Broken (13 page)

She looked around his flat, her ice-blue eyes scanned his possessions and his furniture. 'Christ, you're tidy. Potted plants and embroidered cushions, would you believe it.'

Alvar was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. It was weird that she was sitting there; she had flown right through his door like some strange bird. Even though he wanted to chase her away there was a big knot of resistance inside him which stopped him.

She had walked over to the window. She stared down at the light-bulb factory.

'The Mazda parked down behind the house, is that yours?'

'Yes.'

He squeezed his hands in his lap and tried to be patient.

'I don't have a car,' she said. 'Too much hassle. Who lives downstairs? Do you ever talk to them?'

'The Greens,' he explained. 'We exchange a few words every now and then.'

'Making polite conversation,' she said, 'how awful.'

He nodded in agreement.

'You're really wound up because I'm here, aren't you?'

He was shocked. His instinctive reaction was to protest, but he could not manage it.

'You're one of those loners who keep everyone else at arm's length. That's quite all right, I'm the same.'

'You just took me by surprise,' he said cautiously. 'I don't get many visitors,' he added.

'None,' she said, looking at him. 'No one ever comes here, not a living soul. Am I right?'

Alvar blushed. She was so direct and so forward that she took his breath away.

'You don't need to make excuses,' she went on. 'People come in all shapes and sizes, and I'm the pot calling the kettle black. But most of the time I feel sorry for people. They make it so hard for themselves to be who they really are.'

'And you don't?' he asked before he could stop himself.

She walked over and sat down on the sofa again. 'My life isn't easy,' she said, 'but it is really straightforward. I live one hour at a time. Right now I'm in your cosy living room and I'm enjoying it. I've no idea where I'll be spending the night. But I'm not worried about it. Whereas you,' she said watching him, 'you're already thinking about tomorrow. You're making plans and you'll stick to them. Rather than living in the moment. Am I right? I know I'm right.'

Alvar bowed his head. He could not see how there was anything wrong with making plans. But her presence was really getting on his nerves now and he was desperate for a way to end the conversation.

'No,' he said abruptly and patted the armrests on his chair, 'and anyway, I've got things to do.'

He could not look her in the eyes as he said it, but he got up from his armchair to signal that her visit was over. She just looked at him with wide eyes.

'Really?' she said, puzzled. She did not get up. 'What is it you need to do?'

'Well,' he hesitated. 'Some paperwork.'

She considered this. To his immense relief Alvar saw that she was getting up. He thought, she'll be gone soon and I'll be on my own again and if she rings the doorbell another time, I won't let her in. I won't open the door because I'm in charge here. Then he realised that he would not be able to see who was outside. He did not have a spyhole in his door. Never mind. He decided not to open his door to anyone. No one ever turned up anyway, and if someone did ring the doorbell in the next few days it would probably be this Lindys. Or Elsa. Or Helle. Whatever her name was. She went out in the hall and he followed her. Suddenly she stopped, turned and fixed her eyes on him.

'Could you lend me a grand?'

Alvar gasped for air. Was she out of her mind? Were there no limits to her importunity?

'I don't think I have that much cash on me,' he blurted out. He made an apologetic gesture. She kept looking at him.

'Can't you check?' she asked. 'I'm totally skint and I need a fix.'

Alvar started shaking. His wallet was in his coat pocket, it hung in the hall less than a metre from where they were standing. And he did not understand why he acted as he did. At that moment all he could think of was getting her out of his flat at any cost. He stuck his hand in the inside pocket and pulled out his wallet. She watched it hungrily. He opened the note section and quickly counted the contents. Seven hundred and fifty kroner plus a bit of loose change in the coin compartment. He pulled out the notes. She stared at them. And before he had time to blink she had snatched them from him. He was left startled and empty-handed. Go, he was screaming inside, just go. Please, please go!

She placed her hand on the door handle and opened the door.

'You're all right, Alvar,' she said softly. Her voice was suddenly tender and almost feline.

Alvar melted instantly. It had been a very long time since anyone had last paid him a compliment. Had anyone ever done so? He was not feeling very well. Yet at the same time he was moved.

