The restaurant was half full. As it had been the day before. He was met at the door by a young, good-looking waiter with blue eyes and blond curls. So like Giorgi was he that for a moment he stood there entranced. And, on seeing the smile on the waiter's lips broaden, realised that he had given himself away. He took off his coat and raincoat in the cloakroom and felt the waiter's eyes on him.
'Your name?' the waiter asked. He mumbled his answer.
The waiter ran a long, thin finger down the page of the reservations book. It stopped.
'I've got my finger on you now,' the waiter said, and the blue eyes held his gaze until he felt himself blushing.
It didn't seem to be an exclusive restaurant, but unless his ability to do mental arithmetic had abandoned him, the prices on the menu were beyond belief. He ordered pasta and a glass of water. He was hungry. And his heartbeat was calm and regular. The other people in the restaurant were talking, smiling and laughing as though nothing could happen to them. It had always surprised him that it was not visible, that he did not have a black aura or that a chill – perhaps a stench of decay – did not radiate off him.
Or, to be precise, that no one else noticed.
Outside, the town hall clock chimed its three notes six times.
'Nice place,' Thea said, looking around. The restaurant had uncluttered views and their table gave on to the pedestrian zone outside. From hidden speakers there was the barely audible murmur of meditative New Age music.
'I wanted it to be special,' Jon said, studying the menu. 'What would you like to eat?'
Thea ran a quick eye down the single page. 'First I need something to drink.'
Thea drank a lot of water. Jon knew it was connected with diabetes and her kidneys.
'It's not so easy to choose,' she said. 'Everything looks good, doesn't it?'
'But we can't have everything on the menu.'
'No . . .'
Jon swallowed. The words had just come out. He peeked up. Thea obviously hadn't noticed.
All of a sudden she raised her head. 'What did you mean by that?'
'By what?' he asked in a casual manner.
'Everything on the menu. You were trying to say something. I know you, Jon. What's up?'
He shrugged. 'We agreed that before we get engaged, we should tell each other everything, didn't we?'
'Yes?'
'Are you sure you've told me everything?'
She sighed, resigned. 'I am sure, Jon. I have not been with anyone. Not . . . in that way.'
But he could see something in her eyes, something in her expression he had not seen before. A muscle twitching beside her mouth, a darkening of her eyes, like a diaphragm aperture closing. And he could not stop himself. 'Not even with Robert?'
'What?'
'Robert. I can remember you two flirting the first summer in Østgård.'
'I was fourteen years old, Jon!'
'So?'
At first she stared at him in disbelief. Then she seemed to churn inside, she closed up and cut him off. Jon grabbed her hand in both of his, leaned forward and whispered, 'Sorry, sorry, Thea. I don't know what came over me. I . . . can we forget I asked?'
'Have you made up your minds?'
Both of them looked up at the waiter.
'Fresh asparagus as a starter,' Thea said, passing him the menu. 'Chateaubriand with cep mushrooms for the main course.'
'Good choice. May I recommend a hearty, well-priced red wine we have just got in?'
'You may, but water is fine,' she said with a radiant smile. 'Lots of water.'
Jon looked at her. Admired her ability to hide her emotions.
When the waiter had gone, Thea directed her gaze at Jon. 'If you've finished interrogating me, what about yourself?'
Jon gave a thin smile and shook his head.
'You never did have a girlfriend, did you?' she said. 'Not even at Østgård.'
'And do you know why?' Jon said, placing his hand on hers.
She shook her head.
'Because I fell in love with one girl that summer,' Jon said and regained her full attention. 'She was fourteen years old. And I have been in love with her ever since.'
He smiled and she smiled, and he could see she had re-emerged from her hiding place, come over to where he was.
'Nice soup,' said the Minister for Social Affairs, turning to Commander David Eckhoff. But loud enough for the assembled press corps to hear.
'Our own recipe,' the commander said. 'We published a cookery book a couple of years ago we thought might be of . . .'
At a signal from her father, Martine approached the table and placed the book beside the minister's tureen.
'. . . some use if the minister desired a good, nutritious meal at home.'
The few journalists and photographers to turn up at the Lighthouse café chuckled. Otherwise attendance was sparse, a couple of elderly men from the Hostel, a tear-stained lady in a cape, and an injured junkie, who was bleeding from the forehead and trembling like an aspen leaf in dread of going up to the Field Hospital, the treatment room on the first floor. It was not very surprising there were so few people; the Lighthouse was not usually open at this time. However, a morning visit had not fitted into the minister's diary, so he did not see how full it was on most days. The commander explained all of this. And how efficiently it was run and how much it cost. The minister nodded at intervals as, duty-bound, he put a spoonful of soup into his mouth.