Broken (2 page)

'All the same,' he pleads, 'hasn't it occurred to you that I might make your job easier?'

'How?' I reply sceptically.

'There will be two of us making the decisions. If you get stuck I can tell you what I would like to happen; don't push me away, think about it, please.'

'I never get stuck,' I declare. 'I need to sleep now, it's night-time and I need to get up early.'

'A name, please!' he begs. 'Is that too much to ask?'

'Right, I'll name you,' I say, 'and before I know it, you'll want something else. A profession. Somewhere to live. A girlfriend.'

'No girlfriend,' he says quickly.

'Really? Why not?'

He becomes evasive once more. He falters. 'I don't need one, let's keep it simple.'

'So you're already interfering?'

Suddenly he looks wretched. 'I'm sorry, so sorry, I didn't mean to, but I'm scared! If you die soon, I will be lost for eternity.'

'I'm not going to die,' I comfort him.

'You are! All of us out there are worried about it and for good reason. Several members of your family have died from cancer. You smoke forty cigarettes a day, you drink too much red wine in the evenings, you're addicted to millions of pills, you eat too little, you work too hard, so you're clearly not going to live to be an old lady.'

I ponder this. 'Very well, you may be right. I can only do what I do and death is never convenient. However, I'm only fifty-one and you are second in the queue.'

'Name me,' he pleads again.

I pull up my knees. My shoulders are freezing cold, and my temples are starting to throb.

'Come closer to the light.'

He gets up and lifts the chair; he moves closer to the bedside table. He sits down again and folds his hands.

'You have a sensitive face,' I say inspecting him. 'You're gentle, poetic with a tendency towards melancholy. You come from a small, unassuming family of hard-working people. They all have this humility, this awareness of nuances, with the exception of your mother, perhaps, I'm not quite sure about her. I can picture them, they are fair-skinned and you can see their veins like fine, green threads.'

He pulls up the sleeve of his jacket and studies his wrist.

'You have large grey eyes,' I go on. 'However, your gaze is often defensive; if anyone talks to you, you'll look away. Your hair is thinning; it bothers you because in your own way you're vain despite your self-proclaimed modesty. You have dreams, they will never come true. Yet you're patient. You've always been patient. Right up until now.'

'And my name?'

'Give me a little time. Names are very important. If I rush, it will be wrong and I doubt that you'll be content with just anything.'

'I'm sorry I interrupted you,' he says, 'please continue, I'm listening.'

'Your hands,' I state, 'are really quite small. Your shoe size is thirty-nine, which is small for a grown man. You're clean, you watch what you eat and you're good at saving money. You're never ill, and you drink moderately. You have a green thumb, you're very fond of music. You notice how the light changes outside your window, you watch people and they fascinate you in a way you don't understand, yet you don't feel connected to them. You never approach anyone, you live your life without involving anyone else. You never complain, you don't shout, you never object to anything, you never get stressed; you make yourself go on like a carthorse. What do you think of Torstein?'

He gives me an uncertain look. 'It's not terribly poetic'

I think again. Names fly through my mind and with each one I observe him closely. I hold the name up to his face, trying to make it fit.

'I would have to agree with you. Besides, Torstein is a strong man's name, resourceful and decisive. And I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you're a bit spineless.'

He bows his head and blushes scarlet in the light from the lamp on the bedside table.

'You must forgive me,' I say, 'but it was your idea to enter my house and I'm in charge here.'

'I know, I know. I will take what I'm given, I mean that from the bottom of my heart.'

'Then let's continue.'

I think again, I close my eyes.

'You sleep well at night, you sleep like a baby. You get up early and are always equally content with each new day. However, this serenity of yours, this meticulousness is actually very fragile. No one is allowed to disturb it, enter into it or distract you. You need to be in control and have a clear overview of absolutely everything that will happen.'

New names fly by. Names full of gravity and poetry.

'How about Alvar?' I suggest.

'Is that a name?' He looks at me quizzically.

'Of course it's a name. Though better known in Sweden than here in Norway. Attractive, too, in my opinion. Think it over.'

'I am. What about my surname? I suppose I'll be given one of those too?'

'Of course. Personally I favour monosyllabic names. Like Krohn. Or Torp. But I want to give you more than that.' I close my eyes again. Search through a myriad names.

'Your surname is Eide,' I say with absolute conviction.

'Alvar Eide,' he says quietly. 'That's good, I'm very grateful.'

He straightens his back and smiles.

'So you'll be starting tomorrow?'

I rest my head against the headboard, I shrug with resignation. Never, in all my life, have 1 experienced anything like this.