Then she was gone. She practically darted around the corner of the house like a squirrel. He remained in the hall for a while to calm himself down. I'll never see that money again, he thought. He was well aware of it. Yet he worried all the same. She would spend it on drugs. Yes, of course she would, he thought, in which case I haven't done a good deed after all, I'm contributing to her ruin, that's what I'm doing. He went into his living room and walked over to the window. Leaned against the windowsill and gasped for air. He watched her disappear down the hill. He followed her with his eyes. He could not shake off the feeling that he had done something very stupid. That's it, he thought, you'll never get rid of her now. You let her into your warm home. You go looking in the cupboard for raisins, you lend her money. You can't let her in ever again or you'll be trapped. At the same time it was a rare experience for him that someone actively sought his company. Although it was not his company she was interested in. She wanted his money. He collapsed back into his chair and ran his hand over his bare scalp. She had not commented on his new hairstyle and for that he was deeply grateful.

Another icy morning.

A day when the earth was a frozen shell, impenetrable. He snatched the newspaper from his letter box and set off down the hill towards Engene. He was wearing his winter coat, it was warm, but he missed his scarf. The chill gripped his neck tightly like a claw. He marched on and gradually his body began to warm up. Yesterday's discomfort was beginning to lift, but he was still feeling uneasy. There's no point in worrying about what might happen, he reasoned with himself, because it probably never will, I worked that one out long ago. However, this argument did not make him feel much better. I'm on thin ice, he thought, I have to tread carefully, not lose my head. Stay in control, maintain a firm grip. Thirty minutes later he let himself into the gallery. He was still feeling unsettled, as if he was expecting Lindys, or Elsa, or Helle to turn up at any moment. Something inside him was waiting for her. He did not want her to come, she was a disruption in his life, something unpredictable. But here, in the gallery, he could not refuse to open the door; she could open it herself and walk right in. Having allowed her in the first time it would be difficult to refuse her now. How stupid he had been, how naive.

He went into the workshop to find something to occupy himself with, he needed to be distracted. He cut glass and cardboard, he polished and glued and tagged. He tried to enjoy this tinkering, but he wasn't able to. Weidemann's painting with his own thumbprint had dried ages ago and now it hung out in the gallery next to the bridge. He kept peeking furtively outside. First she would appear like a shadow outside the window, then the bell would ring. But he saw no one. The hours passed. Perhaps I was worrying about nothing, he thought. Perhaps she was just in a tight spot, but she'll stay away from now on. She won't be coming here any more. She is far too unstable to form a bond with anyone. This logic comforted him. Other customers came and went, he made polite conversation with them, maintaining his usual defensive stance. You should never underestimate a customer, he thought, the most unassuming individual might turn out to possess an impressive knowledge of Norwegian art. His approach was always cautious, a kind of tentative dance. He did not initiate a conversation with a customer until they had exchanged a few pleasantries.

The customers started to thin out and he seized the opportunity to eat his packed lunch. He spent the afternoon replacing a number of light bulbs, there was a spotlight positioned above every single painting. He felt terribly pleased at the end of the day because she hadn't showed up. The painting of the bridge had begun to take second place in his mind; it seemed as if Lindys was taking up all the space, as if she was standing inside his head shouting in a manner that was impossible to ignore. As he was about to leave he paused a metre from the painting. The pillars and a stump jutting out above the void, a dense, mystical fog. Faint contours of rocks and the mainland, but no horizon, no divide between sky and sea. The painting consumed him once more; it seemed to re-establish his inner balance.

He avoided Bragernes Square on his way home. He thought she might be drifting around there together with the dark-haired man who was not her brother. Have I really let a prostitute into my life? he thought as he walked home. No, I haven't let her in, she won't be coming back, I'm certain of this, those people are so restless. That day he shopped in Rimi. He bought fish fingers, which he would eat with potatoes and tartar sauce. Cheap and good for you, Alvar thought. He put his shopping in a bag and went back out into the street and started walking up the steep hill to his flat. At the letter box he met Green, his neighbour, who nodded to him briefly; Alvar nodded briefly back. Had he seen Lindys the previous day when she came to his door? Seen her slumped there in all her wretchedness? What must he have thought? She looked like a mere child, but the life she was living had so obviously left its mark on her. The Greens were probably gossiping at long length about her over dinner. He shuddered at the thought. He loathed the idea that other people might be discussing him, might be thinking about him, because it was beyond his control. For a moment he felt unwell, he felt disjointed and awkward, it was like falling apart. Then he pulled himself together and let himself in.

