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wine of the month. The band played, and the lamps twinkled far into the night. Not a soul turned up. He might as well close down.
    Grandfather threw himself into one event after the other, sending out invitations for special evenings – talks and discussions, port wine tastings, piano and song recitals – and even though he sat debating with himself and applaudingmusic for which he and Karen were the only audience, he continued to insist that if you don’t succeed at first, you try and try again, that the losers were those who gave up. There was nothing wrong with the idea. It was the way it was put into practice. And he talked about getting a national politician to pay them a visit. Or what about a famous cabaret artist? He wrote letters and waited for the postman, and then wrote more letters, and when bedtime came he would reassure Karen, insisting that soon their luck would turn – and then one day it happened.
    Grandfather came running in with a letter. It was from an agent in Copenhagen, and he could put them in touch with stars from the world of the theatre, of culture. A week later Grandfather had already arranged a meeting and was climbing aboard the train to Copenhagen. Karen and he had not been separated since his stint in the Army, and it seemed like an eternity before the front door was flung open again and Carl stepped in, beaming and waving his hat and shouting, ‘We are saved!’ He took out a couple of glasses and a bottle of the wine of the month and told her about his trip to Copenhagen, about the agent and about how everything would be different from now on. ‘Moving pictures,’ he whispered and lifted his glass. They would open a picture theatre! They clinked their glasses and drank, and Farmor could scarcely hold back her tears because it all was too much, and she knew that this time it would all go wrong.
    For Carl there was not the shadow of a doubt. He had seen the light and he set up his projection room in the restaurant, arranged the chairs in rows and hung up a screen.He spoke to the press, and on Tuesday 17th July 1909 a notice appeared in
The Lolland-Falster Times
to the effect that, on the recommendation of the parish council, permission had been given for the establishment of a picture-house and that at 8 o’clock the following Saturday Orehoved Inn would open its doors for a motion picture show. Drinks would be served, and the show would be followed by music and dance – Grandfather staked everything on one throw. And people came in droves. They flocked in from Vordingborg and Nørre Alslev, and the farmers came walking across the fields carrying their Sunday shoes in a bag. Even squire Wilhjelm arrived from Orenæs in a horse-drawn carriage and sat himself down in the front row next to members of the town council and the parish priest, and Grandfather bade them all welcome and turned out the ceiling lights and got the projector rolling.
    The screen began to flicker. Dust danced in the cone of light, and shadows began moving across the screen. Ahhh! Oooh! They saw a fisherman bid farewell to his family on the quayside and sail off with two friends. They capsize in the storm and drown, and his dead body is washed up on the seashore. There is a funeral. His wife and children stand at the graveside in mourning – and the reel ran out. It was as silent as the grave in the room. Grandfather scarcely dared turn on the light, and the audience sat as though turned to stone, staring straight ahead. And then from the fifth row came a soft sound. Someone was weeping, and she was followed by another and yet another, breaking down and sobbing. The priest went across to offer comfort, to holdher hand. People got up, crossing the room to offer their condolences, and the squire and the town officials hurried away without Grandfather being able to do a thing about it or stop them to explain the misunderstanding. It was the end of Orehoved Hotel.
    The next day the