I had wearied of my bohemian existence and married Ka’bi Laretei, an up and coming pianist. We moved into a handsome villa in Djursholm, where I intended to live a well-organized bourgeois life. It was all a new and heroic production which rapidly turned into a new and heroic disaster, two people chasing after identity and security and writing each other’s parts, which they accepted in their great need to please each other. The masks quickly cracked and fell to the ground in the first storm and neither had the patience to look at the other’s face. Both shouted with averted eyes: look at me, look at me, but neither saw. Their efforts were fruitless. Two lonelinesses were a fact, failure, an inadmissible reality. The pianist went on tour, the producer produced and the child was entrusted to competent hands. Outwardly, the picture was of a stable marriage between successful contracting parties. The decor was tasteful and the lighting well arranged.