a picture like this ever again. But seventy thousand kroner. Then he would have nothing put by for sudden expenses and that in itself was extremely risky. On the other hand he was a good customer at the bank, so if any unforeseen expenses were to crop up, it was likely that the bank would offer him a small loan. If he were to dent the car or break a tooth. Anything could happen, Alvar thought; he was a man with a lot on his mind. Right now he was infatuated by the picture. He felt quite faint. He was experiencing a dizzying joy. This was art at its best, this was happiness. At that very moment the doorbell rang. His heart leapt to his throat. Was it happening already? Was someone coming to take the picture away from him?
He recognised her instantly.
The young woman in the high-heeled ankle boots. She stopped in the open doorway and looked at him. She looked better than last time. Her eyes were brighter, she was composed and her movements were steady, she was not staggering as before. She let the door close behind her and took a few steps across the stone floor. Looked at him with her ice-blue eyes and said, 'Hi, only me. Could you spare a cup of coffee?'
Alvar gawped. He had almost forgotten her, no, not forgotten her, but she had been out of his thoughts for a long time. It had never occurred to him that she might come back, not after all this time.
'Coffee.' He hesitated. Right away he experienced a deep, disconcerting resistance. If he were to give her a cup of coffee, what would happen then, where would it lead? But it was hard to say no to such a simple request. How could he suddenly be mean when he had previously been so compassionate? That would not look very good and he was a decent man.
'Very well,' he mumbled reluctantly, 'I suppose I could.' He turned round mechanically and went up the stairs. She followed him. In the midst of it all he experienced a bizarre sense of relief. She was not here for the picture, she just wanted some coffee. She stood in the opening to the kitchen and stared at him while he complied with her simple request. He found the same blue mug from before and filled it right up to the brim.
'It's cold outside,' he said, watching her white fingers. She took the mug and drank. Her lips were thin and bluish white, but her eyes, which he recalled as being dull were suddenly as sharp as glass. 'Bloody cold,' she said, looking at him over the rim of the mug.
No, it struck him as he watched her, she had to be older than he had first assumed. She was probably in her early twenties, he detected some fine lines around her eyes. She was wearing the same clothes as the last time. Perhaps she had never taken them off. It horrified him that a young person could look so dreadful, but of course her body was totally ravaged by drugs.
'Where do you live?' he blurted out.
'Here and there,' she replied indifferently. 'It's not very strong your coffee, is it?'
'Oh.' Alvar was disappointed. He had always believed that he made a decent cup of coffee. He could not allow this; he would have to do something about it later.
'You here every day?' she asked, looking around the large building. Her question made him smile.
'Yes, every day. Year in, year out,' he replied.
'That sounds utterly boring,' she stated.
'Oh no, not at all,' he assured her, folding his hands across his stomach as was his habit.
She kept hold of the mug and started wandering around the rooms on the first floor. He followed her. She looked at the pictures. Shook her head, screwed up her eyes. I don't suppose she knows much about art, Alvar thought.
'Is that expensive?' she asked, pointing at a picture.
'Terribly,' he admitted. 'Well, some of them are, not all of them. But that one, however, by Nerdrum, that's expensive, you wouldn't be able to afford it.'
She laughed a delicate and tinkling laugh, the way little girls laugh.
'You don't have anyone to talk to in here,' she pointed out, and he stared down at the toes of his shoes as if she had humiliated him. 'Or perhaps you talk to the pictures?' she teased.
She looked directly at him now, and he tried to meet her eyes, she was only a girl and a cheeky one at that.
'I don't have a great urge to talk,' he explained and cleared his throat. He was thinking about the bridge. If you had a painting like that on your wall, it would no longer be necessary to say anything else in this life. Somewhere there was an artist who had imagined this landscape. The depths, the sea stacks, the fog. And its impact on him had been so strong; it was like being hit by a gale-force wind. That was how he felt it. He was suddenly overcome by an urge to show it to her, just to see what would happen.
'Do you know anything about art?' he asked watching her. She yawned.
'Is there anything to know?' she said. 'You either like a picture, or you don't. Is there anything more to say?'
'There's a great deal more to say,' he replied.
'There is?' She staggered a bit and drank from the mug, greedily, the way a thirsty child gulps down a glass of milk.
'Come with me, I want to show you something!'
She followed him down the stairs to the ground floor. He went straight over to the wall and gestured towards the bridge with one grand, solemn gesture. She gazed at it attentively still holding the blue mug. She drank a few gulps, she took in the picture. Then she licked the corners of her mouth with the pink tip of her tongue.
'Right,' she said eventually. 'A bridge going nowhere. Amazing.'
'Yes, don't you think?' he said, pleased because he could see that the painting had moved her and it made him feel that there might be hope for her after all, that behind all this devastation there was a sentient human being.
'What's it called?' she asked with curiosity.
She swallowed the rest of her coffee in one big gulp and handed him the mug.
'Nice title. Do you know, that's the only name it could have.'
He declared that he was in total agreement with her.
'I saw you on Bragernes Square a little while ago,' he said all of a sudden. He did not know why he said it, it just came out.
'Aha?' she replied.
'You were together with a man. A dark-haired man, older than you. Long hair. Perhaps it was your brother?'
She looked at him and then she burst out laughing.
'My brother? I don't have any brothers, or sisters for that matter.'
'How about parents then?' he wanted to know.
'No parents either,' she said sullenly and turned away from him. She started pacing in a circle on the stone floor. 'They've all gone.'
'Gone?' He did not understand.
'Gone away. Scattered by the four winds. That's all right. I'm not too bothered by it, family is just trouble. Folks you have to see just because you're related to them. Do you have any family?' she asked.
Alvar had to tell her the honest truth, which was that he was all alone in the world.
'No kids? No wife?' she said.
'No,' he said. It sounded lame. He felt interrogated, but on the other hand he had been the one to start it all off.
'And why not?' she said looking at him. Her blue eyes dissected him.
'It's just never happened,' he said. 'I can offer you no other explanation. I'm fine with it,' he added, looking back at her.
'You ought to get a haircut,' she said suddenly. 'Comb-overs are out.'
'Comb-over?' He touched his scalp. 'I'd better look after the little I've got left.'
'You'd look much better without it,' she stated.
She really is very cheeky, he thought, so very cheeky. I have never seen the like.
'Thank you for the coffee,' she said. 'I've got to go.'
'Have you?' he said and felt pleased about that. At the same time something happened inside him. He could not fully explain what it was, but it was becoming too much for him, this girl, the painting. Seventy thousand
