The little girl sat bolt upright listening to my story, but she never said anything, so I couldn't be certain how much she was taking in. I a.s.sumed that at least she was getting something of the atmosphere of the fairy tale. I glanced at Maria, and she indicated that it was all right for me to continue. I think she was pleased that the little girl, too, could share at least one story. Even Metre Man had settled himself against a tree so that he could hear the rest of the tale. As he sat down, he raised his green hat and gave me a confidential wink. I think he was in a good mood. Perhaps it was the first time he'd felt like one of the family.

I told how all the big circus lorries and trailers halted for dinner by a large lake deep in the Swedish forests and, while they were there, the ringmaster's daughter wanted to paddle in the water. The ringmaster thought that one of the clowns was keeping a watchful eye on her, but the clown had misunderstood and thought the animal tamer was supposed to be looking after Panina Manina while the adults roasted wild boar steaks on a huge camp fire. At all events, when the great convoy was due to continue its journey to Stockholm a few hours later, n.o.body could find her. They searched for her all evening and night, and many of the animals were let loose to see if they could pick up her scent, but all to no avail. After searching high and low for Panina Manina most of the next day, everyone came to the conclusion she must have drowned in the lake. For hours, two camels stood at the water's edge drinking, they drank and drank, and there was a general belief that this was because they recognised the smell of Panina Manina in the water, and they were probably trying to drink the lake dry. But at last the camels'

thirst was slaked and the ringmaster's daughter was still missing, and remained so. It was said that the ringmaster cried himself to sleep for many a sad year afterwards, because Panina Manina had been the apple of his eye, he had been fonder of her than all the rest of the circus put together.

I pretended to wipe away a tear, and I think the little girl gazed up at me. It seemed she had at least understood the last thing I'd said; after all, she'd been paddling down there at the water's edge herself quite recently, so I hurriedly went on:

But Panina Manina hadn't drowned. She'd simply gone off to do a little exploring while the grown-ups sat in front of the fire drinking wine and eating wild boar meat. She followed a nice little path into the forest, and soon her legs were so tired that she sat down in the ling between the tall trees. As she sat there listening to the doves cooing and the owls hooting, she fell into a deep sleep. When she awoke, she imagined she'd only dropped off for a few minutes, but in reality she'd slept all through the night and more besides, for the sun was now high in the sky. Panina Manina took the path again to find her way back to the camp fire, but she wasn't able to find a single circus trailer, and soon she was lost in the forest. Late that evening she arrived at a small homestead with a little red house and a flagpole flying the Swedish flag. A pink caravan stood parked in front of the red wooden building, and perhaps it was this that attracted Panina Manina's attention, for to her it looked rather like a circus trailer. Although she was only three, she went up to the caravan and knocked at the door. When no one answered, she crawled up a small flight of stone steps leading up to the red house and knocked on the door there. It opened and out came an old woman. Panina Manina wasn't frightened; maybe this was because she was a real circus girl.

She looked up at the strange lady and said that she'd got separated from her daddy - but she spoke in a language the woman couldn't understand, because Panina Manina came from a faraway land that the old lady had never visited.

Panina Manina hadn't eaten for almost two days, and now she put her little hands to her mouth to show that she was hungry. At that the woman realised that she was lost in the forest and let the little girl in. She gave her herring and meatb.a.l.l.s, bread and blackberry juice. Panina Manina was so hungry and thirsty that she ate and drank like a grown-up.

When night came, the woman made up a bed for her and, because they couldn't talk to each other properly, she sat down by the bed and sang her a lullaby until she fell into a deep sleep. As she had no idea what the girl's name was she simply called her 'Poppy'.

Poppet glanced up at me again. Perhaps it was because I was miming the way Panina Manina ate herring and meat- b.a.l.l.s, but it might also have been because she had noticed that the girl in the story had been called 'Poppy'. I wasn't certain she'd understood much of the story itself, but I went on:

Panina Manina lived in the little house for many years. No one in the whole of Sweden managed to find out who her mother and father were and, as the years pa.s.sed, Panina Manina's memory of the ringmaster grew dimmer and dimmer. Soon she was talking fluent Swedish and had forgotten her own language because she hadn't got anyone to speak it to now. But - and now I raised a forefinger to show that there was something important I'd left out - the woman in the house had an old crystal ball hidden away in a cupboard in the bedroom. Once, many years before, she'd made her living as a fortune-teller in a large amus.e.m.e.nt park at Lund. Now she got out the crystal ball and foretold that one day Poppy would become a famous tight-rope walker.

