo Film Society.’
Van Veeteren. I just happen to be passing through . . .’
He searched his memory.
‘Life is a series of coincidences.’
‘Yes indeed,’ said the chief inspector. Very true. Hmm . . . I’m delighted to see that the cinematographic arts are still alive and kicking even outside the metropolitan centres.’
‘Well,’ said Przebuda, ‘we do our best – but as you can see, there aren’t all that many of us.’
He gestured towards the others.
‘And we’re not exactly spring chickens either.’
He smiled broadly and ran his hand apologetically over his almost bald head.
‘Andrej Przebuda?’ said the chief inspector – the penny had dropped at last.
‘Yes.’
‘I think we have a mutual friend.’
‘You don’t say? Who?’
‘W.F. Mahler.’
‘The poet?’
Van Veeteren nodded.
‘He claimed that you appreciated his poems.’
Przebuda burst out laughing and nodded enthusiastically. He was certainly closer to seventy than anything else, Van Veeteren thought. But the intensity in those eyes of his suggested the timeless twenties; and when the chief inspector looked more closely it seemed to him that the man’s face was distinctly Jewish. He realized – or suspected at least – that he was talking to one of those rare people who had been ennobled by suffering. Who had passed through fire and brimstone and been hardened rather than cracked.
But that was only a guess, of course. One of those sudden surges of speculation that demanded to be considered, and he was old enough to do so.
‘A damned fine poet, that Mahler,’ said Przebuda. ‘Fastidious, and as clear as a mountain tarn. I think I’ve reviewed every collection he’s published, right from the start. But how . . .’
It was another ten minutes before Van Veeteren was able to leave the Rymont cinema, armed with an insistent invitation from Andrej Przebuda to meet again and get to know each other better in the very near future – either in the editorial offices of his magazine, or at his home, which was nearby.
If the fact of the matter was that the chief inspector had come to Sorbinowo on official
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