Broken (15 page)

Alvar felt an icy chill down his spine. 'I'll bear that in mind,' he said, averting his eyes. Then he went into the hallway. He put the box with the kitten on the kitchen table and lifted the lid. Lifted the little bundle out. It stood up on trembling legs looking confused. He thought the kitten was absolutely perfect. It had a white chest, but was otherwise grey with a tiny pink nose. Tiny, tiny paws. Bright blue eyes that soon would turn yellow or green, he guessed. Then he remembered that it might be thirsty. He put the kitten on the floor and found a bowl in his kitchen cupboard, which he filled with water. The kitten came over straight away to drink. This was a momentous occasion for Alvar. He was responsible for this tiny animal, he had to look after it, take care of it, feed it, and these were things he had hardly ever done for another living creature. He sat down on the floor and watched it as it drank. And you need a name, too, he thought. And given that art is my passion, I'll name you after a painter.

How about Rembrandt? he thought. No, it was too big and cumbersome. Picasso was out of the question; da Vinci? No, that was conceited. How about the Norwegian painters? he wondered. Kittelsen, how funny would that be? Or Heiberg, perhaps. He instantly dismissed it as ridiculous. He stood up again and thought on. Started preparing a litter tray for the kitten. It would have to go in a corner of the kitchen for the time being. Suddenly he felt deeply moved by everything that had happened. And how quickly it had all come about. From the minute he had gone over to the noticeboard up to this moment when he was standing in his own kitchen with his very own kitten. It was really so unlike him to let himself go like this. He spread out the sand so it lay evenly in the tray and then he pushed it up against the wall. The kitten grew curious, it soon climbed into the tray and did its business. Alvar sank down onto a kitchen chair, cupped his chin in his hands and admired the little bundle. I'm going to treat myself to a sherry tonight, he decided, as the cat bounced around. In his mind he was flicking through great sections of art history. Finally he decided to name the kitten Goya.

At this very moment someone rang the doorbell hard.

Alvar jumped in his chair, he grabbed the kitten and he ran into the living room. His heart was pounding. Was it her again, Lindys? Or a salesperson, perhaps, or his neighbour? He stood petrified, clutching the kitten to his chest. If he just kept totally still whoever it was would eventually go away; right now he did not want to be disturbed. The bell rang again, sharply this time. His heart leapt to his throat. Why had she come to his flat, what did she want? What had he done wrong? Why did she have to blight his peaceful existence? The bell rang for the third time. Whoever it was, was leaning on the bell, the sound cut through the flat. His cheeks were hot with despair. Then it struck him how ridiculous it all was; him standing there shaking with fright just because someone was ringing his doorbell, and how pathetic he had become. It was a simple case of refusing to open the door, she would give up eventually. Because now he was quite certain that it was Lindys on the other side of the door. The bell rang for the fourth time. Or, he thought, I'll open the door and I'll ask her to go away once and for all. He rehearsed the words in his head. Go away once and for all. Suddenly everything went quiet, he thought he heard voices. Had his neighbour gone out? He went over to his kitchen window and looked out. Then the bell started ringing again. He could not bear it any longer; he clutched the kitten and went to open the door.

'Christ,' she said, putting her hands on her hips, 'what took you so long? You were here the whole time!'

Then she spotted the kitten. She melted instantly.

'Oh, but just look at you,' she said taking the kitten from him. She simply snatched it from his hands and pressed it confidently to her pale cheek.

'So when did you get this one? What's his name? Is it a boy? How old is it?'

Alvar struggled to deal with four questions simultaneously.

He cleared his throat nervously. 'I got him today. He's nine weeks old. His name is Goya.'

'Goya,' she repeated dubiously. 'Why?'

'Because,' he said, 'I named him after the Spanish painter. Francisco de Goya.'

'Right.' She still did not quite follow. 'Can I come in?' she asked then.

'I was just about to go out,' he spluttered. He reached out for his kitten, but she refused to give him back.

'I just need a few minutes,' she said, and before he knew it, she had stepped past him and into the hall. Alvar bit his lip.

'He's got blue eyes,' she said joyously.

He looked at her kohl-black eyes. She did not seem to be high and she was not slurring her words, that was always something.

'They'll turn green eventually,' he explained. She sat down on the sofa and put her feet on the coffee table. Alvar remained standing, clenching and unclenching his fists in frustration. She had clearly never been taught manners of any sort and her ankle boots were far from clean.