So, she began to train her to balance on everything from planks and ropes to buckets and tubs, and one day she was ready to show her skills to a real ringmaster. This was thirteen years after Poppy had first knocked on her door. The old woman had read in the newspaper that a famous foreign circus had arrived in Stockholm, and one day the pair of them travelled to the city to try their luck. It was the same circus from far away that had come to Stockholm thirteen years earlier, but Panina Manina no longer had the faintest recollection of ever being part of a circus. The foreign ringmaster was impressed by the Swedish girl's abilities and so she became part of the circus. Neither Panina Manina nor the ringmaster had any idea she was really his daughter.

Maria was giving me a quizzical look. She had always been especially interested in how I ended my stories. Per- haps she was particularly concerned this time as there was a pair of small ears between us.

Now, I went on, blood is thicker than water, as the saying goes, and maybe that was why the ringmaster and Panina Manina hit it off right from the start. At all events, Panina Manina made up her mind to travel back with the circus to the faraway land, where she soon became a famous tight- rope dancer. One evening when she was performing on her tight-rope high above the ring, she threw a quick glance down at the ringmaster who was standing in front of the big circus orchestra with a whip in his hands, and there and then she realised that the ringmaster was really her father, so she hadn't quite forgotten him after all. Such insights are often called 'moments of truth', I explained. In her confusion, Panina Manina lost her balance and fell, smack-bang- wallop, right down into the ring. When the ringmaster came rushing up to see if she'd hurt herself, she stretched up her arms to him and with a loud, heart-rending wail cried out: 'Daddy! Daddy!'

Poppet peered up at me in astonishment and laughed, but I didn't think she'd understood much of what I'd been saying. Not so Maria. She glared at me furiously. It was obvious she hadn't liked the final line of the fairy tale.

The sun was about to set on our little family reunion. We packed up our things and walked to the tram. For a time the little girl skipped along the path in front of us. 'Daddy, daddy!' she muttered. Then Maria took my hand and squeezed it. I noticed her eyes were full of tears. When we got down into the city again, we went our separate ways.

That was the last time I saw Maria and the child. I've never heard from them since.

Writers' Aid

Twenty-six years later, I sit before a large double window looking down at the coast and out across the ocean. The sun is low in the sky, and a gossamer of gold leaf has settled over the bay. A boat carrying a handful of tourists is heading for the breakwater. They've been to inspect the emerald-green cave a few miles down the coast.

As for me, I've been for a long stroll through the many lemon groves and on up the Valley of the Mills high above the town. The people here are friendly and kind. A woman dressed in black leant out of a window and offered me a gla.s.s of lemon liqueur.

I'm on my guard. Up in the valley I didn't meet a soul, but whether because of that or despite it, I still didn't feel safe. Several times I stopped and looked behind me. If any- one has followed me from Bologna, this narrow valley bottom with all its old, derelict paper-mills would be the perfect place to finish me off.

For safety's sake I keep the door of my room locked. If anyone got in they could easily push me out of a window.

The sills are low, it's a long way down to the old coast road and the traffic is heavy. It might look like suicide or an accident.

There aren't many guests here. Besides me, only three couples and a German of about my own age went down to dinner. Presumably it will get busier in a few days' time, over the Easter weekend.

The German sent me expectant glances. Perhaps he wished to make contact as we were the only two on our own. I wondered if I'd seen him before. I speak fluent German.

Before I went to bed later that evening, I took care to lock my door. I avoided the bar. I have my own supply of alcohol in my room. There's already one empty bottle in the corner. Should I feel lonely, I've always got Metre Man to talk to. He has a tendency to pop up as soon as I feel in need of company. I've been here four nights.

