Broken (12 page)

The sherry warmed his stomach and he sensed that he was moving towards a final decision. He poured himself another sherry, a large one. Of course, he could pay for the painting in instalments, thus avoiding having to part with all his money at once. On the other hand he had never liked the idea of paying by instalments, so he dismissed the idea as quickly as it had emerged. He would buy the painting and pay cash or he would not buy it at all. I'm going to buy it, he told himself, I'm going to buy it tomorrow. I'll go to the gallery and put a red sticker on the painting, then I'll go to the bank and transfer the money. Ole Krantz will give me a hand transporting the painting home. I want it. If I don't buy it, I'll regret it till the day I die. Regret it keenly and bitterly. Why does it have to be so hard? What a coward I am. And the sherry is starting to cloud my judgement. You should never make any important decisions when you're drunk, never ever. I need to sleep on it.

He cleaned his teeth and went to bed after having folded his clothes neatly. He closed his eyes and fell asleep. That night he had a strange dream. He dreamed that he went to the bank. He took out all his savings and put them in a bag. A brown bag, with a press stud at the top. He left the bank and made his way towards the gallery. Suddenly he tripped on the pavement and fell. The bag split open and the notes flew off in all directions, seized by an unexpected and violent gust of wind. He got back on his feet and started chasing them, he found a note here another there, he clawed them back feverishly. His heart pounded fast as he scrambled for the notes. But they were impossible to catch. They surged in the wind, they were carried far, far away and he was left with just a few crumpled notes in his hand. The bag was empty. At that point he woke up, fraught and distressed. Then he had to laugh. What a ridiculous dream, he thought. But afterwards he began analysing what the dream might actually have meant. Perhaps it was telling him that he should not buy the painting. That he was literally throwing money away. That he ought to spend his money on something else. But what? There was nothing else he wanted. Irritably he tried to go back to sleep. When he woke up later he could still recall the dream and it continued to disturb him.

He was in two minds as he made his way to the gallery that morning. I'll leave it to fate, he thought eventually; he was rapidly losing patience with the whole business. Why was this painting, which he had fallen in love with at first sight, starting to become a problem for him? Presumably the only solution was to buy it. Could it be that simple? He passed the courthouse and realised that he was cold. Then he remembered that he had forgotten his woollen scarf. He pulled his coat tighter at the throat and walked faster to warm up. He decided to turn up the radiators in the gallery, it was important that people got a pleasant feeling of warmth when they stepped inside, when they put their feet on the stone floor. He let himself in, looked at the bridge with a mixture of reverence and misgiving and ran upstairs to the kitchen.

I put the cat on my lap and force his jaws apart.

He instantly starts to scratch and kick me, his razor-sharp claws dig into the delicate skin on my arms and make my eyes water. I grit my teeth and endure it. How can a four-kilo cat have this much strength? I wonder. It's incredible, he's fighting for his life. Even though I'm doing this for his sake. I take the tiny pill from the table, drop it down his throat and force his jaws shut. I massage his neck and throat with my other hand until the cat swallows the pill. Alvar is watching me, petrified.

'What are you doing?' he croaks.

'Something entirely necessary. I'm worming him,' I reply. 'He's lost a bit of weight recently, he might have worms.'

'Oh,' he says, taking a step back. I seize the moment to let the cat go, he jumps down on to the floor and races to the garden door, he wants to get out. I open the door for him and watch him disappear into the bushes.

'So how are you?' I ask Alvar. 'Why don't you sit down?'

He perches on the very edge of the sofa, picking at his nails.

'I need an honest answer,' he says fixing me with his eyes. 'Am I miserly?'

I sit down again, dig out a cigarette from the packet on the table.

'I don't think so. No, you're not miserly. But you're wondering why you can't make a decision about the painting, aren't you? The severed bridge you so desperately want?'

He nods in agreement. 'Yes. I think there has been enough procrastination. In fact, I'm genuinely disappointed with myself because I can't act. Other people buy things they want whereas I've still got all my old furniture, most of which I've inherited from my mother. And I have enough money.'

'In other words,' I say, lighting the cigarette, 'you have everything you need in order to buy the painting. And now you don't understand what's holding you back?'

He hitches up his trousers before crossing his legs; he flexes his feet in the shiny shoes.

'I keep asking myself,' he says pensively, 'whether the money might be intended for something else.'

'What would that be?' I say, feigning innocence. I am no longer able to meet his eyes.

