The Ringmaster's Daughter

to prison for picking up a few ideas for a novel; but they get

  mean over the years, and The Spider won't be able to call in

  the money they owe him from the other side of the grave.

  Or do you think he's nominated an heir, Petter? Has he

  thought about that, do you think?'

  No he hadn't. I'd made a huge mistake, it was embarrass-

  ing. I'd not reckoned with the shameless.

  'But he still has one way out,' I said. 'He can announce

  that he waives his right to all monies the authors owe him.

  Then the danger is past, all danger is past and the authors

  won't have a motive for murdering him any more.'

  He shrugged his shoulders. Was he smiling or wasn't he?

  'I'm afraid things have gone too far,' he said. 'They say there

  are already plans to get him.'

  Get him, get him! It put me in mind of all the times I was

  cornered as a child, of all the beatings I'd taken, of Ragnar

  who broke my head so that I had to go to Accident &

  Emergency and have twelve stitches.

  I glanced out over the square in front of the massive

  basilica and soon caught sight of the little man with his felt

  hat and cane. The little homunculus was walking up and

  down the piazza lunging at passers-by with his bamboo stick

  as if the little thing was a rapier, but no one paid him any

  notice. He ought to get a grip, I thought. Metre Man was in

  danger of turning into a parody of himself.

  Luigi appeared to have changed the subject, for he sud-

  denly asked: 'Do you know anything about a novel called

  Triple Murder Post-mortem?'

  I flinched. He must have noticed my reaction. It was

  Robert's crime novel which had been published in Oslo a

  couple of years earlier.

  'There is a Norwegian novel of that title,' I said. 'I don't

  think it's anything for your market, Luigi.'

  His laugh was almost one of resignation. Then he said:

  'Oh yes, I've heard of the Norwegian version too, and that's

  part of the reason I'm talking to you. But I also have in mind

  a German novel which has recently been translated into

  Italian. The Italian publisher told me he was rather dismayed

  to discover, only a few days ago, that there is a Norwegian

  novel based on exactly the same story, published in the very

  same year as the German one. The stories are said to be so

  similar that there's no question of coincidence.'

  I felt my cheeks begin to burn. So Maria had struck again.

  I tried to conceal my trembling hands from Luigi.

  I remembered clearly that Maria and I had been together

  on the campus, it was at the time we were trying to conceive

  a child. We had gone out to the communal kitchen and fried

  some bacon and eggs before mooching back into her bed-sit

  and settling down on the sofa-bed again. It was then that I

  told Maria the story of the triple murder post-mortem. I

  made the story up then and there, scribbling down a few

  rough notes when I got home, but I hadn't given it another

  thought until I'd pulled it out for Robert years later. Then

  I'd given the story a Flemish setting because his mother was

  a Flemming.

  'And what's the name of this German writer?' I asked.

  'Wittmann,' said Luigi, 'Wilhelmine Wittmann.'

  He'd stubbed out his cigarillo and now sat gazing out

  across the Piazza Maggiore. 'It almost looks as if The

  Spider has become a trifle forgetful in his old age,' he

  said.

  He didn't know how his words rankled. I'd always

  exercised the greatest care to ensure that duplicates never

  occurred. The only person who'd had any sort of privileged

  position was Maria, but that was almost thirty years ago,

  and long before Writers' Aid had got going. We hadn't

  spoken for twenty-six years, and now, suddenly, she'd

  begun to stir. Obviously I had to make contact with her

  at once, it was quite unavoidable now. But then something

  struck me, something I hadn't realised before: I'd never

  asked Maria her surname. It may sound odd, but we'd only

  known each other for a few months, and surnames weren't

  much used in the seventies. The door of her bed-sit

  on the campus had sported a ceramic tile with the name

  MARIA which she'd painted on it in large, red letters.

  As soon as the idea of pregnancy was mooted, she must

  have consciously withheld both her address and surname.

  I only had Maria's own word for the fact that she'd taken

  a job as a curator in one of the Stockholm museums. I

  mused at how small the world is, and yet how large a

  haystack when you're looking for a needle.