The Spider has been caught in his own web. First he spins a trap of finely woven silk. Then he loses his footing and gets stuck to his own web.

It strikes me now, as I write, that Maria betrayed me utterly.

In a way she excelled me in cynicism. She must have known that I'd never be able to love another woman and she also made sure there was no going back. She'd placed something between us.

It's the first time I've thought of Maria in this way. It surprises me. As if only now I've begun to pull myself together after my mother's death. Father died a year ago. I believe I was very fond of my mother.

I continue to live with the feeling that there is something important I've forgotten. It's as if all my life I've tried hard not to remember something that happened when I was very young. But it's still not completely buried, it goes on swimming about in the murky depths beneath the thin ice I've been dancing on. I no sooner relax and try to get hold of the thing I'm trying to forget, than a good idea materialises and I begin spinning a new story.

My own consciousness causes me anxiety more and more often. It's like a phantom I can't control.

It was all that imagination of mine that frightened Maria, too. She was fascinated, but frightened.

When Maria had left, the world was my oyster, there was a feeling of freedom about it. It was a long time before I re-established my contacts with girls and I'd given up my studies because I felt far too adult to be a student. Never, since my mother died, had the world seemed so wide open.

I often thought about the young writer who'd stood me a bottle of wine and paid a hundred kroner for the book synopsis. I had dozens of similar pieces at home. His novel was published a couple of years later and got good reviews.

I hung about a bit in Club 7, or in the arty Casino bar, or the Tostrupkjelleren which was the journalists' watering hole, as well as that huge painters' studio-c.u.m-restaurant, Kunstnernes Hus. It was easy to get talking to people. Soon I knew everyone in town who was worth talking to. The problem was that at that early stage I was perennially short of money.

I was considered a bright young spark teeming with ideas, and that was no more than the truth. The people I talked to were always older than me. Many of them were dreamers and idlers, and most had artistic ambitions, or at least artistic pretensions. To me they seemed narrow-minded. A few had published an anthology of poems or a novel, others said they 'wrote' or that they 'wanted to write'. If they didn't say this they felt they lacked legitimacy. These were the people amongst whom I conducted my earliest trans- actions.

When anyone I was drinking with said that they 'wrote'

or 'wanted to write', I would sometimes ask what they wanted to write about. In most cases they couldn't say. I found this puzzling. Even then - and increasingly since - I found something comic about the way society sp.a.w.ns people who are both able and willing writers, but who have nothing to offer. Why do people want to 'write' when they openly and honestly admit that they have nothing to impart?

Couldn't they do something else? What is this desire to do things without being active? In my case the situation has always been the reverse. I've always been gravid, but have never had any wish to produce offspring. The last is meant literally, too. The episode with Maria was about something quite different. She was the one I needed.

I kept a diary at the time. But it was not for public consumption, merely a few jottings I made for my own benefit, a kind of musing. In it I wrote:

I shall never write a novel. I wouldn't be able to concentrate on one story. If I began to spin a fable, it would immediately suck in four or eight others. Then there would be a veritable cacophony to hold in check, with dense layers of frame stories and a myriad of interpolated histories with several narrators on different narrative levels, or what some people call Chinese Boxes. Because I'm unable to stop thinking, I can't prevent myself from sp.a.w.ning ideas. It's something almost organic, something that comes and goes of its own accord. I'm drowning in my own fecundity, I'm constantly at bursting point. New notions bleed unendingly from my brain.

Perhaps that's why I've taken a liking to bar stools. There I can relieve myself.

And so a symbiosis grew up. I found it easy to hatch out new ideas and a.s.sociations. It was much harder not to. But it wasn't like this for the people who wanted to 'write'. Many of them could go for months or years without finding a single original idea to write about. I was surrounded by people who had an enormous desire to express themselves, but the desire was greater than the expression, the need bigger than the message. I saw an almost limitless market for my services. But how was the business to be organised?