'Because now that I am visible to you, you won't be able to wait. I'll have a word with the woman holding the dead child, I'm sure we can come to an understanding.'

'Well, if you've been reassured now, would you kindly leave and find your place in the queue? I need some sleep, it's very late now.'

'Yes!' He nods adamantly. His grey eyes have lit up. 'There's just one small thing.' He raises his hand, he is begging. 'Am I a good person?'

I smile and shake my head at this. The way he is looking at me makes me laugh, and I concede that he has won.

'Of course you're a good person, Alvar Eide, you're as good as gold. Now leave me alone, I'm tired.'

Finally he gets up; he carefully puts the chair back in its place. Turns off the light, bows politely and exits. I hear his footsteps on the staircase, I hear the door being closed. I put my head on my pillow, I feel dizzy.

'Goodness gracious me,' I say out into the darkness. 'What do you make of this, puss?'

The cat is asleep, his paws twitching, he is hunting.

'Gandalf,' I whisper, 'listen to this. There is mutiny in the queue outside the house!'

The cat sleeps on determinedly. I turn on to my side and pull up my knees. What does it mean that I no longer have an orderly system? This has never happened before. What will happen in future, if they start arguing about the sequence? Is there a moment far into the future where this flow of people ends? Where will I turn then? Will I have to settle for people who have created their own lives, real people? Lives I have no control over, lives I cannot shape the way I always have? I can find no peace. I don't like this night, this turn that my life has taken, I'm used to a certain amount of control, a certain order. But now Alvar Eide has wedged himself into my life. I turn to the wall and I want to go to sleep, but I'm troubled by words flying through my head. I want to enter the room where Alvar lives, but the door is shut and locked. I don't find the key until the early-morning hours.

I'm a good person.

So thought Alvar Eide, just as he was putting on his coat. He stood in his hall studying his face in the mirror. This thought, that he was a good person, seemed to comfort him, as if he had suddenly realised that he had not amounted to much else in this world. He had never distinguished himself, never caused a stir. Not that he had wanted to either, but the years were mounting up, he had started to think about the end. At the age of forty-two he was thinking about the end. Perhaps because his father, Emmanuel Eide, had only lived to fifty-three. Then without warning his heart had stopped beating never to start again. Alvar found it hard to believe that he himself would live past this age; he imagined his death was programmed into his genes like a time bomb and that it would go off in eleven years. But there was now one thing to comfort him, one cool morning in November just as he was about to walk the two kilometres to his place of work: I have never achieved anything major, I have never distinguished myself, but deep down I know I'm a good person.

He stuck his arms through the sleeves and reached for a camel-coloured woollen scarf he liked to wear wrapped around his neck. The scarf lay beautifully and neatly folded on the chest of drawers beneath the mirror. His gloves lay in a drawer; he pulled them on, they were slightly too big. He knew they kept his hands warmer that way. On his head he wore nothing. Even so, he glanced at the mirror to check that his hair was in place, gently combed over from his right temple and all the way across to his left. There was no breeze outside.

He grabbed the door handle. Pushed it down and went out into the cool air; it felt clean and fresh against his cheeks. The light caused him to squint. Alvar Eide lived in the upstairs flat of a house in Nøste outside Drammen; his neighbours, the Green family, owned the ground-floor fiat. He did not know them very well. They came and went and he nodded briefly by way of acknowledgement; but he did everything he could to avoid having to make small talk. Alvar Eide was a shy man. Green, however, could be intrusive; sometimes he would linger downstairs by the letter boxes wanting to chat about everyday matters. The weather, the price of petrol, interest rates, the new government. And as Alvar liked to think of himself as a good person, he was never curt so that his behaviour might be interpreted as frosty or arrogant. Yet he kept Green at arm's length, gave monosyllabic answers to every question, while smiling politely the whole time and speaking in a low, educated voice. But is that goodness? he suddenly started to wonder and felt upset. Am I really a good person after all? I have never hurt anyone, but does that make me good? Surely you're meant to do good deeds, go the extra mile, make sacrifices in order to earn the label 'a good person'.