'Well, if only I knew. I can't think what it might be, but something is holding me back. Something vague and intangible. What do you think?' he says, looking at me. His gaze is terribly direct.

'Deep down you have an inkling,' I say. 'You know that something is bound to happen further into the story and subconsciously you're thinking that the money will come in useful later. That's why you haven't got the courage to spend it. You're waiting. You feel restless. If you buy the painting you will have achieved precisely what you wanted and everything will grind to a halt. And we're only about one hundred pages into your story. You want more space, so you let the painting stay in the gallery. While you're waiting for something else to happen.'

He watches me suspiciously; there is a deep furrow between his brows.

'True, a hundred pages isn't much to get excited about,' he concedes. 'So perhaps you're being brutal enough to show me the painting, yet you won't let me own it. I think that's hard for me to deal with because it's an important painting.'

'I understand,' I console him. 'But you'll just have to learn how. I once desperately wanted a painting by Knut Rose. I found it many years ago and it's called
The Helper.
I never came to own it, but it no longer drives me crazy. Let me put it this way: it's a mild grief.'

'A mild grief,' he echoes. 'Which you think I ought to tackle without whining?'

'Exactly.'

'But I'm not very good at dealing with emotions,' he says.

I flick the ash from my cigarette. 'Do they frighten you?'

'Yes. I don't want too many of them and I don't want them to be very strong. I prefer it when everything is slow and steady.'

'What about happiness?' I smile. 'That's an emotion too. Don't you want that?'

He shrugs shyly. He is actually a well-built man, but he never straightens up, never lets anyone see his broad shoulders.

'I suppose so. If it should come my way.'

'Come your way? Happiness is not some bird, Alvar, which suddenly lands on your shoulder, though poets like to put it that way. You need to set something in motion to achieve the good things in life. You have to act.'

He finds a speck of dust on his trousers and brushes it off.

'But you'll help me, won't you? That's why I came here. Do you see any happiness in my future?'

I close my eyes and concentrate. A host of images appears on my retina.

'Perhaps.'

He blinks. 'What do you mean, perhaps? That doesn't sound terribly reassuring.'

'A half-finished story is a delicate thing,' I explain. 'Never anticipate events, it's dangerous. Everything can burst like a bubble. Besides, I don't want to give you false hopes, or make promises I can't keep.'

'Can you give me anything at all?' he pleads.

I consider this. 'Yes, I can actually. There is one thing that has been on my mind a long time. But I don't know if it'll make you feel better, perhaps it'll only cause you more anxiety. It's a small, but well-intentioned gesture. Something which might turn out to be useful.'

He looks at me with anticipation. I get up from my chair and walk over to my desk. Scribble something on a yellow Post-it note, return and hand it to him. He grabs it hungrily.

'A telephone number?' he says, baffled.

I nod. 'Put this note by your phone and make sure you don't lose it.'

He folds the paper and puts it in his jacket pocket.

'A telephone number,' he repeats pensively. 'That's not a lot, is it?'

I protest fiercely. 'You're wrong. This number will lead you to another human being who will answer when you call. Someone who can think and act. A compassionate person. This number can save your life, Alvar.'

He is startled. He looks scared and his eyes widen.

'Are you going to test me?' he whispers.

'Alvar my dear,' I reply patiently, 'you're worse than a child. And I know that you're in a tricky place right now. It's like you're half finished. You're dangling, literally, in thin air. But if it's any comfort, Alvar, I'm dangling too. I'm halfway through my story, I'm still in the deep end. I'm struggling to sustain my faith in my own project. Doubt creeps up on me like an invisible gas, it goes to my head and it fills me with fear. Now what's this? I ask myself. Who would want to read this? Can I expect to demand my readers' time and attention with this story? Have I drawn you so clearly that they can see you as well as I can, that they will come to care about you? Have I found the right words?'

'But you love your work, too, you said so the other day.'

'I'm a very inconsistent person,' I declare. 'Yes, I love it, I hate it, I struggle. When it's at its best it sends shivers of delight down my spine, at its worst I'm tearing my hair out. I get up in the morning and I go over to the mirror. I look at my weary face and I tell myself that I can't do it, that it's too hard.'

He frowns. He looks sulky, he is pouting.

'So you don't think I'm worth it?'

'It might be the case that you're only important to me. And perhaps that's enough.'

'I know that I'm not important or amazing or exciting. But there's only one Alvar Eide,' he says, a little hurt.

