Actually, Johan Svendsen had plenty of time on that Sunday around noon, when the maid announced a visitor, a young woman. The name on her business card, Hanne Nielsen, meant nothing to him and there was no title or firm on the card, through which he might have guessed what it was all about. But never mind, the weather was too bad to permit any outdoor activities and he was sitting alone with a little inspiring book, a cup of coffee and a fierce fire in the fireplace to make it more cosy. He was still carrying his elegant dark-red dressing gown (it was, after all Sunday) – he was very proud of his house and here came a young, female spectator by her own free will. Shortly afterwards, Ms. Nielsen stood in the living-room, with her wet coat slowly losing part of the raindrops she had been exposed to. Sophie, the maid, waited patiently for the verdict, whether she should bring the guest out again or only her coat.
“What makes you challenge this dreadful weather for entering my simple cottage?” Svendsen said with assumed modesty. He was, in fact, very proud of the Svendsen-mansion, and it was a badly hidden pleasure when his possessions caused envy in others
“I am a new journalist at ‘Local Times’ and I ...” the uninvited guest started.
“If you want an interview, you must make an appointment with my secretary,” interrupted Mr. Svendsen. Sophie expected soon to be commanded to lead the guest back to the rain.
“No, I am not here for an interview. I have just found something at the editorial office that ought to interest you. By the way, nobody from ‘Local Times’ knows I am here.”
The master of the house was reluctant to throw the young lady out. “What, then, did you find there, which should interest me?”
The young woman was visibly shy as she said, “Your obituary, or rather that, which should have been prepared as such.”
Mr. Svendsen startled. “It is not quite urgent yet. You can come back to this topic after my death. I should have better time then.” Sophie giggled; it was good to have a grateful audience, although her sympathy probably was limited to the time where somebody else was barked upon.
Ms. Nielsen was not impressed: “I am absolutely certain that you are not satisfied with, how you are mentioned in this obituary.”
“I don’t care about how they talk about me after my death. Besides, I have no influence upon it,” concluded Svendsen.
“I shall, of course, not judge on your evaluation of younger person’s estimation of your life, but it is certainly wrong to believe it cannot be influenced. Just have a look upon how the matters currently stand,” and as by witchcraft out of nothing she suddenly stood with a small piece of paper, which he gave him to read.
Mr. Svendsen took the note and read it fast. It could clearly be seen in his face how his mood changed as if reflecting the cosy surroundings of the in-door fireplace to the outdoor cold and rainy weather. It was as if the calendar suddenly scrolled two months backwards, from April to February. But too late, there was no escape; he had already begun reading the note on which his name was printed in big black letters: