Broken (3 page)

Even though he was only an employee in the gallery, no sooner had he entered and disabled the alarm by pressing three-three-four-two, than he felt he owned the whole building. This was his castle, his kingdom, his undisputed domain. He instantly took in the smells, the familiar aroma of oil and turpentine and the meticulously washed stone floor. Yes, this was his territory, he revelled in the feeling and he was the master of this house. Alvar Eide was a man of few words. However, when it came to art he was practised at expressing himself and he was confident, he knew the terminology. He had long conversations with the customers and it was no effort at all as long as there was a painting between him and the other person. A kind of wall that he could hide behind. He never spoke about personal matters.

Now he switched on the light on the ground floor before going upstairs to the first floor. Onwards into the kitchen which doubled up as the break room. There he switched on the monitors; the cameras were aimed at the important areas of the gallery, primarily the ground floor where the most expensive paintings were hung. He had an Ekeland, a Revold and a Gunnar S. downstairs, and from time to time a Weidemann or a Sitter. They usually hung there for a while, the price tag was high. He poured water into the coffee-maker and measured coffee into the filter, seven level spoonfuls. It was two minutes to ten in the morning and the gallery closed at five in the afternoon. They were comfortable working hours with a free Saturday every other week when Ole himself staffed the gallery and handled any sales. He did not want to lose contact with his customers altogether. Alvar found a mug in the cupboard and sat down at the table. He stared at the three monitors. They showed the gallery in black and white, and while the images were not particularly sharp, at least they gave him the chance to keep an eye on things. There was no denying that the building contained pieces of staggering value. On a few occasions people had popped their heads round the door to inspect the gallery, then noticing the cameras attached to the ceiling, had spun round and disappeared. He did not know what that meant. Perhaps they had just dropped by out of sheer curiosity and then realised that the prices were too high. Though sometimes he entertained the notion that they were casing the place, planning a raid. The thought of this sent a chill down his spine. However, nothing serious had ever happened during the time he had been working there and he always felt safe and contented throughout the whole day.

Every day he spent some of his time framing pictures. Not the major paintings, not the ones by Knut Rumohr or Nerdrum, Ole Krantz dealt with those as he was a trained frame maker. But other things, smaller items. He cut the glass and the passepartout, he brushed dust and grit off the surface of the painting, he cut lists and joined them with tags, he made the fixings. There were small lithographs, which sold for a thousand kroner, or paintings, which people had handed in for framing. Drawings or photos, or something they had bought on their holidays abroad. It was pleasant work and he felt at ease in the framing workshop, which was at the back of the gallery on the ground floor. It smelled of wood, cardboard and glue. He had a radio in there, which was always tuned to P2, the arts channel. By now the coffee had filtered through and Alvar poured himself a cup. Ole Krantz had spared no expense when it came to the kitchen, it was equipped with a fridge, dishwasher and a microwave. In the fridge were several bottles of sparkling white wine; whenever he made a good sale Krantz was in the habit of opening a bottle so he and the customer could toast the painting. Alvar never did that. Partly because he was shy. One glass of wine could lead him astray. Also he would rather that the customer left with the painting, went home, hung it on their wall and then had a glass of something to savour the moment and their own excellent choice, their own good taste. That was how he thought it ought to be. Alvar could tell immediately if Ole Krantz had sold a valuable painting on one of his Saturdays because there would be two wine glasses standing on the worktop.

