Broken

CHAPTER 9

January and freezing cold.

It was five to ten in the morning when Alvar let himself into the gallery. He walked across the room, stopped and looked around. He immediately made a breathtaking discovery, as if he had unexpectedly reached a hilltop and a new and unknown landscape had opened up inside him. Ole Krantz had acquired a new painting. Alvar felt a chill down his spine. Suddenly he was gripped by a force field. The painting had not been hung yet, but was propped up against the wall, beautifully lit by the big arched window in the middle. A large oil painting, strangely dark and powerful. Alvar stood as if struck by lightning while his eyes took in the subject. At first all he could see was the faint outline of a building in a dark fog, something black slowly emerging from a deep canyon. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Now what was this? He moved closer, shaking his head. A bridge, he realised, a heavy bridge. A bridge, which disappeared into murky darkness. But it was not just a bridge. It was an unfinished construction; it ended abruptly, halfway across the void, as if the project had been halted. The bridge did not reach the other side. Or, it struck him, it had been severed; he could make out some jagged beams jutting into the fog. So the bridge led nowhere. Alvar gasped. It was a huge and violent painting and he surrendered to it. The bottomless void, the steep mountainsides, the mysterious, hazy light. This severed bridge, so majestic. But a beautiful construction, nonetheless, he could see that, simple but ingenious, beautiful and arched, delicate yet strong. But also amputated. He stood as if paralysed, staring at the bridge. Who had painted this picture? Which artist had had the idea of painting a severed bridge? He walked closer, but he was unable to read the signature. He got hold of the top of the painting and tried to tilt it. Perhaps its title was on the back? The painting was heavy even though it was as yet unframed. He leaned the painting forwards and wiggled behind it so as to get a better look. And there was the title scribbled with a charcoal pencil. Broken, 1997. He put the painting against the wall and once more took a few steps backwards. It certainly was broken. Perhaps a ship had miscalculated the height of its masts and torn the bridge in half, that had to be it, he understood it now. But what was it about this bridge, why was he drawn towards this painting as if by an inexorable force? Because it's my painting, Alvar thought, I've been looking for this, this is the one for me. It speaks to me in all its gloomy silence. He turned away for a moment because it was all becoming too much for him. He stood there with his back to the painting while thoughts welled up in him, wild and raging. He must ring Ole Krantz instantly; he had to know who the painter was. What if it turned out to be a commission, imagine if the painting was not even for sale? he thought, with something bordering on desperation. The picture had not been hung, or priced. It's expensive, Alvar thought, this is a fairly expensive painting, not everyone will be able to afford it. I have a chance. I have seventy thousand in the bank. He tried to tear himself away. He went upstairs to the kitchen and made coffee. Then he had to go back downstairs for a second look. It probably would not have the same powerful effect on him this time, some of its force would diminish, since he had studied the painting in depth once already. But when he came downstairs the picture took hold of him with the same violence. It drew him in, he was swallowed up by the fog, he saw the broken surfaces, the severed bridge, beams and wires bristling in the darkness, and he gasped for air. He ran up the stairs and called Ole Krantz.

'Happy New Year,' he croaked into the receiver.

'Have you caught a cold?' Krantz asked. 'It sounds like you've lost your voice.'

Alvar shook his head. He cleared his throat. 'No, I just had something stuck.'

A moment's silence followed while they waited for each other. Alvar checked the monitors, he did not want any customers now, he had to find out about this picture, this violent force on the ground floor. He struggled to control himself, he wanted to come across as professional and mature, but it was impossible, he was quivering with excitement.

'Did you see the bridge, Eide?' Krantz said out of the blue.

Alvar jolted. 'Yes,' he stammered, 'and it's overwhelming, Krantz, utterly overwhelming.' He could not help it, his voice was falsetto. 'Don't you think?'

At the other end Krantz chuckled. 'I suspected that you would like it.'

Alvar held his breath. Focused and took off.

'Where does it come from?'

'An unknown chap,' Krantz said. 'His name's Lindstrom. I came across the painting in Stockholm and had it sent back here. I'm sure we'll be hearing a lot more about him.'