'That's true. And I've always been of the opinion that every single one of us has a whole novel inside. Every single person you meet has their own life-and-death drama. Just take a look at people, Alvar, as you wander through the town. Look at their eyes, at how they bow their heads; their brisk, but also slightly hesitant, walk. Their anxieties. Their secrets. Oh, I want to stop every single one of them, lift up their chins and look them in the eyes. What do you carry, what do you hide, what do you dream about, please would you tell me so I can write it down, please let me show you to the world?'

'And then you can only pick a few,' he nods. 'What you can manage in your own lifetime. Now I'm starting to feel honoured because you chose me.'

'May I remind you that you anticipated events and made your own way into my house,' I say.

'True, but I was second in the queue anyway. My time would have come regardless.'

'Probably. So, is it time for us to move on? We have to go out into the cold, Alvar, it's the middle of winter.'

He gets up from the sofa. Takes a few steps towards the door.

'I really value our conversations.'

'So do I,' I reply, 'but I might end up deleting them.'

'What?'

He looks shocked.

'They might turn out to be superfluous. You might manage just fine with your own story and your own drama.'

He opens the door, turns one final time.

'It's freezing cold,' he says and shivers. 'Can you feel it?'

He walks down the steps and pauses on the drive for a while. The porch light shines on his bald head.

'I've felt so cold ever since I had my hair cut,' he says.

It was the middle of January and still very cold.

The town was bathed in pale sunlight, white, glazed and shiny. She arrived at half past four in the afternoon just as Alvar was getting ready to close up. This time she was looking ravaged, pale and purple with cold. She looked at him with her kohl-black eyes, they were watering from exhaustion and the frost. She wore no gloves. Her thin neck was bare, a weak stem with thin, blue veins. Alvar rushed off to get her a cup of coffee, it didn't occur to him not to, but he felt a deep sense of unease, it was like sliding towards something unknown, something unmanageable. She took the mug with stiff fingers and went over to the staircase, where she sat down on the second step. 'You ought to get yourself some gloves,' he said, 'and a scarf.' 'I know,' she said indifferently, slurping her coffee. 'But I can't be bothered.'

'Can't be bothered?' he said, surprised because he did not think putting on a scarf was a major challenge. For a while he pondered. Then he decided that he wanted to do something nice for her, something more than just getting her a cup of coffee. After all, she had decided to come back, so events would have to run their course. He made up his mind to act on this whim, even though it was not in his nature. He went up to the kitchen where his outdoor clothes hung and returned with his thin woollen scarf. She accepted it reluctantly. Then she pressed it against her nose and inhaled it for a long time.

'It smells good,' she said, 'it smells of aftershave.'

He nodded. 'It's long,' he said, 'you can wrap it around your neck several times.'

She did so. It looked good on her. The scarf was camel-coloured wool and it suited her. It contrasted beautifully with her pale skin and her ice-blue eyes.

'My gloves are too big for you,' he said, 'so I'll keep them for myself.'

She nodded and drank her coffee, drank it quickly and greedily until she had emptied the mug. Then she put the mug on the step and began staggering around the gallery on thin, unsteady legs. Alvar watched her. He did not mind her being there, she was not making any trouble. She looked somewhat haggard, but she could pass for an ordinary customer if you didn't look at her too carefully. But up close you could tell. The fine veins in her temples, her lips drained of colour. Her ankle boots clicking against the stone floor. She had reached the bridge.

'You said you were going to buy it,' she challenged him.

He shrugged.

'I'm still thinking about it,' he said truthfully.

'And you can't make up your mind?'

'Well, it's expensive,' he said, 'that's why. It's a lot of money to spend in one go.'

'But you can afford it,' she said, 'you said you'd been saving.'

'Yes,' he said, 'I have been saving up. I've been saving for a rainy day. If I buy the painting, I have nothing to fall back on.'

She tasted the words 'fall back on'.

'Is that important?' she smiled. Mockingly, he thought.

'I've nothing to fall back on,' she admitted, 'I live from hand to mouth.'

He gave her a puzzled look. 'So how do you survive? Do you work?'

She laughed out loud. 'God, no,' she hiccupped, 'I can't be bothered with that. People work because they think they have to. I'd rather claim benefits.'

'That can't be very lucrative,' Alvar declared, 'when you can't even afford to buy yourself a scarf and a pair of gloves in the winter.'

'Of course I can afford to buy clothes,' she said, 'but I prefer to spend money on other things. It's all about your priorities.'