'You're lovely, you are,' she said, kissing the kitten on his pink nose. Alvar stood in the middle of the floor watching them. The kitten dangled like a toy in her hands.

'Don't squeeze him too hard,' he warned her. He couldn't bear it that she had taken the kitten from him.

'Oh, cats can cope with anything,' she said. 'They've got nine lives, didn't you know?'

'I have to correct you there,' Alvar said, 'they only have one, actually. And this kitten is my responsibility.'

She laughed at him. She stroked the head of the kitten with her fingers.

'So you're going out?' she said then. 'Where are you going? Are you taking the car?'

He nodded. 'I've got some business to attend to. In Oslo,' he lied.

'Cool!' she burst out. 'Can I come with you?'

He took a step back as he inwardly cursed himself and he started babbling. 'Yes, no,' he gibbered, 'I'm not leaving right now. I'm not altogether sure when, I need to go into town first, I've got some shopping to do there.'

She fixed him with her ice-blue eyes. 'Good God, you're a busy man,' she said. Then she laughed again, her laughter was shrill and loud.

'Well, I've got several things to do,' Alvar said again, 'in several different places. You'll just be bored waiting for me here, there and everywhere. It would be better if you took the bus,' he said rapidly. 'Or the train.'

She put the cat down on the table. Alvar leapt forward and grabbed it immediately.

'I didn't think you'd be so dull,' she said then.

Dull? Am I dull? Alvar thought. No, I certainly am not. But I'm floundering, how am I going to get this person out of my house?

'Do you have any more raisins?' she asked.

He shook his head firmly. 'No raisins. No chocolate. Nothing at all.'

Suddenly she started patting the pocket of her grey coat.

'One fag, that's all I need, I'm not staying long. You can get ready in the meantime. Do you leave the cat on his own when you go out? Then always remember to put the toilet seat down when you've been to the l00. I had a cat once and one day I found it drowned in the 100.'

Alvar was shocked. 'So,' he said when he had recovered, 'it only had eight lives left then?'

She made a face at him. Stuck a cigarette in her mouth, fished out a lighter advertising a convenience store.

'I was trying to give you a piece of advice,' she said, 'but if you're not interested then that's no skin off my nose.' She blew a column of smoke out into the room. Alvar hated it, he was not used to the smell of smoke, he did not even own an ashtray, so he went into the kitchen and found a bowl. Put it in front of her on the coffee table. She immediately flicked the ash off her cigarette.

'Don't you have something you should be getting on with?' she said. He sat down in his armchair. He felt he ought to make conversation, but at the same time he wanted her to leave.

'What have you done with the scarf?'

'The scarf?' She gave him a perplexed look.

'Yes,' he said, 'the scarf I gave you. The Mulberry scarf. It's a very fine scarf.'

She shrugged. 'Not a clue,' she said. 'It's not so cold any more, just as well.'

Alvar felt deeply depressed. It was an expensive scarf, and she had discarded it carelessly and he had been taught a lesson. His neighbour had been right, you could not trust those people.

'Why haven't you bought the painting?' she asked, nodding towards the blank wall above the fireplace.

'Ahem, I haven't got round to it,' he replied.

'Got round to it?' She laughed again. 'The painting is hanging in your workplace. All you have to do is unhook it. You're not very quick off the mark, are you?' she stated. 'You really wanted it. Are you that indecisive, Alvar?'

He could feel his cheeks burning again. He certainly was not indecisive, on the contrary he was controlled and organised. Yes, he was going to buy the painting, but not because she was pushing him. It would happen of its own accord, he would know when the time was right, when he was ready to act.

'My mum could never make a decision,' she said suddenly.

'Oh?' Alvar enquired.

'Yes. She had a phobia. And this phobia was so great that it paralysed her. All she could do was sit in her chair all day. She couldn't manage any decisions, she never ate. She couldn't leave her room, she never left the house.'

'What was she scared of?' Alvar asked.

'Dying,' she said. 'She was so scared of dying that she wasn't able to live life like other people. She ended up killing herself with some pills the doctor had given her.'

'She was so scared of dying that she killed herself?'

Alvar was perplexed. He could see no logic in this.

'Weird, don't you think?' she said, inhaling. 'People can be so strange.'

Alvar's living room was now dense with cigarette smoke. He detested it. The stress was building up in him and he was certain that she was aware of it, but she pretended not to notice.

'Do you have any spare cash?' she asked, stubbing out her cigarette in the bowl.

