Broken (11 page)

The next day when he let himself into the gallery, his entire body was brimming with tremendous excitement. He practically walked sideways across the floor in an attempt not to look at the painting. What if the bridge had gone? What if Ole Krantz had let himself in after the gallery had closed and taken the painting home to keep for himself? But it was there, in exactly the same spot, leaning against the wall, monumental and overwhelming. Alvar slowly walked up to it. He instantly felt a sense of inner calm, the painting made him feel whole. The severed bridge was somewhere he could deposit all those feelings he would never be able to articulate. Oh, he enjoyed reading books, he liked seeing himself reflected in the characters in them. But this. This wordless art, the immediate impression, how it could have such an effect on him, it was inconceivable. And I'm not an emotional person, he thought, I'm a quiet man with my life under control. I sleep well, I'm content. On my own, admittedly, but I'm nevertheless a hard-working and valid member of society. Not terribly interested in politics, or social issues for that matter, but I take good care of myself and I do my duty. So why do I need this painting so badly? How can this artist know how I feel?

He forced himself to walk away from the painting and went upstairs to the kitchen to make coffee. As he opened the cupboard he spotted the blue mug. He chose a different one, settled down by the table and opened the newspaper, which had been delivered to his flat earlier that morning. Every now and then he would look up at the three monitors. It was impossible to enter Gallery Krantz without the doorbell ringing, but as a precaution he kept an eye on the rooms all the same. Seventy thousand kroner, he thought. After all it's only money, mere digits in a computer, I've never actually seen it. Why don't I just ring Krantz right now and tell him that I want to buy the painting? Perhaps he'll give me an employee discount? Perhaps I can pay for the painting by instalments so I don't have to part with all my money at once? Surely we'll find a way around it? Will it make me happy? he wondered. Wasn't it rather that the painting had created a desire in him that he never thought he would experience? A desire to connect with other people? It felt as though he had been willing it to happen, he had longed for such an experience. Finding this one crucial painting. And now it was here, sitting downstairs. Why could he not just accept that and buy it? He drank his coffee slowly while he waited for the first customer of the day. He kept running his hand across his naked scalp, he could not get used to his bald head.

The first customers of the day turned out to be a young couple. Alvar put them somewhere in their twenties and they were clearly very much in love. He noted such things with great composure. It never made him feel embarrassed or insecure, or shy. Anyway, a young couple arrived. A slender, dark-haired woman and a tall blond man. They entered the gallery and as he sat there watching them on the left monitor, he realised that they rarely visited galleries. The way they moved around the space was hesitant. Nor had they realised that the paintings had been hung so as to present themselves most favourably, the intention being that you would begin by the left-hand wall and then move clockwise until you reached the staircase. That would take you to the first floor, if you were interested in looking at prints. They meandered from one wall to another. He let them wander around for a few minutes before he went downstairs. The moment he appeared they became shy, but he gave them a reassuring smile and he immediately knew that this couple would never be mesmerised by the severed bridge. Besides, they were unlikely to be able to afford it; he was safe – for now.

'Just take your time,' Alvar said, 'there are two more floors. On the second floor you'll find mainly foreign art if you have an interest in that.'

They nodded and continued to wander around, holding hands all the while. Alvar rearranged some silk roses in a jar; he displayed some brochures on a table. The couple moved from painting to painting, they did not speak, but studied the pictures with genuine interest. Finally the young woman stopped and remained in front of a picture for a long time. A sketch. Alvar suppressed a smile, women invariably stopped in front of this picture. At first glance it was an insignificant image in pale shades. It depicted a bird's nest and in the nest lay four turquoise eggs. The young woman was utterly taken with it.

'You have to see this,' she said, looking at the man, A frown instantly appeared on his forehead.

'Well,' he said, trying not to hurt her feelings, he was a considerate man, 'it's very pretty, but you can barely make it out. I mean, if we're going to have a painting above the sofa it should be a bit bigger, shouldn't it?'