Alvar drank his coffee and kept an eye on the monitors. The big building was very quiet, there was not a sound to be heard, only his own slurping as he drank the strong coffee. This wasn't a place people flocked to, sometimes one, two hours passed between customers. Then he would sit and ponder, ponder life and himself, and at regular intervals he would take a walk through the building. He would start on the second floor, which housed all the foreign art, names unknown to most people, but the paintings were of a high quality. Prints were on the first floor, some of them French, but mainly good, Norwegian prints. The Norwegian paintings were lined up on the ground floor; most were oils, but every now and again an artist would experiment with acrylics, which created a rather bold and vivid impression. There was something about acrylics, they commanded your attention more than oil did, Alvar thought, shuffling from picture to picture, his hands folded behind his back. He had a personal relationship with each and every one of these paintings, he made sure to develop that as soon as they arrived at the gallery. So when a customer's attention was caught by a painting, a Ruhmor for example, he could find the right words instantly. Words which would guide the customer inside the painting, help the customer understand and respect the work. If they asked whether it would increase in value, he deftly avoided the question by asking, what is important to you? Why don't you simply buy the painting because you like it, because it gives you something unique? Why don't you simply buy the painting because you think it was meant for you?

He knew that Ole Krantz appreciated him and his contribution, he knew that his job was secure. A better person could not replace him; he was absolutely convinced of that. Pleased at the thought of this he went down to the workshop to check out what was lying on the worktop waiting to be framed. A photo of giggling, chubby toddlers. Their father had taken the photo, he regarded the result as particularly successful and had decided to have it enlarged and now framed. He has asked for a red passepartout, something which vexed Alvar. The way he looked at it, one should never, ever, regardless of what type of picture it was, choose anything other than an off-white passepartout. Only the picture should speak, not its frame. The red passepartout would sap the photo of its strength. But the customer is always right, he thought and calmly began his work. He lifted up the sheet of glass and placed it carefully on the worktop. Found the cutting diamond and the ruler and started cutting with a steady hand. He liked the sound of the hard stone, he enjoyed snapping the offcuts, the crispy sound, like brittle caramelised sugar. He worked slowly and with concentration. But all the time parts of his mind were preoccupied with other things. He was alone, no colleagues disturbed him and his thoughts freewheeled. Was he really a good person deep down? Why was it starting to haunt him like this? Selling art to people was a fine thing to do, it was honest work, he did it diligently, he did it with conviction, respect and love. He was doing well in life, he donated to charities. He led an orderly life, he did not hurt anyone. So why had this strange feeling come over him?

I turn off the computer and go into my kitchen.

The cat follows and starts to beg; he is hoping for a prawn, perhaps, or a bowl of tuna. He pleads silently with his green eyes. I give him pellets and fresh water. I hear his sharp teeth crunch the dry feed.

So, I think, he's really got to me, Alvar Eide, indeed he has. I have taken off and I'm in the air. I need a bite to eat before I go back to work; I open the fridge and look inside, spot a scrap of salami, a curled-up piece of brown cheese, four eggs, a tube of mayonnaise. And a wheel of Camembert cheese. I take an egg and the Camembert from the fridge, find a bowl and a fork. Crack the egg on the rim of the bowl and whisk it forcefully. I find some stale bread in the bread bin. I crumble it on the breadboard and unwrap the Camembert. Then I hear footsteps in the hall, soft, cautious steps. Alvar enters my kitchen. He stands in the doorway with his hands folded across his stomach watching me with meek, apologetic eyes.

'I'm sorry to disturb you,' he says and looks down.

'What is it?' I ask him, surprised. I lean against the kitchen counter and look at him with curiosity.

'Just wanted to stop by,' he says shyly.

He spots the cheese and the egg. Chews his lip. His voice is a mere whisper. 'Shouldn't you be working?'

I let my arms fall and give him a stern look.

'You won't even allow me to stop for lunch?' I reply. 'I can't think when I'm hungry. Don't you understand?'

He slumps on a kitchen chair. Dusts off the knees of his trousers even though they are immaculate.

'Of course,' he says quickly. 'I didn't come here to make a fuss, I don't want to cause you any trouble. Really, I don't.'

He looks at my food on the breadboard. The cheese, the bowl with the beaten egg, the breadcrumbs.

'Why don't you just wolf down a sandwich? You normally do, you stand by the counter when you eat. This is going to take time. But, don't get me wrong, I'm not telling you how to organise your day, I'm just very keen to get started.'

I cut two thick wedges of cheese with a sharp knife. Find a frying pan in a cupboard, put it on the cooker.