An unknown chap, Alvar thought. Perhaps the painting won't be so expensive after all. Unknown painters could not expect high prices, there were rules for these things which had to be respected, it took a long time before they finally made it. The breakthrough that they all dreamt about. Broken could be such a breakthrough, literally.

'If anyone happens to ask,' Alvar said, trying to keep his voice at a steady pitch, 'what kind of price are we talking about?'

Again he held his breath. Krantz thought about this for a long time.

'I'm thinking seventy thousand.'

Alvar reeled. He felt like giving up. Seventy thousand kroner. All his painstakingly compiled savings, his entire life insurance. For an unknown painter. How could he even contemplate something like that?

'Did you say the painter was an unknown?' he stammered, clutching the handset. His ear flattened against his temple.

'He is, he is. But what a picture! It's monumental. It's worth seventy thousand.'

Alvar pondered this amount. This bizarre coincidence. Could it be a sign from above?

'We'll have it in the gallery for a long time, then,' he said out loud, nursing a faint hope, because he needed time. He was not an impulsive man and he was not used to feeling spellbound as he did today. He was composed, measured. A man who always thought before he acted.

'Let me put it this way,' Krantz said, 'if anyone makes us an offer, we'll consider it.'

I want to make you an offer, Alvar thought, but he did not say it out loud. He wanted to hang up, he wanted to return to the picture, stand in front of it and feel the strange sensation that the picture portrayed him, his very core. This was how he had always felt, he had never connected with other people, something inside him had been severed.

'Someone will be completely smitten with this picture,' Krantz went on, 'and this one person will be prepared to pay the price. Just you wait and see. I'm right about this, mark my words.'

I already know you are, Alvar thought. He managed to conclude the conversation. He went back downstairs, walking hesitatingly down the steps, and over to the picture. He remained in front of it for a long time. He was scared that someone might come. He was scared that someone might appear in the doorway, spot the picture, fall completely in love with it and take it away from him. He was overcome by a childish urge to hide it in the workshop so that no one would ever see it. There is no other way, he thought, I'll just have to buy it, it's that simple. And I must buy it now. There is no time to lose. If I don't buy it, someone else will and this picture was meant for me. But it costs seventy thousand; it's everything I have in the bank. It'll clear me out. Poor as a church mouse, he thought, and shivered at the thought. On the other hand, he argued, money is there to be spent. And I'll never find 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.

'Broken,' said Alvar dramatically.

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 kroner. I need time to think, he told himself, I need to sleep on it. I want to have another look in the morning. If it has the same strong effect tomorrow, then I will buy it.

'I'm thinking of buying that picture,' he said, pointing once more to the bridge.

'How much is it,' she asked swiftly.

'Seventy thousand kroner.'

She rolled her eyes wildly. 'You have that much money?'

'I've got a bit put away,' he said proudly. 'I've been saving up for years.'

For one moment he thought he saw a flicker of light in her eyes.

'I see,' she said. 'You want the damaged bridge. That's all right. Bloody great picture,' she smiled. Her ravaged face cracked up and softened. He had a feeling that she was secretly laughing at him. He liked her and yet he did not like her, he was confused.

'Got to run,' she said firmly.

She staggered off on her high heels. She leaned against the oak door, forcing it open. Then she was gone. This time he didn't watch her from the window. In a sudden moment of despair because he had exposed himself in a way which was uncharacteristic for him, he carefully touched the top of his head. The lock of hair was still in its place.

When he left the gallery he took the route via Bragernes Square. He crossed into the pedestrian area, and as he passed Magasinet something strange happened. He felt driven by a sudden impulse and as he came to Saxen, a hairdressing salon, he went straight in. He had just ended up there, the urge had surprised him. It felt like floating. He looked down at his shoes, checking that he was still in contact with the floor. A young woman was busy cutting the hair of a small, long-haired boy. She looked up at him and smiled. Studied his old-fashioned hairstyle with a look of professional determination.

'Would you have time to cut my hair?' he asked. He instantly stroked his head, terrified. It had never occurred to him to have what little hair he had left cut off. He would be bald. All he'd have left would be a modest semicircle of hair at the back of his head.