'Really?' He looked at her once more. At her incredibly thin legs and the pointy high-heeled boots. Perhaps she was one of those women who sold themselves when their benefit money ran out. He did not like the thought of it, so he instantly pushed it from his mind. But that was how they got money for drugs, he had read about it in the papers. It was truly awful. She was a lovely young woman, with a doll-like face and a tiny pale mouth. She was practically a child, he thought. Could she really be one of those women who got in and out of cars? At night, down on Bragernes Square, where they all congregated? He did not want to judge her. She might have been driven to it by some terrible event. Perhaps she had had an awful childhood, perhaps her father had hit her, or something worse, he didn't know what it could be, but his imagination was starting to run away with him. He didn't think of her as second-rate. But it upset him that she lived in such wretched circumstances when in all likelihood she was just as bright as he was in every possible way. She should have been living another life. But she did not seem to think so. She just drifted from one day to the next without purpose or meaning, without hopes or dreams. And perhaps this was enough for her, as long as she got her drugs, as long as she found relief. Her body was slowly breaking down, but it didn't seem to trouble her. True, it was not as if he knew her well and understood everything, but she did not seem doomed like so many of the others.

'I need to go,' she said suddenly. She handed him the mug and thanked him. She had to step to the side to regain her balance. He watched her disappear.

Later that day, while he was eating a simple meal at the table in the living room, he started thinking about her again. He wondered what her name was, where she lived, things like that. She had said she lived all over the place. There was something ephemeral about her, something transient. He wondered why she kept returning to the gallery. Was it really just to get a cup of coffee? Perhaps that was all there was to it. And he had welcomed her, even though he could have told her to get out. He was just about to leave the table when the doorbell rang. This did not happen often, and when it did it was his neighbour asking to borrow something, or a salesman. He composed himself and went out into the hall. He opened the door and gasped. She was standing outside, in her grey coat with his old woollen scarf around her neck. Alvar was speechless. He stood in the doorway staring at her as if he was hypnotised. She laughed when she saw his surprise, tilted her head and cackled, and he saw her teeth clearly, they were tiny and sharp.

'Hi,' she said cheerfully. 'I thought you might be in,'

Alvar had lost the power to speak. He rocked backwards and forwards on the threshold as he clung to the door frame with one hand.

'You're
here
?
'
he eventually managed to stammer. A dart of unease pierced his chest. A myriad bewildering thoughts rushed through his mind.

'Yes,' she said simply, letting her hands drop. It looked as though she was expecting to be invited in. Alvar did not want to let her in. He would never have believed that this could happen. Her coming to the gallery was one thing. It was open to everyone and he had been unable to make himself throw her out. But here. In his flat, his home, his castle. He hesitated. She stood there rubbing her cold hands, impatiently, in the doorway.

'How did you know I lived here?' he asked, baffled. He didn't mean to be rude, but he didn't have a clue what was going on.

'I followed you,' she said. 'A few days ago. I saw you go into this flat. And you didn't notice,' she added, 'you don't notice anything.'

She looked at him with her ice-blue eyes. 'Your name is Alvar Eide,' she stated.

'Yes,' he stuttered. He was still clinging to the door frame. His brain was throbbing violently, trying to find a solution.

'Can I come in, please?' she asked directly. And he thought, no, no you can't come in, this is my flat, my boundary is this threshold, I don't want you to intrude. But he did not have the strength to say it to her face. A skinny, fragile young woman was standing at his door wanting to come in. And he was not a cruel man, and he didn't look down on women like her. Nor did he think that she was out to cause him any trouble either, it didn't seem to be her intention. Perhaps she just wanted another cup of coffee. Or to warm up. He opened the door fully and she entered the hall. She gave no indication of wanting to take off her coat. Alvar liked that. That suggested that she would only be staying a little while.

He went into the living room, still marvelling at her presence, and she followed him and sat down on his sofa without waiting to be asked. She sat down as if it was the most natural thing in the world and inspected the room. Alvar collapsed in an armchair. Then he leaned forwards and started tidying away the newspapers, he didn't know what else to do. She followed him with her eyes. He grew nervous. He started to think she was laughing at him. Suddenly she put her feet on his coffee table. He looked directly at the narrow, spiky heels of her ankle boots. Alvar had never put his feet on the coffee table, he thought it was a nasty habit, and besides, she was wearing boots. But he said nothing, he just sat there waiting for something to happen. Perhaps there was a reason for her visit? Was there something specific she wanted? He decided that maybe he ought to make some coffee, as you do when you have guests. But he did not, he stayed in his armchair with a strong feeling of apprehension coursing through his body. He felt invaded in his own home, yes, indeed he did. She was calmly sitting there staring at him as if he were an exhibit in a museum. When she had finished staring at him, she started looking around the room. She looked at his furniture and his possessions with an open, curious gaze.

