The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

ARVE STØP SAW B IRTE B ECKER FOR THE FIRST TIME ONE cold winter’s day in Oslo,
during a lecture he was giving for an events agency at Sentrum Auditorium. It was a motivation
seminar where companies sent their jaded employees for a so-called ‘top-up’, that is, lectures
intended to make them work even harder. In Arve Støp’s experience most lecturers at this seminar
were businessmen who had enjoyed a bit of success with not very original ideas, gold medallists
from major championships in minor sports, or mountaineers who had made a career out of climbing
up mountains and coming down them again to tell others about the experience. What they had in
common was that they claimed that their success was a result of their very special willpower and
morale. They were motivated. This was what was supposed to be motivating.
Arve Støp was last on the programme – he always stipulated that as a prerequisite for his
appearance. So that he could start by slating the other lecturers as greedy narcissists, divide them
into the three above-mentioned categories and place himself in the first – success with a not very
original business idea. The money that was spent on this motivation day was wasted; most people in
the room would never advance that far because they were lucky enough not to have the abnormal
drive for recognition that tormented those standing on the platform. Including himself. A condition
which he said was caused by his father’s lack of affection. So he had been obliged to seek love and
admiration from others and he should therefore have become an actor or a musician, only he had no
talent in those directions.
At this point in the lecture the audience’s amazement had turned into laughter. And sympathy. And
Støp knew this would culminate in admiration. For he stood there and shone. Shone because he and
everyone else knew that whatever he said he was a success and you can’t argue with success, not
even your own. He stressed that luck was the most important factor in success, he played down his
own talent and emphasised that general incompetence and idleness in the Norwegian business
sector ensured that even mediocrity can succeed.
At the end they gave him a standing ovation.
And he smiled as he eyed the dark-haired beauty in the first row who would prove to be Birte. He
had noticed her the minute he had entered. He was aware that the combination of slim legs and
large breasts was often synonymous with silicone implants, but Støp was no opponent of cosmetic
surgery for women. Nail varnish, silicone: in principle, what was the difference? With the applause
pounding in his ears he simply stepped down from the stage, walked along the first row and began
to shake hands with the audience. It was a fatuous gesture, something an American president could
permit himself to do, but he didn’t give a toss, not a flying toss; if he could annoy someone he was
happy. He stopped in front of the dark-haired woman who glowed back at him with elated red
cheeks. As he passed her his hand she curtsied as if for a royal, and he felt the sharp corners of his
business card stick in his palm as he pressed it against hers. She looked for a wedding ring.
The ring was lustreless. And her right hand narrow and pale, but it held his in an astonishingly firm
grip.
‘Sylvia Ottersen,’ she said with a foolish smile. ‘I’m a great admirer so I just had to shake hands.’
That was how he had met Sylvia Ottersen for the first time, in her shop Taste of Africa one hot
summer’s day in Oslo. Her looks were run-of-the-mill. Married, though.
Arve Støp looked up at the African masks and asked about something so as not to make the
situation any more awkward than it already was. Not that it was awkward for him, but he noticed
that the woman at his side had stiffened when Sylvia Ottersen had shaken his hand. Her name was