The Man In The Window

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Inthe winter gloom of Friday 13th January, Reidar Folke Jespersen started the wayhe started every day, at least for the last fifty of his seventy-nine years: onhis own with a bowl of porridge in the kitchen, his braces hanging loose behindhis back and the rhythmic clinks of the spoon against the bottom of the dish asthe sole accompaniment to his solitude. He had big bags beneath two bright blueeyes. His chin was covered with a meticulously trimmed, short, white beard; hishands were large, wrinkled and bore sharply defined veins which wound their wayup both forearms to his rolled-up shirtsleeves. His arms were powerful; theycould have belonged to a logger or a blacksmith.

Reidarhad no appetite. In the morning he never had any appetite, but being theenlightened person he was, he understood the importance of the stomach havingsomething to work on. That was why he began every day with a bowl of porridge,which he made himself. If anyone had asked what he thought about during theseminutes, he would not have been able to answer. For as he ate, he always concentratedon counting the number of spoonfuls – 23, clink, swallow, 24, clink, swallow. Along life as a porridge-eater had taught him that a bowl would, on average,provide between thirty-eight and forty-four spoonfuls – and if a trace ofwonder lingered in his consciousness during these routine-filled moments of thenew day, it was only his curiosity about how many spoonfuls it would take toscrape the bowl clean.

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