'Yes,' she agreed, but continued to gaze at the picture all the same. 'I just really like it.' However, she already knew that it was a lost cause. They wandered on. Alvar fetched a duster so that he could potter about and do some work in the knowledge that his presence would be unobtrusive and yet he would remain accessible. They had reached the merry-go-round. The young man stopped and squatted in front of it.

'Now there,' he said, 'just take a look at this one!'

The woman joined him. She stared carefully at the painting with the skeletons for a long time. Then she wrinkled her nose.

'I think it's a bit gross,' she said.

'Gross?' He glared down at her, he was at least a foot taller than her and now it was his turn to look surprised; he simply did not understand why she found the painting gross.

'They've got maggots crawling out of their eyes,' she shuddered. 'Look.' She pointed. He leaned towards the painting.

'But you can hardly see them,' he argued. 'Only close up.'

'We can't buy a painting that we only like as long as we don't look at it close up,' she countered. This logic silenced the man.

'Anyway, it would be far too expensive,' she said. 'It's an oil painting.'

'But that's what we're looking for,' he said. 'If we wanted to buy a print we might as well have gone to IKEA. That's why we've come here.'

They reached no consensus and walked on.

'The Merry-go-round
costs seventeen thousand kroner,' Alvar informed them from the corner where he was wiping dust off a frame.

The woman rolled her eyes. The man looked put out. But Alvar did not want to sell them the merry-go-round. They deserved something else, something better, he felt.

'How about this?' he said, walking over to a painting on the furthest wall, which faced the car park. It was a drawing by Bendik Sjur. The couple followed him enthusiastically. They looked at the picture for a long time. A creature was seemingly crawling towards them on a dark wooden floor. A strange creature, skinny, and soft and thin, like something out of the underworld. It looked right into the eyes of the observer with a devil-may-care look. Alvar was a great admirer of Bendik Sjur.

'Christ,' the young man said, 'he looks like Gollum. Gollum from
Lord of the Rings,'
he explained and looked at Alvar. Once more they were silent as they watched the strange creature. It was drawn with a delicate, light touch, it had a soul and a distinctive character. It simultaneously exuded calm and tension. The young couple was lost, they gazed spellbound at the painting and squeezed each other's hands. But they moved on, they were not the type to be rushed into anything. So while they slowly and patiently walked through both the first and second floors, Alvar went back into the kitchen and drank another cup of coffee. When he saw that they had returned to the ground floor and had stopped in front of the drawing once more, he went downstairs.

'Yes, we're interested in this,' the young man said pointing at Sjur's drawing. 'We think it's really cool.'

Well, Alvar thought. A cool picture. He supposed that was one way of putting it. Yet they still seemed to be hesitating. Money was probably an issue.

'Four thousand,' Alvar said. The man instantly brightened up. That would do nicely. He looked at his beloved. She, too, liked the creature from the underworld, if that was where he came from, he defied definition in any way; he was half-human, half-beast or rather a type of insect with deranged eyes. They bought it. Alvar took it down from the wall, wrapped it and wrote them a receipt. The man carried the picture out. The couple had frowned when they had seen the severed bridge; they had never been a real threat. Yet Alvar felt his body tense up every time the doorbell rang. At any moment someone might walk in, stand there open-mouthed staring at it, just like he had done. Why don't I just buy it, he wondered, am I really that gutless? I who have always claimed that you should follow your heart and not your head when it comes to buying art.

He went back upstairs to the kitchen and unpacked his lunch. Three open sandwiches with pastrami ham and slivers of cucumber. He halved the slices and placed them on a plate; he ate quietly. At times he thought about the young woman who had visited the gallery twice. But she had not come back, even though it was starting to get colder now. Perhaps she's got herself some warmer clothes, he thought. Some more sensible footwear. He went to the toilet after finishing his lunch and was once again confronted by his naked head in the mirror. His hair was so short at the back of his head that it pricked his palm. Ah, well. Nothing to fret about,
sic transit gloria mundi.
And I don't look all that bad, he comforted himself, and once again he marvelled at how a total stranger could make one throwaway remark about his hair which caused him to rush off to have it cut. What about the rest of his appearance? He looked at his reflection in the mirror, with his checked shirt and the black tie. He had never had much fashion sense and had never aspired to. He liked not standing out. In the autumn he wore a grey trench coat and in the winter a woollen coat, which at the time had been a great expense, but a good investment because it was a very fine quality and warm. In addition he wore smart, pressed trousers and black shoes. Brown leather gloves on his hands. A thin woollen scarf around his neck. He never took his car to work, he needed the exercise, so he always dressed warmly. As he came out from the lavatory he heard the bell ring. Ole Krantz came up the stairs with a picture tucked under his arm. He put it down in the kitchen and looked at Alvar. At the same time he planted his feet firmly on the floor and put his hands on his hips. He was a tall, broad man, masculine and ruddy.

