and-white horses, snorting, galloping on shiny hooves. There was a rider on each horse, dressed in bizarre clothing. The picture lacked a focus, a centre that the eyes would be drawn to; he felt how his eyes flittered, jumping about looking for something, a point, a revelation. On his journey around the painting he noticed all the details, the reins of the horses, a boot with a shiny buckle, a broad-brimmed hat with a feather. A glove-clad hand, a whip, a spur, a velvet jacket with gold buttons. The canopy above the merry-go-round was beautifully decorated; there were red and green lanterns, an elegant cast-iron structure which held it all together. His eyes kept jumping about looking for somewhere to settle.
Finally, after a very long time, he made an unexpected discovery. It made him step back. The riders sitting on the horses were all dead. He had not spotted that at first, all he had seen was the merry-go-round, the horses and the long, colourful garments. Now he could see that the riders were ghosts, they grinned at him with yellow teeth. Their eye sockets were black holes and they cracked their whips and rode the horses in ecstasy and with malicious joy. He stepped back a bit further to get a better perspective. What was there to say about this picture? he thought perplexed; someone might want to buy it and it was vital to have some observations ready. A skilled art dealer would never stand dumbfounded in front of a picture. Well, he could highlight the element of surprise, that the merry-go-round was ridden by ghosts, that at first sight they looked as if they were enjoying themselves, a colourful experience, until the truth was brutally flung in your face. Death rides a merry-go-round, he thought, how disturbing. Once this discovery was made the picture became more of a clever display. Painted with a confident hand, that much was true, with a precision bordering on photographic, but apart from that the picture lacked soul. He narrowed his eyes and considered it. Many years in the gallery had turned Alvar into a connoisseur.
The picture was priced at eighteen thousand kroner and was likely to be sold quickly. To someone with little knowledge of art. Someone young. A man. No more than thirty-five years old. Someone it was easy to impress, someone who enjoyed gimmicks. Here I will need to highlight the painter's striking technique and the fine strokes, Alvar thought. The richness of detail, the colours. As he leaned forward again he noticed to his amazement that a few of the skulls had tiny white dots in their sockets. You had to be very close to detect them and it required a great deal of light. This was something he would need to mention to the future buyer. This painting needs a picture light above it if you are to see all the details, he would have to say. It varied from painting to painting. Some lit up all on their own, such as those by Advocat or Sitter. He went upstairs to make coffee. The merry-go- round haunted him for a few minutes; he started to think it might be an omen. After all, death had been on his mind a fair amount the last few days and now it had followed him into the gallery. But he dismissed it. No, it's only human to ponder death. They always had pictures with elements of death in them, this was merely a coincidence. Slowly he drank his coffee while he leafed through the local paper. Every now and again he looked up at the monitors.
The first customer arrived at eleven in the morning and entered briskly and purposefully. A woman of about fifty wearing a sea-green knitted coat. She smiled softly and in recognition as he came down the stairs; she had been there often, he knew her well. No, not
'What a ghastly picture,' she laughed, taking in the merry-go-round. 'Who painted that?'
'An Englishman,' Alvar replied. 'His name's Wilkinson.'
He suppressed a comment to the effect that he did not like it either; it was a risk he could not afford to run, his primary purpose was to sell it, after all. But the way he saw it, it was vital that it was sold to the right buyer and this woman was not the right one. Although she might not like the picture personally she might want to give it to someone else; he always had to bear such things in mind.
'I don't like it,' she admitted. 'There's something wrong with this picture. Don't you think?'
Alvar exhaled deeply. Now he could relax and answer her question honestly.
'It doesn't come alive,' he explained. 'The painter wants to depict a jarring moment, but his expression is frozen, almost stylised. This subject should be generating a great deal of noise, but notice how silent it is.'
'But it's a picture of ghosts,' she smiled, 'they're not meant to be alive, are they?'
