Broken

CHAPTER 12

I put the cat on my lap and force his jaws apart.

He instantly starts to scratch and kick me, his razor-sharp claws dig into the delicate skin on my arms and make my eyes water. I grit my teeth and endure it. How can a four-kilo cat have this much strength? I wonder. It's incredible, he's fighting for his life. Even though I'm doing this for his sake. I take the tiny pill from the table, drop it down his throat and force his jaws shut. I massage his neck and throat with my other hand until the cat swallows the pill. Alvar is watching me, petrified.

'What are you doing?' he croaks.

'Something entirely necessary. I'm worming him,' I reply. 'He's lost a bit of weight recently, he might have worms.'

'Oh,' he says, taking a step back. I seize the moment to let the cat go, he jumps down on to the floor and races to the garden door, he wants to get out. I open the door for him and watch him disappear into the bushes.

'So how are you?' I ask Alvar. 'Why don't you sit down?'

He perches on the very edge of the sofa, picking at his nails.

'I need an honest answer,' he says fixing me with his eyes. 'Am I miserly?'

I sit down again, dig out a cigarette from the packet on the table.

'I don't think so. No, you're not miserly. But you're wondering why you can't make a decision about the painting, aren't you? The severed bridge you so desperately want?'

He nods in agreement. 'Yes. I think there has been enough procrastination. In fact, I'm genuinely disappointed with myself because I can't act. Other people buy things they want whereas I've still got all my old furniture, most of which I've inherited from my mother. And I have enough money.'

'In other words,' I say, lighting the cigarette, 'you have everything you need in order to buy the painting. And now you don't understand what's holding you back?'

He hitches up his trousers before crossing his legs; he flexes his feet in the shiny shoes.

'I keep asking myself,' he says pensively, 'whether the money might be intended for something else.'

'What would that be?' I say, feigning innocence. I am no longer able to meet his eyes.

'Well, if only I knew. I can't think what it might be, but something is holding me back. Something vague and intangible. What do you think?' he says, looking at me. His gaze is terribly direct.

'Deep down you have an inkling,' I say. 'You know that something is bound to happen further into the story and subconsciously you're thinking that the money will come in useful later. That's why you haven't got the courage to spend it. You're waiting. You feel restless. If you buy the painting you will have achieved precisely what you wanted and everything will grind to a halt. And we're only about one hundred pages into your story. You want more space, so you let the painting stay in the gallery. While you're waiting for something else to happen.'

He watches me suspiciously; there is a deep furrow between his brows.

'True, a hundred pages isn't much to get excited about,' he concedes. 'So perhaps you're being brutal enough to show me the painting, yet you won't let me own it. I think that's hard for me to deal with because it's an important painting.'

'I understand,' I console him. 'But you'll just have to learn how. I once desperately wanted a painting by Knut Rose. I found it many years ago and it's called The Helper. I never came to own it, but it no longer drives me crazy. Let me put it this way: it's a mild grief.'

'A mild grief,' he echoes. 'Which you think I ought to tackle without whining?'

'Exactly.'

'But I'm not very good at dealing with emotions,' he says.

I flick the ash from my cigarette. 'Do they frighten you?'

'Yes. I don't want too many of them and I don't want them to be very strong. I prefer it when everything is slow and steady.'

'What about happiness?' I smile. 'That's an emotion too. Don't you want that?'

He shrugs shyly. He is actually a well-built man, but he never straightens up, never lets anyone see his broad shoulders.

'I suppose so. If it should come my way.'

'Come your way? Happiness is not some bird, Alvar, which suddenly lands on your shoulder, though poets like to put it that way. You need to set something in motion to achieve the good things in life. You have to act.'

He finds a speck of dust on his trousers and brushes it off.

'But you'll help me, won't you? That's why I came here. Do you see any happiness in my future?'

I close my eyes and concentrate. A host of images appears on my retina.

'Perhaps.'

He blinks. 'What do you mean, perhaps? That doesn't sound terribly reassuring.'

'A half-finished story is a delicate thing,' I explain. 'Never anticipate events, it's dangerous. Everything can burst like a bubble. Besides, I don't want to give you false hopes, or make promises I can't keep.'

'Can you give me anything at all?' he pleads.

I consider this. 'Yes, I can actually. There is one thing that has been on my mind a long time. But I don't know if it'll make you feel better, perhaps it'll only cause you more anxiety. It's a small, but well-intentioned gesture. Something which might turn out to be useful.'

He looks at me with anticipation. I get up from my chair and walk over to my desk. Scribble something on a yellow Post-it note, return and hand it to him. He grabs it hungrily.

'A telephone number?' he says, baffled.

I nod. 'Put this note by your phone and make sure you don't lose it.'

He folds the paper and puts it in his jacket pocket.

'A telephone number,' he repeats pensively. 'That's not a lot, is it?'

I protest fiercely. 'You're wrong. This number will lead you to another human being who will answer when you call. Someone who can think and act. A compassionate person. This number can save your life, Alvar.'

He is startled. He looks scared and his eyes widen.

'Are you going to test me?' he whispers.

'Alvar my dear,' I reply patiently, 'you're worse than a child. And I know that you're in a tricky place right now. It's like you're half finished. You're dangling, literally, in thin air. But if it's any comfort, Alvar, I'm dangling too. I'm halfway through my story, I'm still in the deep end. I'm struggling to sustain my faith in my own project. Doubt creeps up on me like an invisible gas, it goes to my head and it fills me with fear. Now what's this? I ask myself. Who would want to read this? Can I expect to demand my readers' time and attention with this story? Have I drawn you so clearly that they can see you as well as I can, that they will come to care about you? Have I found the right words?'

'But you love your work, too, you said so the other day.'

'I'm a very inconsistent person,' I declare. 'Yes, I love it, I hate it, I struggle. When it's at its best it sends shivers of delight down my spine, at its worst I'm tearing my hair out. I get up in the morning and I go over to the mirror. I look at my weary face and I tell myself that I can't do it, that it's too hard.'

He frowns. He looks sulky, he is pouting.

'So you don't think I'm worth it?'

'It might be the case that you're only important to me. And perhaps that's enough.'

'I know that I'm not important or amazing or exciting. But there's only one Alvar Eide,' he says, a little hurt.

'That's true. And I've always been of the opinion that every single one of us has a whole novel inside. Every single person you meet has their own life-and-death drama. Just take a look at people, Alvar, as you wander through the town. Look at their eyes, at how they bow their heads; their brisk, but also slightly hesitant, walk. Their anxieties. Their secrets. Oh, I want to stop every single one of them, lift up their chins and look them in the eyes. What do you carry, what do you hide, what do you dream about, please would you tell me so I can write it down, please let me show you to the world?'

'And then you can only pick a few,' he nods. 'What you can manage in your own lifetime. Now I'm starting to feel honoured because you chose me.'

'May I remind you that you anticipated events and made your own way into my house,' I say.

'True, but I was second in the queue anyway. My time would have come regardless.'

'Probably. So, is it time for us to move on? We have to go out into the cold, Alvar, it's the middle of winter.'

He gets up from the sofa. Takes a few steps towards the door.

'I really value our conversations.'

'So do I,' I reply, 'but I might end up deleting them.'

'What?'

He looks shocked.

'They might turn out to be superfluous. You might manage just fine with your own story and your own drama.'

He opens the door, turns one final time.

'It's freezing cold,' he says and shivers. 'Can you feel it?'

He walks down the steps and pauses on the drive for a while. The porch light shines on his bald head.

'I've felt so cold ever since I had my hair cut,' he says.