Lister

Af Kerstin Bruun-Hansen
Translated by Morten Winkler

Under a low pavilion on the shore of the fishing lake, a sound most people have probably forgotten can be heard: The cracking noise of five typewriters. Suddenly the noise is interrupted.

”Perhaps we should have two murders in our novel.”

Peter-Clement Woetmann sends the four other writers around him an inquiring look. Each is sitting with a typewriter on his lap.

”And some hot sex,” he adds seriously.

The others consider this briefly, nod and immediately continue their rythmic writing.

Private detectives and lovers

Peter-Clement and the five other novelists in the literary pavilion are writing a whodunit. It takes place in the Faroese underground of Copenhagen, includes a murder in a greenhouse, private detectives, secret mistresses and everything that belongs to a real whodunit.

The audience are welcome to contribute with input to the story line, and the authentically yellowed pieces of typing paper are hung in front of the pavilion as soon as they are out of the type writer. At 6 PM tomorrow the five former pupils of the School of Creative Writing (Forfatterskolen) will give a reading from their work.

”Of course there has to be literature at Roskilde. But ordinary reading can be quite boring, so we thought it would be fun to do it this way instead,” says Martin Snoer Raaschou.

Keep track of the gallery of characters?

”Shall we try to keep track on the gallery of characters?” asks one of the writers.

”Yes, I have also lost track now,” another admits.

”Well then, we have a murderer – or then again … we are not sure that it is him,” begins one of the others, and then the complete line of principal and subordinate characters is reeled off.

A little later a couple of curious festival goers put their heads in at the pavilion and ask what the writing is about.

”We’re doing a whodunit about a huge conspiracy theory in the Faroe Islands underground …,” Peter-Clement begins.

But the two curious persons have already lost interest and are on their way out again, as the type writers crackle on under the pavilion.

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