  'So, there'll be exciting times ahead,' I remarked. 'We

  must keep up with developments. I'm not The Spider, but

  of course I'll keep my eyes open. As soon as I hear anything,

  I'll ...'

  He cut in: 'That's good, that's really good, Petter.'

  I felt stupid. I felt tired. I'd been tired since mother died.

  I looked at him: 'What shall I do, Luigi?'

  'Get away from Bologna,' he said, 'the sooner the

  better.'

  He said it with a smile, but his smile was equivocal.

  I laughed. 'I think you've been reading too many crime

  novels,' I said.

  His smile broadened. Luigi had always been a joker.

  Could he be bluffing when he said someone was threatening

  my life?

  Perhaps Cristina and Luigi had guessed that I was The

  Spider, had taken a leap in the dark, and now Luigi was

  sitting there mocking me? Triple Murder Post-mortem could

  have been a title he'd got from a Norwegian publisher, or he

  could always have taken an option on the book, and then

  been surprised at how the same story had been written twice

  by two different authors. It wasn't even certain that there

  had been an article in the Corriere della Sera.

  'You may need protection,' he said.

  A bodyguard, I thought. The idea was a new and painful

  one.

  I felt even more foolish. For once I was bereft of

  imagination. External pressure had laid a heavy lid on the

  force that welled up from within. I was empty of words. The

  most intelligent thing I could find to do was laugh. But it

  was far too cheap a reaction, and certainly nothing to boast

  about.

  'It's no laughing matter,' Luigi said.

  I was incensed. I was furious because I couldn't tell if he

  was bluffing. I got up and left some money on the table for

  the wine.

  'Are you staying at the Baglioni?' he asked.

  I made no reply.

  'Where will you go?'

  When I didn't answer that either, he stuck his thumb in

  the air.

  'Maybe you should be a little careful with women,' he

  said.

  'What do you mean by that?'

  He grinned. 'You have the reputation of being a bit

  reckless. It's supposed to be your only weakness. What do

  you think?'

  I didn't think he seriously intended me to answer. I didn't

  answer. He understood, Luigi was no fool. Were two men

  going to sit in a caf? discussing what they did with w
omen?

  It was certainly not worth raking over, it would be too tacky

  for words.

  'They might send a decoy. Perhaps some old girlfriend.'

  I snorted. 'You read too many spy novels,' I said. I tried to

  laugh. I couldn't tell what he was playing at!

  He handed me his card. 'Here's my phone number,' he

  said.

  I picked up the card and read it. I can memorise num-

  bers easily. Then I tore it up and put the bits in the

  ashtray. I looked into his eyes. I knew I might never see

  him again.

  'Thanks,' I said and left, turning quickly as I felt a tear

  begin to squeeze out.

  It wasn't the threat of a conspiracy that had upset me.

  Deep down I thought that Luigi had been thrashing about in

  the dark. He probably thought we'd be having a drink

  together at the fair tomorrow afternoon. But I knew that

  Writers' Aid was nothing more than a memory now. It

  didn't feel like liberation to me, more like coercion.

  I walked down to the hotel feeling as if my feet had lost all

  contact with the ground. Perhaps the problem was that my

  feet had never touched the ground. I'd been on a cloud all

  my life, I'd been floating around on a cloud. I'd been

  operating as a brain divorced from everything. There had

  been only two spheres: the world and my brain, my brain

  and the world.

  I'd had more imagination than the world could make use

  of. I'd never really lived life, I'd been compensating for it. I

  didn't know if I'd been punished by my mother, or by Maria

  or by myself.

  *

  I slept for a few hours and was in the hotel lobby at the crack

  of dawn next morning. It was quiet out in the Via Indepen-

  denza, but I felt I was being watched by a young man as I

  checked out. He was sitting in a leather armchair, pretty well

  hidden behind a newspaper. It was impossible to judge if he'd

  just got up, or if he hadn't yet made his way to bed. When I

  went out into the street and got into a taxi, he followed. I

  didn't see him get into a car, but I believe I caught a glimpse

  of him again at the airport. He had an earphone in his ear, and

  it didn't suit him. I think I must have been quicker off the

  mark with my boarding card than him.

