air. Other lost souls wandered restlessly around begging alongside the pigeons. From time to time they managed to get a few crumbs too, a five or a ten kroner. In the course of a long day it probably added up to one shot of relief. A miserable but simple existence, Alvar thought, with only a single aim: more drugs.
Alvar was getting ready for Christmas. He always spent Christmas on his own and he knew how to pamper himself. He bought ribs, sausages and sauerkraut. He placed poinsettias on his windowsill, he lit candles. He burned incense; he enjoyed its sweet smell. On his door he hung a wreath of the kind normally placed on graves, they were his favourite kind. He enjoyed listening to Christmas carols on the radio; he liked the lights and decorations in town. Christmas never highlighted his loneliness, he simply pampered himself with a little extra. Sometimes he bought a chocolate yule log, cut it into thin slices and placed the slices in an elegant fan shape on a plate. He also made gluhwein for the customers in the gallery. Sales increased dramatically. In fact, the last two days before Christmas were usually their best days in the whole year. When people came at the last minute they parted with their money more easily. Ole Krantz had invested in some beautiful shiny wrapping paper and the small lithographs sold like hot cakes. Life's good, Alvar thought, I can't complain, I'm doing fine. I'm a very contented man.
The new year brought cold temperatures and an abundance of fireworks over the town. Even the dome of the light-bulb factory paled in comparison with the colourful visions in the night sky. He went to bed at half past midnight. A new year had begun. He did not think that it would bring any exciting changes as far as he was concerned, but on the other hand he was not looking for exciting changes. Though minor, unexpected events were not to be sniffed at.
You never could tell.
CHAPTER 8
'Hello, it's me again, sorry to disturb you. Shouldn't you be working?'
I nearly jump out of my chair. Alvar appears behind me. He leans forward and reads a few lines on my screen.
'I'm writing a letter to a good friend,' I reply tartly. 'Is that all right with you?'
He nods, a little contrite.
'Just wanted to drop by as soon as possible to say thank you,' he says politely.
I turn round and look him in the eye.
'Thank me? For what?'
'For the girl. The poor freezing girl you sent me.'
I feel a prickle of guilt and look away.
'I mean,' he says enthusiastically, 'I got the chance to do a good deed. Of course, there is no reason to make a song and dance about a mug of coffee, but afterwards I was pleased that I did what I did.'
'That's good, then,' I say and look at the screen again.
'I'm not one to start chatting to people like that,' he goes on, 'in fact, I'm quite surprised at myself. But my own circumstances became so clear to me. How lucky I really am. And as you know, if you're well off, you have a duty to do good. Don't you think so?'
'Alvar,' I make my voice firm. 'I need to finish this letter, it's important to me. It needs to be posted today and the last post is at three thirty this afternoon.'
He folds his hands and shifts from one foot to the other. 'You're starting to get a little cross, aren't you? I spot things like that straight away. But I just wanted to mention something: I've always considered it a matter of honour to be respectful. Or to have good old-fashioned manners, if you like. But the thing is that we have a relationship, you and I, and you can't expect me to just sit back and wait when it concerns my own fate; you know I'm someone who needs to be in control.'
'Yes,' I say drily, 'I've noticed that.'
'And that's why,' he carries on, 'I must admit that I was terribly upset when this girl came into the gallery.'
'Whatever for?'
He coughs nervously covering his mouth with his hand. 'Well, we've talked about relationships. For one awful moment I thought you were going to turn us into a couple.'
I give up trying to finish the letter. I fold my arms across my chest instead and study him.
'My dear Alvar,' I say in a kind voice, 'I'm well aware that you prefer men.'
I am totally unprepared for his reaction. He flushes deeply all the way from his throat and up his cheeks. He takes a step sideways to recover his balance. Then he buries his face in his hands.
'You thought I didn't know?' I ask softly.
He does not reply, he groans. Frozen in this desperate position with his hands over his face. He wants to speak, but cannot find his voice.
'Please don't be so upset,' I comfort him.
He exhales deeply and gasps. Turns away in shame.
'Do you have to tell them that?' he whispers.
'You mean, do I have to include it in the story? We can talk about it. I obviously know more about you than what I put in the book. However, we can't prevent those who meet you from speculating. Don't underestimate people. You will never be able to control their thoughts.'
Finally he straightens up, but he finds it difficult to look me in the eye.
'I'm begging you on my knees,' he stutters. 'Please, please cut that bit, it's not as if it's important.'
I ponder this. Reluctantly. 'No, I'm not going to cut it, but I can treat it with respect.'
He begins to relax a little. He breathes a sigh of relief. 'I want to put the record straight,' he says suddenly. 'I have no such feelings for Ole Krantz. Just so you know.'
I have to smile. 'I know.'
'So we understand one another,' he says, reassured. 'And please forgive all my interventions, but I'm very shy, you know that. The idea that people can read me like an open book is unbearable.'
'It's not as scary as you think,' I reply, 'people knowing who you are. Wasn't that why you jumped the queue? You jumped the queue because you wanted to be noticed.'
'I did,' he admits instantly. 'But they don't need to know everything.'
'True,' I concede. 'Of course I make choices. But readers can be very perceptive, they add to the story and complete the picture. Ultimately you're protected by the boards of the book.'
Again he looks relieved.
'Will my story be several hundred pages?'
'Oh, no,' I reply immediately, 'it will be a modest story about a modest man. As I said before. If you're looking for volume, you'll have to go elsewhere.'
He runs his hand across his head, but takes care not to disturb the comb-over, which does not move. 'In other words: you don't think I'm very important? What about the woman and her dead child? They'll get more space, won't they?'
'Perhaps. I don't know yet, I've got my hands full with you. And my head,' I add, 'and my heart.' I place my hand on my chest. He smiles bashfully and looks at the floor.
'That's almost more than I had hoped for,' he says, 'that I can truly move another person. You. It's a wonderful feeling!'
Again I have to smile.
'But I'm not funny,' he warns me. 'Don't add humour to this story, it wouldn't work.'
'I don't have a sense of humour,' I confess, 'so you have nothing to fear. I'm looking for depth and drama.'
'Drama? That sounds disconcerting. Why do you have to have so much of that?'
'Drama makes the blood run faster through your veins. When the story reaches its peak that's when I feel most alive. You could do with a shot of adrenaline, you know, it's a fantastic high and totally addictive.'
'I think I'll stick with sherry,' he replies and smiles. 'There's something else. Where did you find the girl?'