Alvar jerked. 'No,' he said brusquely. 'Absolutely not. I have no cash.' He got up and stood next to his chair.

'But you've got a cashpoint card?' she said in a commanding voice. Her eyes had lit up in a way that scared him.

'A card? Yes, of course I've got a card.'

'Good, since you're going to Oslo anyway you can give me a lift to the Cash and Carry, where there's a cash machine. You can get some money out. You'll probably need to get some for yourself as well,' she declared.

Alvar paled. Were there no limits to her impudence? He put the kitten down on the chair and inhaled deeply as he got up.

'Don't get your knickers in a twist,' she said, 'I was just asking you a question. I'll meet you downstairs. I'll be waiting by your car.'

His head was turbulent with chaos. On top of everything it seemed impossible to abandon the kitten, which had only just arrived. The kitten was running around confused in a strange house. Overwhelmed by concern he lifted up the little bundle, carried him out into the kitchen, put him in the box and replaced the lid. Then he went outside. She was hanging around by the car.

'It's open,' he coughed. She went round and got in. He got in behind the wheel. I can't believe this is happening to me, he thought, I can't believe I'm doing what she tells me to do. He started the engine and pulled out into the road. Changed gears and drove down the hill.

'Well,' she said, looking around the car, 'it's not exactly a Jaguar, is it?'

Alvar did not reply. He had nothing more to say, he just wanted her to leave and he would never, ever open his door the next time someone rang the bell. He drove right up to the cashpoint. Got out, found the card in his wallet.

'I need a thousand!' she called from the car. Alvar's fingers trembled, she was watching him like a hawk. He inserted the card and entered his PIN number, glancing quickly over his shoulder to see if she was getting out. She was. Her boots clicked businesslike against the tarmac. The machine ticked and whirred. Then his card came out and shortly afterwards his money. He held it in his hand for a moment as if frozen solid. She snatched it from him and stuffed it in her pocket.

'You're a dear,' she exclaimed joyfully. Suddenly she leaned forward and kissed his cheek, a big sloppy kiss. Then she walked across the road and was gone.

Lindys has entered my life.

This was what Alvar was thinking as he opened the gallery at five to ten on a Monday morning in late February. She has entered my life and I need to make a decision. Whether I want her there or not. If I want her in my life I need to have a strategy in place for dealing with her. If I don't want her there, I need to get rid of her. And I have to devise a strategy in order for that to happen. In other words, I need to make a choice. Does she need me? he asked himself. Maybe. But he could not know for certain. She had kissed him on his cheek, but surely that was just an affectionate gesture, he thought, and not an expression of love or devotion. That was how the young behaved these days; they would kiss anyone and not be the least bit embarrassed about it. The cynical part of him was utterly convinced that she was only interested in him for his money, but he did not like to be so cynical. Rather, he decided, she was looking for several things. Companionship and warmth, and money for drugs. She had even opened up to him, she had told him that her mother had killed herself because of her phobia. Her confiding in him had genuinely moved him. But he also felt disturbed. She was so unpredictable, she only showed up when she wanted to. She never cared if it was convenient for him. Alvar decided that if they made a proper date, if for example she said, 'I'll be back again on Friday around six o'clock in the evening,' then he would be prepared and everything would be easier. Of course he could also ask her, he could mention it in passing, are you thinking of dropping by one of these days? But that sounded like an invitation and he certainly did not want to invite her. Then it might spiral into something he would have no control over whatsoever and the very thought made him cold with fear.

The trip to the cashpoint had left him feeling very tense because he was finding it hard to accept that he had acted the way he had. He had walked like a servant to his car, driven by a vague sense of duty, quite simply because the word 'no' was so difficult to articulate. No. I don't want to, you won't make me, we can't do this, it's out of the question, are you out of your mind? He had all these words in his head, but they were too deep inside. In addition he found it terribly hard to get angry. He was not used to people wanting something from him and even less used to them asking for what they wanted in such a direct manner. What would happen if he gave in? And how could people around him make themselves so accessible? They gave out their telephone numbers without a moment's hesitation, they gave out their email address and their home address, they travelled abroad and met foreigners whom they invited to Norway, why not? If you're ever in this part of the world, do drop by. Had they no idea of the risks they were running? And when it came to Lindys she was a damaged person on top of everything else and the circles she moved in were even worse. For all he knew she might be a thief, a prostitute, a liar. She might have been to prison, she might have been a drug dealer and that was a criminal offence. Of all the people he could have run into in this world, it had turned out to be someone like her. Was this significant? At the same time it was also an opportunity. All of his deepest feelings and values were tested. Others would have handled this in a far more straightforward manner, it struck him, others would have turned their back and cut the tie with a machete. Ole Krantz would have lifted her up and carried her out into the cold, dumped her in a gutter outside perhaps, and he would not have thought twice about it. But I'm not Ole Krantz, he thought, I'm Alvar Eide. I might lack something that other people possess. What could it be? A sense of entitlement? Do other people have rights which I don't award myself? And if this is the case, why is it so?