As he entered the flat he was suddenly filled with a sense of purpose, it rose within him like mercury in a thermometer. He went straight to the telephone and called his bank to find out the balance of his savings account.

'The available balance is: seventy thousand three hundred and sixty-seven kroner and thirty øre,' the voice announced. Alvar was delighted. Tomorrow morning he would go straight to his bank and transfer the money to Gallery Krantz. He would do it before he went to work. He would call his boss and ask him to drive the painting over to his flat, he would hang it on the wall. He would pull his armchair over to the fireplace, pour himself a sherry and sit down to look at the painting for the whole evening. Drown in it, lose himself in it, possess it. The thought filled him with joy. Then he thought of Lindys again. From now on whenever he saw a blonde head in the street, he knew he would jump. He was certain her name was Lindys. Alvar possessed a little insight into other people. The first name she had given him was her real name. The others were just to wind him up. Banter. She was like that. He decided to think of her as Lindys. When he thought of her. Because he was thinking of her and he did not understand that either. He was unaccustomed to another human being occupying his consciousness, someone just appearing and destroying his protracted and meticulous way of thinking. Again his thoughts were drawn to the painting. An extravagance, it struck him, the greatest in my life. A turning point. What will it be like to have the painting in my home? Perhaps it will drive me crazy? Now while it's hanging in the gallery I pine for it. But once it's on my own wall perhaps it will be different. Once it's here all the time, every time I lift my eyes and look above the fireplace. When I come into the living room in the morning and in the evening. Always this severed bridge. This dark, mysterious bridge, which ends abruptly in nothingness. Will it make me happy? Yes, a voice inside him said, it will make me happy.

'Now I understand it all,' Alvar says, 'I'm no longer confused. She's my challenge, this Lindys.'

He assumes a dramatic mien. Contrary to all his good habits, he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his newly pressed trousers.

I look up from my newspaper. I nod.

'It certainly looks that way,' I say. 'Are you disappointed?'

He pulls his hands out of his pockets.

'I'm nervous. I'd been expecting something else. We don't speak the same language, she and I, and she makes me feel incredibly inept.'

I cannot help but smile.

'You
are
inept,' I say. 'But you can learn how to interact with other people. God knows you need the practice. I gave you a young, damaged woman because I needed a contrast. I needed something that might turn nasty.'

'Is she nasty?' he asks swiftly. His grey eyes darken.

'Not at all,' I assure him. 'But she lives in a rough world and she has been hardened by that. I would advise you to proceed with caution, Alvar. She probably knows a lot of people you wouldn't be able to handle.'

'Will there be more of them?' he asks.

'I'm not sure yet. I'm still thinking about it.'

His eyes look haunted. He takes a seat on the sofa, brushes the knees of his trousers. He is immaculately dressed as always, his shirt is white and freshly ironed.

'I suppose it's for the best if I break off all contact with her immediately,' he says after a pause. 'That I toughen myself up. That I don't let her in, especially not into my flat. Do you know something? She puts her feet on my coffee table. It's a flame birch table from 1920. My mother would turn in her grave.'

I give him a wistful smile. 'Do you really think you can manage that? You don't have it in you, Alvar, you're not able to turn anyone away. Especially not a fragile young woman. Did you know,' I continue, 'at the start I contemplated sending you a child? A chubby, cheeky child.'

He looks up.

'A child? That wouldn't have worked very well,' he declares. 'I'm not good with children, I don't know how to behave in front of them. They always stare at you, it's like they're spying on you, and then they drool.'

'Yes, they do, don't they?'

He leans forward across the table and rests his hands on his thighs.

'In that case I'm really pleased that you changed your mind,' he says, relieved. 'I'll just have to manage as best I can. One day at a time. But am I allowed to make a wish?'

I hesitate. I fold my newspaper.