'Now calm down, Alvar,' I say, 'you're inside now. Right inside as a matter of fact,' I say, tapping my temple. 'Besides, you're only forty-two. Think about the old man; I do.'

I put a lump of butter on the pan, immediately it starts gliding towards the edge; the cooker tilts slightly towards the wall.

'And I do, I really do,' Alvar says. 'He's really very patient, he stands there like a post, waiting. No one in the queue minds that I jumped it. You must believe me.'

I dip the wedges of cheese in the beaten egg and coat them with the breadcrumbs.

'What about the woman with the child?' I ask. 'What does she say?'

He bows his head, I see his chest heave.

'It was like I said. She is unable to say anything, because the baby is dead.'

I look at him and sigh. 'She's just standing there with a dead child, waiting?'

'Yes. She's incapable of action, I presume. It upsets me, really it does. I feel it here.' He places a hand on his chest.

'So it should,' I say, placing the cheese wedges now coated in egg and breadcrumbs in the frying pan. The butter is golden yellow, it sizzles temptingly, the smell of melting cheese begins to fill the kitchen.

'It upsets me too,' I say. 'And I have thought a great deal about this. Whether it's acceptable to anticipate events in this way.'

Slowly the wedges of cheese turn golden. I go to the fridge for cranberry sauce, find a plate, a knife and a fork.

'Well, I stand by my decision. But nevertheless something about it troubles me. Now take it easy, Alvar, and don't put too much pressure on me.'

I turn the cheese over, the wedges are perfect.

'I do like my flat,' he says. 'I'm very pleased about my job at the gallery. It's almost more than I dared hope for, I could have ended up in a dirty workshop with a gang of noisy, crude men, I would not have enjoyed that.'

'If you're so pleased,' I say, 'why are you here? I think you're too quick to interfere, I've only written one chapter.'

He squirms a little on the chair. I look at his black shoes, they are so shiny you can see your face in them.

'The thing is, I'm worried,' he says. 'I'm forty-two years old and I am starting to question my own worth. My goodness, which I have always taken for granted. And pardon me for mentioning this, but from what you've written so far it's starting to look suspiciously like a midlife crisis.'

I stop what I am doing and my eyes widen.

'Surely I'm not destined for that kind of story?' he asks nervously. Then he smiles apologetically and lowers his head.

I lean back and fold my arms across my chest.

'If this is going to work at all, we have to trust each other,' I say. 'Last night you said that you would accept whatever fate you were given. Do you stand by that?'

Alvar is embarrassed, but he nods. I look at his folded hands, they lie like a knot in his lap.

'Why do you always sit with your hands folded?' I ask him out of curiosity.

'I can't put them in my pockets,' he says quickly, 'it ruins the cut of my trousers, my mother taught me that.'

I nod and I understand. I remove the wedges of cheese from the frying pan and slide them onto my plate, arrange the cranberry sauce next to them and carry everything into the dining room. Alvar follows me softly. He pulls out a chair.

'You will go back to work when you've finished eating, won't you? There's still much of the day left.'

I rest my chin in my hands. 'Would you kindly let me eat in peace?'

He falls silent. His grey eyes flicker around the room, he looks at the pictures on my walls.

'Death,' he says all of a sudden. 'You have a picture of Death on your wall.'

I nod and spear a slice of cheese with my fork.

'Why is that?'

'He's an old friend.'

He shakes his head at this. Gives me an uncertain look. 'What's that supposed to mean? An old friend?'

I cut a piece off the melted cheese and dip it in the cranberry sauce.

'Well, how can I put it? He feels familiar, like an old, faithful friend. When I can't manage any more, he comes and takes me away. Maybe he'll put me on his lap, just like the picture.'

'It's a drawing by Käthe Kollwitz,' Alvar says.
'Death with a Maiden on his Lap.'

'That's right. It's beautiful. Look how gentle he is, see how delicately she rests against his chest. Sometimes when I work, Death comes into my room. He places a hand on my shoulder.'