He struggled with these thoughts as he walked around the gallery. Stood in front of the severed bridge and stared at it. Out of the darkness and the fog he saw the construction rise, soar, beautiful and brutally severed, just as his ties to other people had been cut. Can such damage be mended? he asked himself. Can you regrow the stumps, can you become whole again? Once more the bridge had this healing effect on him, he was transfixed. Was there communication between people which could bypass distance, time and culture? He had never met this painter, Lindstrøm. And the bridge was in every way a direct message to him personally. He was aware though that other people might be equally mesmerised by the painting, even though it had not happened yet. Then the doorbell rang and he spun round. Ole Krantz came striding in with a frame tucked under his arm.

'Look at you standing there drooling,' he smiled. 'Like a kid in a sweet shop. So, what's it gonna be?'

Alvar hesitated. 'Well,' he said reluctantly, 'of course, I'll have to buy it. If I don't I'll regret it for the rest of my life.'

Krantz squatted down. He was wearing green wellies and he had rolled down their tops.

'This painting is a good investment, I can promise you that.'

He wiped a drop of moisture from under his nose with the back of his hand, got up and planted his hands firmly on his hips. So stands a man who owns his own world, Alvar thought. He did not mention that he was not at all interested in the investment aspect.

'I can drive the painting over to your place today,' Krantz said, 'then you can hang it and keep it for a couple of weeks. That way you'll get a sense of how it affects you. If you then decide to hold on to the painting, you'll pay me, let me see, we'll knock a bit off, let's say sixty thousand. If you don't like it as much as you thought you would, I'll just come and pick it up.'

Alvar hesitated. This was one of Ole Krantz's standard sales pitches and he used it frequently. Initially it sounded reasonable, but when push came to shove most people found it hard to hand back a painting which had found a space in their living room. A painting they had fallen for for some reason. Hardly anyone returned their paintings, they did not like the emptiness that followed when the painting was taken down. But these customers never became regulars. They felt tricked and went to another gallery in future.

'No, thank you,' he said after a pause. 'I'd rather give myself a deadline. Let me see, I'll make up my mind before Friday.'

'So what will you do if a buyer turns up on Thursday?' Krantz wanted to know. He tilted his head and smiled a proper salesman smile.

Alvar thought long and hard about that. 'In that case I'll have to take my punishment,' he said presumptuously.

Krantz shook his head. He had little faith that Alvar Eide was the kind of man who could take his punishment.

The familiar sound of the doorbell startled him again. Up until now he had always enjoyed this sound and would enjoy going down the stairs to be of service. Now he hesitated and stared nervously at the monitor. It might be Lindys and now it had become utterly impossible to get rid of her. No, this was a taller person, it was the outline of a man. He was tall and broad and solid. A relieved Alvar left the kitchen. The man was standing in front of the bridge and when Alvar appeared on the stairs he bowed to him in an old-fashioned way.

'Lindstrøm?' he said, pointing at the painting.

'Yes. Yes, exactly,' Alvar stuttered because here was a customer who was familiar with the name of an artist Alvar had only just heard of.

'I've seen his work before,' the man stated. 'If I remember rightly, he's very popular in the States.'

Alvar gawped. Was he perhaps standing in front of another Nerdrum? An artist who was unappreciated at home, but celebrated abroad?

'Lindstrøm's style's somewhat dramatic,' the man went on. 'He shouts rather than speaks, if you know what I'm saying.'

'Indeed,' Alvar whispered. He was growing anxious. 'However, I don't think that he takes it too far, nor does he merely paint for effect either, not the way I look at it.'

He dug his fingers into his palms behind his back. He watched the customer furtively.

'Perhaps,' the man hesitated, 'he borders on shouting too loud. I mean, here we have a bloody deep canyon and a massive severed bridge. And all of it clouded in some sort of medieval mist. A bit over the top, don't you think?'

Alvar could feel how his cheeks were starting to get hot. It felt like the customer was analysing his own love affair with the painting, but then he realised that he was merely overreacting.