'As long as you don't wish for a happy ending,' I say eventually.

He runs his hand across his head. Still somewhat surprised at his baldness.

'No, I'm not asking for anything specific. A pleasant interlude, perhaps. A moment, an experience. Anything.'

'It won't be easy,' I reply, 'you're not terribly spontaneous, Alvar, and consequently not much happens in your carefully organised life.'

'But what if I make an effort?'

I nod. 'Let's go for it, let's see what happens. I'll offer you some bait and we'll see if you take it.'

'There was one other thing,' he remembers. 'I don't mean to be pushy, but when do you think we'll finish?'

I shrug. I mull it over.'We're talking about a year probably. But this assumes I'm allowed to get on with my work without too many interruptions.'

'You think I'm pushy, don't you?'

I nod. 'You're pushy in a very disarming way,' I reply. 'I'll make an exception this time, but I've no intention of making it a habit. You spotted an opening, Alvar, and caught me off guard. Now I want to let events unfold, and I hope we both make it to the end. And please forgive me for saying this, but I never intended for you to be an ambitious project.'

He frowns and his face droops.

'So what was I meant to be?' he asks feebly.

'Well,' I venture, 'a lesser work. Something charming, unpretentious. A fleeting joy, a pleasant acquaintance. A minor literary game.'

'In other words,' he says, 'not a masterpiece?'

I am taken aback. 'That's asking for too much. Now you're making me nervous.'

'Allow me to add,' he says quickly, 'that I'm quite happy so far, I really am. I would hate to complain. But I suppose I had a faint hope that I might be heroic. In some way.'

'You are,' I tell him, 'in your everyday life. The question is what you'll do when you're tested.'

He looks at me closely.

"What does your gut instinct tell you?' he asks.

Again I cannot help but laugh. It is liberating, I laugh till the tears roll down my cheeks. 'You're unbelievable, you really are,' I hiccup. 'I've never experienced such pestering, you're worse than a spoiled child. Now please be patient, Alvar, I have a good feeling about you, I'll admit that much, and that's a good sign. All the same,' I add, 'based on my past records I can be quite brutal. Besides, I need to resolve something within myself along the way. Your weakness, this tendency to keep your distance from everyone and everything, your inability to act, your bashfulness, your modesty, your meticulous-ness, how do I honestly feel about that? Where do I place you in terms of morality, what do I think about the way you live your life? Are you a coward, are you arrogant, are you socially maladjusted or are you an attractive man with a pure heart? You have a fair amount of resources and talents, but you've isolated yourself and you're terrified of going off the rails.'

'So you want to derail me? You want me to crash?'

'I'm afraid you're right,' I reply.

Alvar turns pale. He takes a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket and wipes his forehead.

'But that doesn't mean that you won't recover,' I add. 'Perhaps you'll get back on another, an even better track. What do you say to that?'

'I'm not very fond of changes,' he admits.

'Me neither,' I say honestly. 'I know how you feel, Alvar, I empathise. But sometimes I get frustrated. You stay within the confines of your safe existence and as your audience I get fed up with it. Just let yourself go a little, I urge you; swear out loud, tell a customer to clear off, start slamming some doors.'

'That wasn't the done thing when I was growing up,' he says quickly.

'But you're a grown man now,' I retort.

He folds the handkerchief neatly and returns it to his shirt pocket.

'I'm no good at confrontation,' he says quietly. 'I like it here with you,' he adds, 'you never lash out.'

'I'm afraid to,' I say. 'Like you, I'm simply too scared.'

'Why, what do you think would happen?' he asks.

'There are times when I just want to scream, but I'm afraid to because I think the windows would shatter.'

'Why?' he insists.

'Because the scream would be so loud.'

He goes silent again, he looks distant.

'Do you want me to leave?'

'Yes, I do actually. If that's all right with you. I want to do another hour of work or two.'

He gets up from the sofa.

'Like I said,' he emphasises, 'we all have free will and I have chosen an ordered life with fixed routines. You're saying you want to derail me, but you'll have to expect that I will protest.'

'Really?'

'You'll just have to wait to see if I can take care of myself, if I can scope out the territory and watch my own back.'