  When I arrived at the gate, boarding had already begun,

  and just a few minutes later we taxied out and took off. I was

  in seat 1A, I had asked for it specially. I preferred to look out

  to my left. I was bound for Naples, it was the first flight from

  Bologna that morning. Twenty minutes later there was a

  plane to Frankfurt with a connection for Oslo.

  As soon as we'd reached cruising altitude, I lowered the

  back of my seat, and an almost transfiguring peace en-

  veloped me. Soon an episode from my childhood returned

  to my mind. It was a real memory, but it was something I

  hadn't thought about since I'd been a boy. Everything had

  passed so quickly, I was already as old as my mother when

  she died. This was the story:

  I'd learnt to read and write by the time I was four. My

  mother didn't teach me, she thought I should wait until I

  started school. I learnt to read by myself, and I seem to recall

  that I'd pulled an old ABC from the bookshelf completely

  on my own initiative. I didn't consider it inordinately

  difficult to keep track of twenty-nine letters.

  Once when I was at home on my own, I picked up a red

  crayon and went into my mother's bedroom. Her bedroom

  had two large windows with blue curtains in one wall with

  a fine view out over the city. White wardrobes occupied

  another wall, but on the other two there was nothing but

  white wallpaper. It was boring. I think I felt sorry for my

  mother. At least I had a picture of Donald Duck on my

  wall.

  I had made up a lovely fairy tale in my head, I'd been

  working on it for days, but I hadn't let on about it to my

  mother. The fairy tale was to be a surprise. I took the red

  crayon and began to write on the white wallpaper. I had to

  stand on a chair to begin with because I needed the entire

  wall, I needed both walls. Several hours later I was finished. I

  lay down on mother's bed and read all through the long

  story I'd written on the wall. I was so proud, now my

  mother could lie in bed every evening and read the lovely

  story before going to sleep. I knew she'd like it, it was a

  beautiful story, and perhaps she'd like it even more because

  I'd made it up specially for her. If I'd invented a story for

  myself it would have been different, and if I'd cooked up a

  fairy tale for father, it would have been different again. But

  my father no longer lived at home, he hadn't done since I

  was three.

  I lay on the bed waiting for mother. I was looking

  forward to her return, I was giddy with anticipation. I'd

  often have a small surprise ready for her, but this was quite

  different, this was a big surprise.

  There, as I sat on that plane to Naples, I suddenly recalled

  the sound of my mother letting herself into the hall that

  particular afternoon. 'Here!' I shouted. 'I'm in here!'

  She was livid. She was absolutely livid. She was beside

  herself even before she'd read what I'd written on the wall.

  She yanked me off the bed and threw me on the floor, she

  slapped me hard on both cheeks, then she dragged me out

  into the corridor and locked me in the bathroom. I didn't

  cry. I didn't say a word. I heard her ring my father, and

  heard how she was angry with him too. She said he had to

  come to the flat and hang some new wallpaper. And several

  days later, he did. The smell of glue hung about for weeks. It

  was humiliating.

  It was a long time before my mother let me out of the

  bathroom. First she had her dinner, drank her coffee and

  listened to the first two acts of La Boheme. She said I'd

  better start getting ready for bed. I did exactly as I was told,

  but I didn't utter a word. I didn't talk to my mother for

  several days, but I did everything she told me. Finally, she

  had to coax me to start talking again. I said I'd never write

  on the wall again nor, I declared, on paper either, not even

  loo paper. I was very resolute and in a way I kept my

  promise. After this episode my mother was never allowed

  to see anything I'd written, not so much as a syllable. She

  couldn't look at my homework either. This was sometimes

  brought up with my teachers, but they agreed with me. I

  was so good at doing my homework on my own, they said,

  that it wasn't necessary for mother to see my books. Quite

  right too.

