Broken

get out of bed. We put our feet on the floor and breathe. There is actually a good deal of courage in you, Alvar, I'm absolutely convinced of that. But, of course, I'm worried that you've chosen to isolate yourself. If something goes wrong, you've got no one to turn to. Do you ever think about that? Do you understand what that means?'

His eyes become distant, they seek out the window.

'I've been thinking a great deal about dying,' he admits. 'Who will arrange my funeral, will anyone mourn me? Who'll clear out my flat, what will happen to my furniture and all my other belongings? But then again I'm only forty-two. And all sorts of things might happen before I grow old. I hope that time will take care of it for me.'

'It won't,' I say gravely. 'If you want things to change, you have to change them yourself. I'm with you all the way, but I rely on you grabbing the opportunities I give you. Otherwise we're never going to get anywhere. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?'

He gets up and goes over to the window. He stares out across the Lier Valley.

'You authors are a funny lot,' he says with his back to me.

'No, we're like most people. We work hard, we have a profession. We have office hours, we toil.'

'I can see all the way to Fjell,' he says over by the window.

'Yes, you can.'

'And all the greenhouses. They glow like gold bullion in the dark.'

'It's pretty, don't you think?'

'Does all this beauty inspire you?'

'No.'

He turns round. 'Really?'

'I would have preferred a cell in a basement.'

'You're not serious?'

'Yes. A single solitary source of light. No windows. A spartan room. Where no external influences can penetrate my mind. In spring, living as I do here, it's unbearable, with the pretty valley in front of the house and the woods right behind it.'

'What's wrong with the woods?'

'The birds just won't shut up! Doves cooing, cuckoos singing, and the woodpeckers, they drive me crazy. But I do like the cows when they start to low at five in the morning. You know, Alvar,' I explain, 'for human beings to be in balance, their external landscape must match their internal one. That's why I like fog. Darkness and storms. Northern lights, a full moon. Shooting stars. Heavy, persistent rain, leaves falling.'

'If that's your attitude then I worry that you're about to tell quite a dark story,' he says anxiously.

'Yes, it's in my nature.'

He comes back and finds his seat on the sofa.

'There's something I have to ask you,' he says. 'Do you like your work?'

'I love it. It's a passion.'

'But you're all alone. In front of your screen. Year in, year out.'

'That's correct. But I never think about it. There's no room for second thoughts once I've started. Then time stands still, it's like being on the crest of a wave. And then, when that day's work is done I'm spat out into reality where everything is equally intense. Then I find out that there's a war on in Iraq, that a vast number of people on this planet continue to starve, that there's still unrest in the Middle East. And that what I spent my time on has no importance whatsoever.'

'But surely as a writer you must feel that you matter somehow?'

'Sadly, no. But I don't want you to think I'm going to treat you and your destiny lightly. I take this very seriously. But I should have been in Africa building wells.'

He smiles sadly.

'Have you put any worries in your box?' he asks softly.

'Obviously,' I say in a tired voice. 'They come to me in a steady stream; I'm a terribly anxious person. When my alarm goes off in the morning I am overwhelmed by everything that might go wrong. I can barely find the courage to put my feet on the floor; this world will never be a familiar place to me, every day I have to navigate it as a beginner. The fifteen steps downstairs, the walk to the computer. But once I see the blue light from the screen, the tension within me subsides and I am back on familiar ground. I honestly don't know how to handle the real world, I stagger through my day, my heart beats unsteadily and I struggle to breathe. If the telephone rings, my heart skips a beat. If I see an unknown car on my drive I hide behind my curtains while staring like crazy at the stranger heading for my door. I look for fixed points the whole afternoon and when nighttime finally comes I'm utterly disorientated. Because I lasted a whole day, because the disaster never happened. I take nothing for granted. Not the rest of my life, not tomorrow. Or you. And when the disaster finally strikes,' I say, 'I know what I'll say.'

'And what will you say?' asks Alvar gently.

'I always knew this would happen.'

CHAPTER 11

The next day when he let himself into the gallery, his entire body was brimming with tremendous excitement. He practically walked sideways across the floor in an attempt not to look at the painting. What if the bridge had gone? What if Ole Krantz had let himself in after the gallery had closed and taken the painting home to keep for himself? But it was there, in exactly the same spot, leaning against the wall, monumental and overwhelming. Alvar slowly walked up to it. He instantly felt a sense of inner calm, the painting made him feel whole. The severed bridge was somewhere he could deposit all those feelings he would never be able to articulate. Oh, he enjoyed reading books, he liked seeing himself reflected in the characters in them. But this. This wordless art, the immediate impression, how it could have such an effect on him, it was inconceivable. And I'm not an emotional person, he thought, I'm a quiet man with my life under control. I sleep well, I'm content. On my own, admittedly, but I'm nevertheless a hard-working and valid member of society. Not terribly interested in politics, or social issues for that matter, but I take good care of myself and I do my duty. So why do I need this painting so badly? How can this artist know how I feel?

He forced himself to walk away from the painting and went upstairs to the kitchen to make coffee. As he opened the cupboard he spotted the blue mug. He chose a different one, settled down by the table and opened the newspaper, which had been delivered to his flat earlier that morning. Every now and then he would look up at the three monitors. It was impossible to enter Gallery Krantz without the doorbell ringing, but as a precaution he kept an eye on the rooms all the same. Seventy thousand kroner, he thought. After all it's only money, mere digits in a computer, I've never actually seen it. Why don't I just ring Krantz right now and tell him that I want to buy the painting? Perhaps he'll give me an employee discount? Perhaps I can pay for the painting by instalments so I don't have to part with all my money at once? Surely we'll find a way around it? Will it make me happy? he wondered. Wasn't it rather that the painting had created a desire in him that he never thought he would experience? A desire to connect with other people? It felt as though he had been willing it to happen, he had longed for such an experience. Finding this one crucial painting. And now it was here, sitting downstairs. Why could he not just accept that and buy it? He drank his coffee slowly while he waited for the first customer of the day. He kept running his hand across his naked scalp, he could not get used to his bald head.

The first customers of the day turned out to be a young couple. Alvar put them somewhere in their twenties and they were clearly very much in love. He noted such things with great composure. It never made him feel embarrassed or insecure, or shy. Anyway, a young couple arrived. A slender, dark-haired woman and a tall blond man. They entered the gallery and as he sat there watching them on the left monitor, he realised that they rarely visited galleries. The way they moved around the space was hesitant. Nor had they realised that the paintings had been hung so as to present themselves most favourably, the intention being that you would begin by the left-hand wall and then move clockwise until you reached the staircase. That would take you to the first floor, if you were interested in looking at prints. They meandered from one wall to another. He let them wander around for a few minutes before he went downstairs. The moment he appeared they became shy, but he gave them a reassuring smile and he immediately knew that this couple would never be mesmerised by the severed bridge. Besides, they