'Good heavens,' he said, 'you've had a summer haircut in November.'

Alvar thought he detected a quick smile flash across his face, so he stared down at the floor while he ran his hand across his head in an apologetic fashion.

'I thought it was a good idea,' he said.

'Absolutely,' Krantz said assuredly.

And that was all that was ever said on the matter. He went to the cupboard to fetch a mug and poured himself some coffee.

'So what else is new?' he wanted to know. He knew the gallery was in the best of hands.

'I've sold a Bendik Sjur,' he said.

'Well done,' Krantz said as he sat down by the kitchen table. 'Who bought it?'

'A young couple.'

'I thought so.'

In the silence that followed Alvar thought about the bridge. He decided to make his move.

'That painting,' he hesitated, 'the severed bridge. I've been thinking about it.'

'Aha?' Krantz said and waited for him to continue.

'I've been wondering if I should buy it.'

Krantz raised his eyebrows. 'Really?' he said, surprised. 'It's expensive,' he added.

'I know,' Alvar said. 'But I have some money put aside.'

'Really?' Krantz said once again.

'It was just something I've been thinking about,' Alvar said, wanting to retract. It was very expensive. It would clear him out, it would put him in a financially vulnerable position that he had not been in for years. Where an unexpected dental bill would have the power to throw his monthly budget. Was it really worth it? Yes, it was worth it, it meant so much, this work of art was worth the price which Krantz and the artist together had assigned to it.

'I need a few days to make up my mind,' Alvar said, experiencing a sudden burst of initiative.

'I'm sure it'll be here for a while,' Krantz said, 'so there's no need for you to rush. We'll sell it sooner or later, it's a unique painting.'

As if Alvar did not already know. But he did not want to share his feelings for the picture with Krantz, he felt it was too intimate. So he spoke in the appropriate language for an art dealer.

'A rare picture,' he declared drinking his coffee. 'They are few and far between. Just consider the concept. What do you think inspired the picture? I mean, is there actually such a severed bridge?'

'Perhaps in a war zone somewhere,' Krantz suggested. 'They're always blowing up bridges. I don't know an awful lot about Lindstrøm, he's the quiet type. But he travels extensively, that I do know. The picture needs plenty of light, but I'm sure you've thought of that.'

'Of course,' Alvar said.

'And it's gathered plenty of dust,' Krantz continued. 'Buy a fresh loaf of bread and make a ball from the crumbs. Work your way across the whole painting in circular movements. Best way to clean an oil painting. Bread absorbs well and you return a little fat to the painting's surface.'

'Fresh bread,' Alvar said. 'I'll bear that in mind.

That evening he poured himself a sherry.

The painting was never out of his thoughts. The bare wall above the fireplace was ready and waiting for the most breathtaking work of art. Am I ever going to take a single risk in my life, he wondered, follow my instinct for once? I never have. I wander around the town and I look at displays in shops. I look at beautiful furniture and rugs. But there's nothing wrong with what I already have. There's nothing wrong with it, I tell myself, it's too good to be replaced, it will last me years. I can't in all clear conscience buy a new armchair because there's nothing wrong with the one I have. Besides, I like this chair. He patted one of the armrests as if to reinforce his argument. He drank more sherry and thought further. But there's only one painting. No painting has ever captivated me like this, I've never been captivated by anything else. A Weidemann or an Ekeland has never had such an effect on me. It might never happen again, I'm past forty, this is my chance.