He struggled with these questions as he walked down the steep hill into town. The fjord gleamed metallically in the low sun. He felt weighed down by gloom. How impossible it was to know anything about yourself, something you could be certain of. And he had never been severely tested. Of course he donated to charity, modest sums. It never occurred to him to refuse. The thought of this brightened his mood instantly. Many people said no. They said, no, actually I wouldn't dream of helping, the hungry will just have to fend for themselves, the same goes for drug addicts. And cancer, well, that's never affected our family, I'll probably be struck down by other things and when the time comes I will make my contribution to whatever charity will benefit me and my own health. It's everyone for themselves. It's not my fault that people starve in Africa, that there's a war in Iraq. Maybe that's what they said holding their heads high, looking right at the face of the child with shiny eyes, perhaps, who might be standing outside their front door holding out a sealed collecting tin. Some, possibly, said nothing at all, they simply slammed the door with a bored look. Or even worse, they never even bothered to open it. He always opened the door whenever someone rang the bell even though he found it very difficult. Not a great deal happened in his life, he saw no one and had no family, no friends, no wife and child. So he went to the door when the bell rang even though it made his stomach lurch. He became very nervous when the shrill tone of the bell rang out through the rooms, at the mere thought that someone might want something from him. Might demand things, beg. Break into his neat, ordered world. On one occasion he had happened not to have any money on him; he had found that terribly embarrassing. Having to close the door without having helped, to close the door with downcast eyes and flushed, burning cheeks. Had they even believed him when he said he was out of cash? Or had they walked off, angrily denouncing him as a skinflint? The very thought of it tormented him because he regarded himself as generous, if only people would give him the chance. He usually found some kroner in a pocket or the bowl in the kitchen where he would store excess change from his wallet. Heavy wallets ruined the cut of his clothes, his mother had taught him that. He continued walking into town feeling troubled. He no longer felt good about himself. He gave money because it was embarrassing to say no. He never went back into his living room with the feeling of having contributed something, it felt more like a game and he was simply playing by the rules. Perhaps it's because I don't give enough, he thought. If I gave a thousand kroner, I might feel differently. But that would be too much. Surely there was something ostentatious about giving one thousand kroner? The whole point of charity appeals was that many people donated and everyone gave a small amount.

A cool gust of wind from the fjord hit his face. The comb-over, which lay loosely across his scalp threatened to fly up. He braced himself against the wind and hoped for the best. He looked down towards the light-bulb factory with its giant dome, which was lit up at night. The dome with its bright yellow glow was a landmark. Often in the evening he would stand by the window staring at its strong light. He saw the busy port, the silos belonging to Felleskjøbet, the bridges and the trains with their green and red carriages. Now he was turning left, reaching Engene. He would walk along until he had Bragernes church on his right, then he would pass the grandiose old fire station, past Harry's Café before reaching Albumsgate. And Gallery Krantz, where he worked. The time was a quarter to ten. Now it was the wind from the river which nipped his cheeks; he kept on walking, swinging his arms rhythmically.

Whenever anyone came walking towards him on the pavement, he would make way for them in plenty of time. I enjoy walking through the town, Alvar thought, I like watching other people and wondering about them. Many walked around in pairs. Sometimes three or four walked together, some formed small groups on corners where they would chat. Voices and laughter flew through the air. Alvar Eide observed this phenomenon with a certain degree of bemusement. People had an indefatigable urge to socialise. It was something he personally had never done, he had gone through his life alone. But it was not a nagging loneliness. It was the life he preferred, because it gave him clarity and control. On top of that it was convenient, no demands, no unpleasantness. No agreements to fulfil, no promises to keep, no intrusive questions, how are you, Alvar? How are you really? It seemed that friends had some sort of right to know how you were. Consequently he never had company, it just so happened that he was perfectly happy minding his own business. He liked the peace and quiet of the flat, he enjoyed listening to Bach's 'Toccata and Fugue', quite loud, if he wanted to. He liked sleeping on his own. He considered sleep to be something terribly intimate and he shuddered at the thought of another person being able to watch him in this condition, as he lay curled up with his eyes closed and his mouth open. There had been times when he had considered getting a cat, but it had remained a thought. Cats probably needed all kinds of things, food, vaccinations and a tag, and even neutering if he chose a torn or contraceptive implants if he chose a female. He would have to take the animal to the vet's and deal with all of these things. Not that he would be incapable of that, he was a very competent man and he had a way with words when it was required of him. After all, he dealt with customers in the gallery. But still the thought of having to sort all this out, everything he would have to remember and take care of, had so far prevented him from getting a cat, even though he did, in fact, really want one. And it might get ill as well, it might come home with worms. When he was a boy, their neighbour had a cat. A heavy, tabby tomcat without a tail. One day it came into the living room and started vomiting violently. And the pile on the rug had started to squirm. Inside the revolting mess there was twitching and writhing. Alvar had been sent next door by his mother, holding a cup with no handle to borrow some sugar, and the sight of worms in the vomit had haunted him from that day on. That's just what cats are like, the neighbour had assured him, Alvar, don't worry about it. But Alvar knew that he would not be able to stomach an experience like that. And then there were fur balls, which they kept bringing up. So no cat.