'Yes,' she smiled, still watching him, 'if you can wait ten minutes. Have a seat please, I won't be long.'

He thought that she looked remarkably young, as if she ought to be in school. Her hair was cut short, it stuck out wildly and was dyed in several different shades. Her ears were heavily decorated with rings and studs and at the back of her head she had a small tattoo of a unicorn.

Alvar took a magazine, which he leafed through while he waited. He had to sit on a pouffe, it was horribly soft, he had no back support. Thus he sat, almost slumped, like a man with bad posture. On the pouffe next to him sat a woman, probably the boy's mother. She looked awfully pleased whenever the boy's hair landed softly on the floor. Alvar's pulse was rising. It was too late to leave now, after all he had sat down, and it would not do to storm out of the door at this point, even though this was precisely what he felt like doing. What had he started? A casual remark from a stranger had pushed him over the edge and now he would look like an idiot if he were to leave. If he walked off like some feeble-minded, gutless coward. He kept leafing through the magazine, but managed only to look at the pictures. The boy in the chair had now acquired a short haircut; finally his neck was brushed and he was allowed to get down. His mother paid with a note and they both left. Alvar let the magazine fall to the floor. He was told to sit down by the sink. He did so, resting his head on the neck support. This position, with his throat exposed, made him think of lying on the scaffold. The hairdresser tested the temperature of the water and started washing his hair; he liked the feel of her fingers massaging his scalp, they were strong and soft at the same time, she moved her hands in circles across his head. He enjoyed it as best he could while he tried to convince himself that he had made the right decision. All the same he was shocked. How could he allow himself to be controlled by a young, blonde drug addict? A woman he did not even know. Because he knew that it was her comment about comb-overs being old-fashioned which had caused him to end up in this chair. He knew no other women. He was not used to people commenting on his appearance. And what would happen if she turned up at the gallery again and noticed that he had in fact done what she had said? Perhaps she would collapse in a heap of wild, uncontrollable giggling, slap her pointy knees and poke fun at him?

'Shall we get rid of the bit on the top?' the hairdresser asked diplomatically.

Alvar was seated in front of the mirror. He nodded. He sat looking miserable in his chair and watched the long tuft of hair fall to the floor. His scalp appeared, shiny like a mirror. He instantly looked older. It might very well be more modern, more contemporary, but it definitely aged him. But then again at least he would be spared the constant trips to the mirror to check that the tuft of hair was still in place. Now there was not a single hair on his head long enough to move or sway in the wind. He had enjoyed having his scalp touched. She smelled good, something sweet and mild. His regular barber kept his distance, he was formal, talked about the weather. But this young woman chatted away in a soft, feline voice. Alvar replied with brief sentences, but he did not feel threatened by her. Now she was using the hair trimmer at the back of his neck.

'There you are,' she said, brushing away any loose hairs. 'Nice and tidy.'

Alvar had to agree. When he thought about it, he did feel good after all. He was not pretending to have more hair than he really did. His baldness was plain for all to see, no more pretending. He straightened his shoulders, thanked her and paid, went outside on the freezing cold day. Hair or no hair, even young men shaved their heads, it was fashionable. It was masculine. And there was nothing wrong with the shape of his head. In fact, the back of his head was nicely rounded, a head he could be proud of. Perhaps this was an appropriate day to treat himself to something extra special for dinner? A fillet of beef, perhaps, or a piece of salmon? Again he went to the Cash and Carry, where he took a number as always at the deli counter. When it was finally his turn, he decided on an elk steak, and on the condiment shelf he found a jar of mountain cranberries. That's the thing, he thought, and headed homeward with this small exclusive meal in a carrier bag.

He let himself into his flat and went straight into the bathroom. He hesitated as he walked over to the mirror. He saw his bald head and was startled. Because this was his own mirror and the man looking back at him was him. The man he had seen in the mirror at the hairdresser's had not been him; we only see ourselves as we really are in our own mirrors, he thought, and this is the honest truth. Alvar Eide with no hair. Alvar Eide aged forty-two, with a modest band of hair at the back of his neck. It will take me a year to grow out my hair again, he thought, and this period, before his hair was long enough to be combed all the way over to the right side, would be an awful time. He tried to laugh at himself and went out into the kitchen. Unwrapped the elk steak and wiped it with a piece of kitchen towel so that the meat would be completely dry when it hit the browning butter in the frying pan. He found salt and pepper. He went into his living room and turned on the radio. He saw that Green from next door was coming home from work. When the meat was frying he stood there inhaling the wonderful smell. He even hummed a tune the name of which he could not remember, but it was played incessantly on the radio and he could not get it out of his head. Like a buzzing, persistent insect he could not be bothered to chase away.

