listen?
Take
Dalakuriren
, for example. The paper hadn’t even bothered to send their reporter here, had they? Journalists were so damned sloppy and completely lacked professionalism.
Then Erik Hall had spoken at length about professionalism, and about how he had worked at an electrical company in Falun that hadn’t had the correct attitude either.
The photographer had nodded and agreed until Hall started to ask about her more private circumstances. Then she had pointed at her empty cup and said that she’d like to find a place with good light.
“Well, we can go take a look at the suit; surely you want a picture of that,” said Erik Hall.
He shoved the table a bit with the weight of his body so the photographer could manage to wriggle her way out.
In the hall outside the kitchen, the diver unlocked a blue-painted country-style door. It led to a dining room where the afternoon sun was still shining in. Through the row of windows, you could see down toward the grass behind the cottage, which became a pine-wooded slope beyond the yard.
“How lovely,” she said.
“Mom was the one who fixed up the whole shack. She and I were always here in the summers. I want it to be like it was then.”
The photographer nodded.
“It’s a great place. If you go down the hill, you can swim. Sometimes there are too many water lilies and algae, but it’s been good this year.”
The diving suit was hanging on a hanger by the short wall of the room. It had been hooked up on an open door like a human body without a head.
“That’s the one you people usually want me to wear. Shall I?”
He made a motion as though to start taking off his sweater, but the photographer quickly told him not to bother:
“No, you know, this is about you and not the diving, so we want more personal pictures. Maybe from the kitchen, or if you have some place where you usually …”
She took hold of the suit and opened the cracked door. It smelled completely different in there; musty. A sagging bed with some glossy magazines spread out on top of soiled sheets and the pale gray light from a computer monitor.
“The kitchen is probably better,” said the photographer.
Once again she felt the diver’s hand on her back as he led her out.
T he light was good in the kitchen. The thin linen of the curtains would work as a filter, perfect for the type of pictures she wanted to take. A bit dreamy, sitting at the kitchen table, Erik Hall with his heavy head leaning on one hand. Personal, that was what the intern had said, after all.
The photographer worked quietly, and for a long time the only sound was of her breathing as she changed position and the rhythmic click from the camera’s shutter.
“You seem to know what you’re doing, anyway,” said the diver.
She gave him a quick smile, just a few more pictures …
Hall continued: “Hey … there’s actually something I could tell you that would change this whole story.”
“Mm-hmm,” she mumbled, clicking one last time.
“You seem to be a girl who doesn’t give it away. You can keep a secret, I mean.”
“I see.”
She put the cap on the lens and let the camera fall down and hang against her stomach.
“So what is it, then?”
“Well, maybe it’s kind of a bit silly, but … there were a few things down there in the mine that I didn’t …”
The diver looked away from her, out through the kitchen window toward the gravel path and the fence around the yard.
“You know, I was in quite a bit of shock when I came up, so I threw everything down into one of my bags. And the police … when I came back home, they had just put the bags outside my door. They hadn’t opened them, I think, because, you know, the things were still there. They haven’t asked any questions, either, and I … it just didn’t occur to me to tell them. It felt so strange to say something, you know, several days later.”
“Oh? Things like those old newspapers that the police found down in the mine, or
Take
Dalakuriren
, for example. The paper hadn’t even bothered to send their reporter here, had they? Journalists were so damned sloppy and completely lacked professionalism.
Then Erik Hall had spoken at length about professionalism, and about how he had worked at an electrical company in Falun that hadn’t had the correct attitude either.
The photographer had nodded and agreed until Hall started to ask about her more private circumstances. Then she had pointed at her empty cup and said that she’d like to find a place with good light.
“Well, we can go take a look at the suit; surely you want a picture of that,” said Erik Hall.
He shoved the table a bit with the weight of his body so the photographer could manage to wriggle her way out.
In the hall outside the kitchen, the diver unlocked a blue-painted country-style door. It led to a dining room where the afternoon sun was still shining in. Through the row of windows, you could see down toward the grass behind the cottage, which became a pine-wooded slope beyond the yard.
“How lovely,” she said.
“Mom was the one who fixed up the whole shack. She and I were always here in the summers. I want it to be like it was then.”
The photographer nodded.
“It’s a great place. If you go down the hill, you can swim. Sometimes there are too many water lilies and algae, but it’s been good this year.”
The diving suit was hanging on a hanger by the short wall of the room. It had been hooked up on an open door like a human body without a head.
“That’s the one you people usually want me to wear. Shall I?”
He made a motion as though to start taking off his sweater, but the photographer quickly told him not to bother:
“No, you know, this is about you and not the diving, so we want more personal pictures. Maybe from the kitchen, or if you have some place where you usually …”
She took hold of the suit and opened the cracked door. It smelled completely different in there; musty. A sagging bed with some glossy magazines spread out on top of soiled sheets and the pale gray light from a computer monitor.
“The kitchen is probably better,” said the photographer.
Once again she felt the diver’s hand on her back as he led her out.
T he light was good in the kitchen. The thin linen of the curtains would work as a filter, perfect for the type of pictures she wanted to take. A bit dreamy, sitting at the kitchen table, Erik Hall with his heavy head leaning on one hand. Personal, that was what the intern had said, after all.
The photographer worked quietly, and for a long time the only sound was of her breathing as she changed position and the rhythmic click from the camera’s shutter.
“You seem to know what you’re doing, anyway,” said the diver.
She gave him a quick smile, just a few more pictures …
Hall continued: “Hey … there’s actually something I could tell you that would change this whole story.”
“Mm-hmm,” she mumbled, clicking one last time.
“You seem to be a girl who doesn’t give it away. You can keep a secret, I mean.”
“I see.”
She put the cap on the lens and let the camera fall down and hang against her stomach.
“So what is it, then?”
“Well, maybe it’s kind of a bit silly, but … there were a few things down there in the mine that I didn’t …”
The diver looked away from her, out through the kitchen window toward the gravel path and the fence around the yard.
“You know, I was in quite a bit of shock when I came up, so I threw everything down into one of my bags. And the police … when I came back home, they had just put the bags outside my door. They hadn’t opened them, I think, because, you know, the things were still there. They haven’t asked any questions, either, and I … it just didn’t occur to me to tell them. It felt so strange to say something, you know, several days later.”
“Oh? Things like those old newspapers that the police found down in the mine, or
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