'That would chill me to the bones,' Alvar says. 'Doesn't it frighten you?'

'No. It's more like a gentle caress. Not now, I tell him calmly, not now, I'm in the middle of a book and I have to finish it.'

'There's never a good time for dying,' Alvar says. 'We know that we all have to and it's a fate we carry with dignity as long as it doesn't happen today. Or tomorrow, because there are a few things we were hoping to do.'

'That's how it is,' I reply. 'However, I prefer to maintain a degree of contact with Death. It's an exit, which is always open. At night I play a game. I go to bed and feel my sleeping pill wash over me like a wave. Suddenly I'm on a beach and a man dressed in black comes rowing. I stand completely still waiting while he moors the boat. The water ripples over the stones, the old woodwork creaks.'

'Do you get in?' Alvar asks me earnestly.

'Yes, I do. The water is like a mirror. Death turns the boat round and rows with steady strokes, he knows where we are going, he knows these waters and he is confident.'

'Is it night and is it dark?' Alvar wants to know.

'No,' I say. 'It's twilight. And Death rows until we have reached the middle of the fjord; then he places the oars at the bottom of the boat and looks at me firmly. "Tomorrow is another day," he says. "Do you want it?" I think about this for a long time. I have been in this world for over fifty years; I suppose I can manage one more day. So he turns the boat round and rows me back, and I disembark. Back on dry land for a new day, which was never a certainty. Because every night I have to choose.'

Alvar is silent for a long time. Again he looks at the paintings on my wall.

'You also have a Lena Cronquist,' he enthuses, pointing to a painting above the television.

'I do. Do you know her?'

'Of course. I pride myself on being well informed when it comes to modern art.'

I eat more cheese, it tastes delicious. And while I eat, my thoughts are drifting. What do we people have in common? I wonder. Well, we're born. Not because we want to be, but because someone else wanted it. We grow up and we don't know where we're going or what we'll get. We think we can make our own decisions, that we can plan things. And so we can to a certain extent, but fate can be very capricious. A late-running bus can change a whole life, it can steer us towards another fate. We stumble on the kerb, someone rushes to our aid, we catch someone's eyes for a brief second and lightning strikes. A glance can lead to marriage and children, suddenly we've ended up in a totally different place from what we imagined. Alvar doesn't have much, not at the moment. A flat, a job, and a very sensitive personality. This sensitivity, I decide, watching him secretly, that will be his fate. He wants to be a good person; however, we don't live in a world where good people are rewarded, but he doesn't know that.

Alvar follows each mouthful with his eyes. I finish eating and clear up after myself, then I sit down in the living room, I light a cigarette; Alvar follows me. He comes into the room hesitatingly and finds a chair for himself.

'Please don't let anything happen to Ole Krantz,' he says out of the blue. Again he looks down as if every time he says something he instantly regrets his words.

I blow a column of smoke across the coffee table, it hovers there swirling in the light from the lamp.

'I'm not allowed to let anything happen to Krantz?'

'No, because he's a fine man, he doesn't deserve it.'

'My dear Alvar,' I say in a patronising voice, 'there can be no dramatic tension if I'm not allowed to make anything happen. I would have thought you understood that.'

Again he is embarrassed. There are red patches on his throat and his grey eyes blink.

'You're mine now,' I continue, 'you're not responsible for the other characters. I'm the one who'll be taking care of them, it's a matter of honour with me.'

'That's your twentieth cigarette today,' he points out shyly.

'So you're keeping count?'

'I don't have any bad habits like that.' He says this with pride.

'I'm sure you don't. But we all have our crosses to bear. You can die from so many things. Perish for any number of peculiar reasons.'

I flick the ash off the cigarette and stare out of the window; the azalea by the entrance sways in the wind. I can't decide what fascinates me the most. His badly concealed eagerness, his spotless character, the light in his grey eyes.

'Dear God,' he says terrified, 'are you going to let me perish?'