Alvar kept on walking. He knew every courtyard, every street, every single shop in the heavily trafficked road. He returned to the question of being good. He had always believed that he was a good person. So how come this doubt had appeared like a bolt out of the blue and why would it not leave him alone? He realised that he had never, ever in all his life done anything which could be considered a good deed. He had never saved anyone's life, never intervened, never made the first move. Well, apart from the spare change he handed out whenever the doorbell rang. Or, preferably, to the Salvation Army officer who often stood outside the entrance to the shopping centre, silent and dignified, his uniform immaculate, holding a tin. Sometimes he had pushed a fifty-krone note through the slot and felt very pleased. Pleased, but not good. In a way the officer did the work for him. If I had stood there myself holding the tin, Alvar thought, then I would have felt better, that could have been deemed an active contribution. And I have a lot of my life left to live, or eleven years at any rate, and I can continue doing good work. Sponsor a child in India, perhaps, in Peru or Zimbabwe? He dismissed the thought instantly. A sponsored child would want letters and presents and he did not know how to relate to a foreign child in a country far away, a country he would know nothing about anyway. He had no experience of foreign cultures. But it would have been a good thing to do. Perhaps he would receive a photo of the child which he could hang on the wall above the fridge, a beautiful brown child with white teeth. Suddenly another thought cropped up, it came out of nowhere, like a bolt of lightning, possibly because a man was coming towards him, a very obese man struggling to walk, his cheeks flushed with exertion. What if this man collapsed from a heart attack right there and then on the street, what would he do? Stand there petrified, unable to move? He did not know first aid, he did not own a mobile phone, he would not even be able to phone for help. He visualised the grim scene, him standing there paralysed, his arms hanging limply. Others would come running and deal with it. The image instilled profound despondency in him. A sensation of worthlessness. The feeling was so painful that it stopped him in his tracks. He stood there, still staring at his newly polished shoes, as a car raced past, causing his coat to flap; it billowed like a sail. And then his tuft of hair stood up, something which always sent a shiver down his spine. A feeling of having been revealed as a fraud. For a long time he stood like that, but snapped out of his trance as a lady passed him on the outside of the pavement. Quickly he averted his eyes.

He walked on thinking, once I get myself to the gallery and the paintings then I'll be myself again. Because the paintings, these frozen moments, always filled him with serenity. Finally he could see the front of the stately building where he worked. A three-storey, twentieth-century villa, very well maintained and exclusive, painted a warm, creamy shade of yellow with a few details in red. Columns fronting the entrance, large arched windows and a double, reddish-brown oak front door with magnificent carvings. He did not earn a huge salary from his work there; however, he could manage on very little. He had inherited the flat in Nøste from his mother and the mortgage had been paid off ages ago. In the yard behind the house stood an old Mazda, which he would use if the weather was awful or if he fancied seeing a little of the surrounding countryside. He was very good at saving money and he had no expensive habits.

The owner of the gallery was an art dealer called Ole Krantz. He had run it for years and had many regular customers. Then suddenly at the age of fifty he had started to paint himself. It was going surprisingly well, he painted with latex on thick, high-quality watercolour paper. Decorative, colourful, easy-to-sell pictures. The subject might be the wing of a bird, a pansy, a bowl of strawberries, the kind of images people like having on their walls. Ole Krantz had become a child again following the amazing discovery that he had a talent for painting. Though, when discussing his own work, he said that it hardly counted as great art and this was consequently reflected in the price, which was moderate. The pictures went for anywhere from five to ten thousand kroner. Alvar truly felt at ease in the gallery. He enjoyed visual art, it was a subject he was well versed in and comfortable with, and he was a good salesman. He was patently good because during his long career there had not been a single instance where a customer had regretted a purchase and had come back to return a painting. Ole Krantz had a different sales technique, however. He sold huge quantities of paintings, but had to accept that several would be returned. He sold by seducing the customers, by stressing the rise in value, the unique features of the painting, the beneficial influence of a particular shade of blue, how this very picture would fill a void and, yes, it was pricey, but you can always pay in instalments. And so on and so forth in a steady persuasive stream. He was quick to spot what the customers wanted and roughly what they could afford. This one can stretch to a Willibard Storn while that one over there will probably have to make do with a Halvorsen. However, when Alvar sold a painting it was always based on mutual understanding and profound respect. The customer should always be left with the feeling that he had made a choice he would not regret.