  I wouldn't go so far as to say that this event was what put

  me off being a writer, but it was certainly what made me

  stop drawing. There was little point in drawing when I had

  no one to show my drawings to. I think I can remember

  being struck once by the impossibility of checking whether

  mother would be able to read what I'd written if I ever

  published
a book that had thousands of copies printed. But I

  was never going to expose myself like that. I'd exposed

  myself in my mother's bedroom, that was the writing on the

  wall. Mother would never get the chance to stroll into a

  bookshop and buy a book with my name on it.

  I turned down the air hostess's invitation to breakfast and

  tried to sleep, but after a few minutes' doze, I jerked back

  into wakefulness again. I glanced down at the even

  Umbrian landscape. I was forty-eight, half my life lay

  behind me, seventy-five per cent of my life lay behind

  me, perhaps more, perhaps ninety per cent. Life was so

  indescribably short. Perhaps that was why I wouldn't put

  my name on a book jacket. That thin veneer of culture, of

  human glory and affectation, drowned in insignificance

  by comparison with the colossal but fleeting adventure

  through which I was now journeying. I had learnt to

  ignore the insignificant. Ever since I was a child I'd known

  of a timescale quite different to that of weekly magazines

  and the autumn's annual crop of books. When I was small,

  my father and I had seen a piece of amber which was

  millions of years old, and encased within it was a spider that

  was just as old. I'd been on earth before life began four

  billion years ago, I knew that the sun would soon be a red

  giant, and that long before that the earth would be a dry

  and lifeless planet. If you know all this you don't enrol for

  an evening course in DIY. You haven't the placidity of

  mind for it. Nor for a 'writing course' either. You don't

  mince about caf?s saying that you've 'started writing

  something'. Perhaps you do write, there's nothing wrong

  in that, but you don't sit down to 'write'. You write only if

  there is something you want to say, because you have a few

  words of comfort to give other people, but you don't sit

  down behind a desk in a spiral of the Milky Way and

  'write' something just for the sake of rtn

  or of >. But the poets

  posed on the catwalk. Climb aboard, ladies and gentlemen!

  Welcome to this season's collection from Kiepenheuer &

  Witsch. We have a creation here that should be of special

  interest to you. This is a superb Armani novel, unrivalled

  in its genre. And here we see Suhrkamp's lyric fashion

  icon ? 'mit Poetenschal nat?rlich ... und mit Ord und Datum,

  bitte!'

  I was tired. But now Writers' Aid was at an end and a

  literary epoch had passed. I would never again return to the

  big book fairs. I had decided to try to salvage my life.

  When we landed at Naples, I was the first passenger off the

  plane. I ran through the arrivals hall, jumped into a taxi and

  told the driver to take me to Amalfi. He couldn't have been

  asked to do such long trips very often.

  I'd never been to the Amalfi coast before, but over the

  years many people had suggested I spend a few days in that

  charming town on the Sorrento peninsula. Maria had

  spoken of Amalfi, she had once been there with some

  girlfriends. Robert, too, talked constantly about his trips

  to southern Italy, in the days before Wenche had left

  him.

  We drove past Pompeii, and I tried to imagine the

  townspeople in the final few seconds before the volcanic

  eruption. As soon as I'd got one clear image, I'd do my best

  to erase it again. What I had seen could be summed up in

  one word: vanitas. Then the blow fell. Then the rage of

  Vesuvius poured down over all the pretentiousness.

  When we'd left the mountain behind us and were driving

  through lemon groves towards the coast, I asked the driver

  to take me to a hotel I'd heard of. I'd no idea if the Hotel

  Luna Convento had any vacant rooms, but Easter was still a

  full week away.

  There were lots of vacancies. I asked for room 15, and was

  told it was free. I said I wanted to stay a week, and not long

  afterwards I was sitting in front of a window looking out

  across the sea. There was a pair of large windows in the

  room, and Metre Man was already peering over the sill of

  the other one, scanning the ocean as well. The sun was still

  low in the sky, it was only a quarter past nine.