'True, he's good,' the man went on, 'there's no doubt about it. I have a good feeling about this painting, I really do. But as to hanging it on my living-room wall,' he paused and a frown appeared on his forehead as he considered it. 'I'm not sure I'd go that far. But it would look impressive in the hall. There is no furniture and the ceiling is high. This bridge needs to be kept far away from curtains and floral cushions. This painting is a monument.'

Alvar cleared his throat. 'Well, we're all different,' he said, managing a weak smile. 'Floral motifs always sell well. Or Norwegian mountain landscapes. And most people think it's important to have a nude, in their bedroom perhaps. But I agree, this is a very powerful painting. There needs to be a certain order in the room where it will hang.'

The man walked right up to the canvas, studied a few details before stepping back again.

'A painting like this can almost darken your mood,' he suggested. 'One thing that does occur to me when I look at it is that some enormous and irreparable damage has been done here.'

'Really?'

Alvar's cheeks paled. He had never viewed it in this way, he had regarded the bridge as an image of his deepest self. Irreparable damage? he thought uneasily. Am I irreparably damaged?

'I've discussed it briefly with Ole Krantz,' Alvar said. 'Do you think his inspiration might have come from some war-torn country?'

The man shook his head. 'I doubt it,' he said. 'This is wholly symbolic. And this Lindstrøm, he has a few problems of his own, I know something about that.'

Alvar's eyes widened as he listened.

'He satisfies all the requirements for the struggling artist. They say he's in his studio working up to twenty hours without a break. He forgets to eat, he forgets to sleep. At times he has collapsed on the floor from exhaustion only to get up and continue painting. And he drinks too much. He won't live to be an old man. I'm passionately interested in art,' he said, smiling broadly, 'but I've never understood why it's necessary to live on the edge, like Lindstrøm does. Anyway, let's hope he succeeds in painting several good pictures before he finally kills himself.'

Alvar was shocked. 'Might he do that?'

'Absolutely,' the man assured him. 'He lives a hard life. And the fact that he's fairly successful abroad doesn't make it any easier, he can't handle it. He's like a wild animal in a cave. He only comes out to fight.'

'Life's not easy,' Alvar said, gesticulating clumsily.

'No, indeed it isn't.'

The man looked at the painting again. 'It's terribly good, of course. Imposing even. But dark, really very dark. It beckons you and scares you at the same time. How much is it?'

Alvar shuddered, suddenly consumed by fear. 'Seventy thousand.'

'I see. Seventy thousand? Fancy that. Who would have thought it? Seventy thousand for a Lindstrøm, that's nothing. In New York this painting would have sold for two hundred thousand.'

'Is that possible?' stammered Alvar.

'In five years he'll command the same prices at home, I'm convinced of it. I really ought to buy it, purely because it's such a good investment.'

Alvar held his breath. Was it about to happen, right before his eyes? A man with better knowledge of Lindstrøm than him was calmly considering the painting, with a pensive look on his face. A man who furthermore did not value the painting for the right reason; he was nowhere near as mesmerised as Alvar. He was impressed. Though he thought the painting was average, he believed buying it would be a sound investment. Alvar exhaled. Should such a man be blessed with that which he himself so desperately desired?

'Do you know what, I'll give it some thought,' the man said. 'I'll take a couple of days. I'll pop by, I want to view it a few more times.'

Alvar nodded and gulped.

'Like I said, it would look good in the hall. Anyone who comes into my house will have a very dramatic entrance, you can't deny that.'

'No, precisely,' Alvar mumbled.

'In terms of colour it will match the ivory walls and the grey stone floor.'

'Undoubtedly,' Alvar said quietly.

'And then I'll have a touch of red as well, preferably near the painting. In the form of red candles in tall candlesticks or a bouquet of roses. That would be the finishing touch.'

'It sounds great,' stuttered Alvar.

'And as far as the frame is concerned,' he continued, 'I was thinking of charcoal grey. Not too dark, just a shade darker than the painting. You frame paintings here as well, don't you?'

'We do,' said Alvar restlessly.

'Well, well.' He took a few steps backwards and started studying the other paintings in the room. Alvar dragged himself towards the staircase. He disappeared into the kitchen and sat down at the table. He followed the man on the monitor. Was this how it was going to turn out? Would he end up in the workshop cutting lists, tagging and gluing them, framing the painting for another person purely because he lacked the fundamental ability to make a decision?