He set the table in the living room. He sat down and ate while his eyes wandered around the room. Where would he hang the severed bridge? Above the fireplace, of course. Oh, how it would tower over the room almost like a monument, he thought. Seventy thousand kroner. Every single krone he had saved up. It was quite extravagant. Why did he have such a desire to own this painting? After all he could see it every day in the gallery. The picture might even hang there for months, and perhaps he might get sick of it after a while and want a different one. He knew that was not true. This was Alvar being sensible, practical, prudent Alvar. The part of him that kept him in check, the part of him that had kept him on the right course his entire life. On his own, but taking care of himself. But then there was another voice, a strong seductive voice. It pushed common sense aside and made him weak. The painting is meant for you, the voice said, it illustrates your very soul, this severed bridge in the mute darkness. The picture will complement your flat, the picture will soothe the unrest you sometimes feel at night, because all your fears have finally been articulated by an unknown painter. A soulmate. Someone who knows exactly how you feel. Thus the painting will become your most treasured possession. Everyone who enters this room will see it and wonder. At its audacity, the elegance of the construction, while they simultaneously shiver at the drama because it disappears into a silent, dark fog. They will see that you have taste, that you are a real connoisseur. But no one ever comes here, he suddenly thought. Salespeople only come as far as the hall, and my neighbour has never been in here, no one but me will ever get to see it. But surely you're buying the painting for yourself, the voice replied. And even if the painting is not of very high quality, it is nevertheless a good investment, isn't it? Yes, but I've never really been very interested in investments. I've always believed that when it comes to art you have to go with your gut instinct. True, but is it not your gut instinct talking to you now? Buy it, Alvar, buy it! Get up now and go to the telephone, call Ole Krantz. Tell him you're buying the painting. Then it's done, once and for all. I have to sleep on it, he thought then, it's not like it's going to go anywhere overnight. Unless a burglar turns up and swipes it from under my very nose. But they had never had any break-ins at Gallery Krantz. Touch wood, he thought, tapping the table. What is going on with me? I'm behaving like a little child. Of course I should buy that painting. I'm all over the place and there is a reason for that. You have to take these things seriously. You should always listen to your intuition; it too has its own inner voice. The body needs sustenance, food, drink and sleep. However, the soul needs nourishment too. He finished eating and went over to the fireplace. Above it hung three unassuming lithographs, now he took them down and carried them out into the hall. Then he went back into the living room and stood there looking at the empty wall. Yes, it would fit there. It would not only fit, the painting would also be beautifully lit by the windows in the middle facing it. It would look as if it had always hung there. When he closed his eyes he could visualise it clearly. But as he had already told himself, he ought to sleep on it. And tomorrow he would go to the gallery and see how he would feel then. Perhaps nothing would happen, perhaps it would be an anticlimax. It had happened to him before. The painting would cry out to him at first sight only to lose its impact later. It was a strange mechanism, but he preferred pictures that grew on him over time. Seventy thousand kroner. He forced himself to move away from the bare wall and carried his plate and cutlery out into the kitchen. Rinsed off the leftover gravy and cranberries, then sat down in his chair in front of the television. Touched his scalp and felt dizzy. None of the terrestrial channels were showing anything worth watching, so he picked up the newspaper and checked the satellite listings. Perhaps there would be something on National Geographic. '9 p.m.,' he read, 'When Expeditions Go Wrong. 10 p.m., Deadly Heat. 11 p.m., Seconds From Death: The Bhopal Tragedy, 11.30 p.m., The Eruption of Mount St Helens. 12 a.m., Trapped Undersea.' This list of disasters made him feel anxious. Perhaps the severed bridge was a warning.