On the very day Maria left for Stockholm, I went into town with some of my work. It was a collection of twenty aphorisms. I wanted to test the market, and I wanted to try out my own sales pitch. My idea was to trade the aphorisms one by one: a beer for each, for example. I have to admit the aphorisms were good, very good indeed. So I was willing to swap an exceptionally elegant aphorism for half a litre of beer - and thereafter evermore to forget that I had penned it. It was largely a question of finding the right person, and that was dependent on my ability to strike up a discreet conversation. Now I had a pressing motive: I'd used up my last few kroner on Maria and had no money to go out drinking.

Late that afternoon I b.u.mped into an author in front of the National Theatre, whom for these purposes I shall call Johannes, and who was some fifteen years older than me.

We'd spoken on many previous occasions and I knew he regarded me as a genius. I think he'd already realised that his writing could benefit from a chat with me. He'd once asked me when I intended to make my debut. He asked this in a voice that would have been better suited to an enquiry about my s.e.xual debut. 'Never,' I'd replied. I told him I'd never make my literary debut. This made a deep impression on him. Few people said such things in those days.

I asked Johannes if I could buy him a drink. I didn't mention that I had no money. If it all went wrong, I would have to leave the discovery for when the bill arrived. No one had ever caught me in a lie. But I was pretty confident things would work out. Although it hadn't been my intention, I made up my mind to offer him the entire collection of aphorisms because the notion that Maria was gone had again washed over me and I couldn't chance not having enough to drink that evening. From Johannes' point of view the aphorisms could prove to be worth a fortune. If he used them properly and eked them out with material of his own, they'd give him a new ident.i.ty. He had published two novels in six years and neither was particularly good. In the early seventies it was rare for a novel to contain twenty aphorisms.

We went down to the Casino. Luckily it wasn't very full, but those present were actors or authors - topped up with regulars who aspired to be actors or authors. We found a quiet corner.

After a while I repeated one of the aphorisms from memory. 'Who wrote that?' Johannes asked. I pointed to myself. Then I gave him another one. 'Fabulous,' he said. I reeled off yet another. 'But I thought you said you didn't write?' he queried. I shook my head. I told him I'd said that I'd never make my debut. I explained that I didn't want to be an author. Now it was his turn to shake his head. Within those four walls the statement 'I don't want to be an author'

had probably never been uttered before.

Every clique and sub-culture has its own set of self- evident a.s.sumptions. The circle Johannes moved in didn't contain anyone who said he didn't want to be an author; eventually, and only after many years, one might conceiv- ably acknowledge it as something one couldn't achieve. It's not the same everywhere. There are still rural enclaves in odd backwaters of the world in which the opposite a.s.sertion would sound just as demented. Doubtless there are still some farmers who would be incensed if the heir apparent came in from the outlying fields or the hay-making one day and announced that he wanted to be a writer.

Nowadays most secondary school pupils say they want to be famous, and they mean it too. Just twenty years ago such a statement would have been seen as quite brazen. Cultural norms can be turned upside down within a single gener- ation. In the fifties and sixties you couldn't go round with impunity saying you wanted to be famous when you grew up. You were grateful to become a doctor or a policeman.

If you did aspire to fame, you'd have to explain exactly what you wanted to be famous for: the contribution had to precede the fame. This doesn't happen now. First you decide to be famous, then as an afterthought, how you'll achieve it. Whether you deserve the fame or not is a virtual irrelevancy. At worst, you make your way as a b.a.s.t.a.r.d on a TV docusoap, or, descending into the ultimate slime, break the law in some sensational way. But I've pre-empted this development; it's as if I've known that one day being famous would become vulgar. I've always eschewed vulgarity.

'You're quite a character, Petter,' Johannes said.

I placed the twenty aphorisms before him, and Johannes drank them in. He exuded envy.

'You wrote these yourself?' he asked. 'You didn't get them from someone else?'

I shrugged demonstratively. The very idea of taking stuff that others had written and pa.s.sing it offas my own was such an anathema that I found it hard to hide my disgust. I didn't even lay claim to the things I had written.

I'd got him interested, that was obvious, but I still had some complex manoeuvring to do. I had decided to do the deal properly and there is always something special about the first time. I was aware that I was in the process of establishing a permanent business. I was being put to the test - this was to be my living. If I failed now, it would be more difficult next time.