'So this is where your painting will go?' she asked out of the blue. She pointed at the vacant space above the fireplace.

'Yes,' he said, turning in his armchair. 'That's what I had in mind. But I need a few days to think it through properly.'

'You'd better hurry up,' she suggested. 'Or it'll be sold.'

I know that, he said to himself, but he did not want to appear argumentative. Instead he decided to ask her a few questions. He felt he had a right, given that she had come all the way into his living room in this brazen manner.

'What's your name?' he asked as he folded his hands in his lap.

'Lindys,' she replied.

'Lindys,' he repeated. He had never heard of such a name.

'Or Merete,' she said. 'Or Elsa. It depends.'

He was confused. 'Depends on what?'

'Well,' she said, flexing the pointy toes of her boots, 'it depends what I feel like that day.'

He lowered his head slowly. He was not feeling very well.

'I see,' he said and could clearly hear that his voice sounded tart. 'So what do you prefer today?'

She thought about it briefly. 'Helle,' she said.

'Very well,' he said. 'Helle. That's settled then.'

'So your name's always the same?' she asked and smiled playfully. She revealed her sharp teeth again.

'Of course,' he said earnestly. 'People usually keep the same name their entire life. And I know you're only joking.'

She laughed once more. Suddenly she took her feet off the coffee table. He experienced an instant sense of relief.

'You got any sweets?' she asked.

Alvar was taken aback. Sweets? Was she being serious?

He hesitated again. 'Sweets?'

'Yes. Sweets, fruit gums, chocolate,' she explained. A little perplexed because he was being so dim.

'No, no, I don't have any sweets,' he replied, shaking his head.

'None at all?' she pressed.

He felt his irritation rise again as he carefully tried to recall the contents of his kitchen cupboards.

'I might have a packet of raisins,' he remembered.

'Raisins?' She mimed munching them. 'Yeah, all right. Can I have them? I need sugar and I need it now.'

He sat there gawping at her. She was demanding that he fetched her some raisins. He did not begrudge her the raisins, but he was not entirely sure where she was going with this. He went out into the kitchen and found the packet. It was one of those snack boxes you put in children's packed lunches. He returned and handed it to her and she opened it immediately. She dug her greedy fingers into the contents.

'Chocolate is better,' she said, 'but raisins will have to do.'

Yes, they certainly will, Alvar thought. He sat watching her as she ate the raisins. She ate all of them and tossed the empty packet onto the coffee table. Again he felt a surge of irritation. She was so careless. She was his guest, but she was acting as if she owned the place. She certainly made herself at home. I guess I'm just being petty, he thought, I'm not used to having guests. I scarcely know how guests would behave. At the same time a chill passed through him. He was always alone and he was always in control and now he was being overpowered by a skinny girl and he did not have the guts to stand up to her. He decided to ask her where she lived. Even though he had asked her before and she had replied, 'Oh, all over the place.' All the same, he was sure that she lived somewhere, she was just unwilling to tell him. He felt very awkward in her presence. Surely his knees were too sharp and his arms too long?

He changed his mind and instead he asked her, 'How old are you?'

'How old? Well, how old do you think?'

Having to guess made him feel uncomfortable. Then he thought, I don't have to guess, I can tell her that I've no idea. But then he looked at her again and estimated her to be twenty.

'Eighteen,' she replied.

Alvar nodded. Perhaps she was lying about this too, like she lied about her name. She was still smiling and he noticed that she had bits of raisins stuck between her teeth. It didn't look attractive, but he couldn't tell her that. He was restless. He wondered how long she intended to sit there lounging on his sofa.

'You're over forty, aren't you?' she said, watching him.

'Forty-two,' he replied truthfully.

'Isn't it about time you got married and started a family?'

He squirmed in his armchair. He was not enjoying this conversation and he refused to expose himself.

'Don't do it,' she said the next moment. 'Family equals trouble. Responsibilities. No money. Endless guilt and a life of drudgery.'

'Does it?'

She ran her fingers through her hair, which was sticking out like a bristle brush.

'I prefer brief acquaintances,' she said. 'Same as you, I can tell from looking at you.'

'Can you?'