'No, perhaps not,' he smiled back. 'But there's something about this painter, he's missing something. The way I see it it's nothing but a clever display.'
She agreed with him, yet remained standing in front of the merry-go-round for a long time.
'Some yuppie will come along and buy it,' she stated.
'Yes, that was my thought too,' he admitted. 'Someone who likes to show off a bit.'
He looked at her politely. 'So what can I do for you today?'
'Nothing at all,' she said. 'I just wanted to pop in to see if you had anything new. Something exciting.'
'I've sold the waterfall,' he told her.
'Yes, of course, it's gone!' She spun round and stared open-mouthed. 'I'll really miss that,' she said. 'That waterfall was here for a long time.'
'Two and a half years,' he said.
'Who bought it?' she wanted to know.
'A yuppie,' Alvar smiled and they both laughed conspiratorially at this. Afterwards she wandered around for a long time visiting all three floors and Alvar left her to it. He returned to the kitchen and watched her on the monitors every now and again. She probably knew that he was doing this, but it did not bother her, she moved around confidently and calmly and gave herself plenty of time for each picture. At half past twelve he ate his three sandwiches. Up until now my life has been fine, he thought, once his hunger had started to abate. Nothing unforeseen has happened. No big surprises, no unexpected turns. Other people are struck down by all sorts of things and here I am eating my lunch without a care in the world. He thought that it would last. He was once more lost in his newspaper when he heard the bell downstairs. He raised his eyes and looked at the right-hand monitor. Something resembling a grey shadow had entered the gallery.
A grey shadow.
Alvar remained sitting staring at the monitor as he watched it slip quietly through the door. Then it stopped and stood immobile on the stone floor. A shadow, strange, blurred. He narrowed his eyes in order to get a better look and it occurred to him that it was obviously a person. A small person, he thought, as she glided towards the wall. A woman. He thought it was a woman, but could not understand why she moved so oddly, she was rigid and fluid at the same time. Something told him instantly that this was no ordinary customer. He straightened up, scratched his cheeks nervously. But the shadow did not appear to be interested in the pictures. It was supporting itself against the wall and now it stood there motionless. The seconds ticked away and she did not move. Alvar left the kitchen and went quietly down the stairs, his heart beating faster. When he reached the ground floor she came into focus. A young woman, skinny and dressed in grey clothes. She wore tight, pointy ankle boots with incredibly high heels. A grey jacket, which came down to the middle of her thighs. It had a trim of filthy, tatty fur. Her legs, too, were very thin. Her hair was blonde and matted, wisps of it hung over her cheeks and her roots were dark. Her eyes were heavily made up. Her doll-like face was pinched and pale and all he could see were these panda eyes. They were staring at him. He stopped. What was it about her eyes? Her pupils were as tiny as pinheads. And how she trembled, she was actually shaking, as she stood there slumped against the wall. Alvar had never in all his life seen anyone as cold and translucent as this young woman. He stopped some distance away and kept watching her. His heart was pounding as he tried to get a grip on the situation.
'It's bloody cold outside,' she said feebly.
He nodded automatically. At the same time it began to dawn on him what kind of creature she was. She was a drifter, there were so many of them in this town. They normally hung out around Bragernes Square where they wandered about aimlessly. But this one here had found her way to Albumsgate and the gallery.
'Just trying to warm up,' she whispered.
She seemed both lethargic and excited at the same time. Trembling and quivering, yet she spoke slowly, slurring her words, and he realised that she had to be on something, he did not know what, but she was only partly present. Her eyes were distant, they rolled and then she closed them. She leaned upright against the wall next to the merry-go-round and she had clearly forgotten all about him. Alvar did not know what to do. He saw her thin, narrow hands and the pointy ankle boots and thought that she ought to be wearing fhick-soled boots and thick woollen socks and a padded jacket and a woollen cap rather than wander around in such thin clothes, after all it was November and very cold. He saw her tiny mouth and her pretty snub nose and thought that she was in fact
