The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

She said she assumed he had given her his business card for her to contact him.
Sometimes Arve Støp asked himself why he had to have these women, these kicks, these sexual
relations that were actually no more than ceremonial rituals of surrender. Hadn’t he had enough
conquests in his life? Was it the fear of getting old? Did he believe that by penetrating these women
he could steal some of their youth? And why the hurry, the frenetic tempo? Perhaps it came from
the certainty of the disease he was carrying; that before long he would not be the man he still was.
He didn’t have the answers, and what would he do with them anyway? That same night he listened
to Birte’s groans, as deep as a man’s, her head banging against the Gerhard Richter painting he had
bought in Berlin.
Arve Støp ejaculated his infected seed as the bell over the front door angrily warned them that
someone was on their way into Taste of Africa. He tried to free himself, but Sylvia Ottersen grinned
and tightened her grip around his buttocks. He tore himself free and pulled up his trousers. Sylvia
slid down off the counter, adjusted her summer skirt and went round the corner to serve the
customer. Arve Støp hurried over to the shelves of ornaments with his back to the room and
buttoned up his flies. Behind him he heard a man’s voice apologising for being late; it had been
difficult to find somewhere to park. And Sylvia had said in a sharp voice that he should have
known, after all the summer holidays were over now. She was meeting her sister and she was
already late and he would have to take over with the customer.
Arve Støp heard the man’s voice at his back. ‘May I help you?’
He turned and saw a skeleton of a man with unnaturally large eyes behind round glasses, a flannel
shirt and a neck that reminded him of a stork.
He looked over his shoulder at the man, caught Sylvia going out of the door, the hem of her skirt
ridden up, a wet line running down the back of her bare knee. And it struck him that she had known
this scarecrow, presumably her husband, would be coming now. She had wanted him to catch them
at it.
‘I’m fine, thank you. I got what I came for,’ he said, heading for the door.
Every once in a while Arve Støp imagined how he would react if he were told he had made
someone pregnant. Whether he would insist on an abortion or that the child should be born. The
only thing he was absolutely sure of was that he would insist on one or the other; leaving decisions
to others was not in his nature.
Birte Becker had told him they didn’t need to use contraception as she couldn’t have children.
When, three months and six acts of sexual intercourse later, she informed him with a rapturous
beam that she could after all, he knew at once that she would have the baby. He reacted by
panicking and insisting on the alternative option.
‘I have the best contacts,’ he said. ‘In Switzerland. No one will ever know.’
‘This is my opportunity to become a mother, Arve. The doctor says it’s a miracle that may never be
repeated.’
‘Then I want to see neither you nor any children you may have again. Do you hear me?’
‘The child needs a father, Arve. And a secure home.’