Broken

CHAPTER 15

'Now I understand it all,' Alvar says, 'I'm no longer confused. She's my challenge, this Lindys.'

He assumes a dramatic mien. Contrary to all his good habits, he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his newly pressed trousers.

I look up from my newspaper. I nod.

'It certainly looks that way,' I say. 'Are you disappointed?'

He pulls his hands out of his pockets.

'I'm nervous. I'd been expecting something else. We don't speak the same language, she and I, and she makes me feel incredibly inept.'

I cannot help but smile.

'You are inept,' I say. 'But you can learn how to interact with other people. God knows you need the practice. I gave you a young, damaged woman because I needed a contrast. I needed something that might turn nasty.'

'Is she nasty?' he asks swiftly. His grey eyes darken.

'Not at all,' I assure him. 'But she lives in a rough world and she has been hardened by that. I would advise you to proceed with caution, Alvar. She probably knows a lot of people you wouldn't be able to handle.'

'Will there be more of them?' he asks.

'I'm not sure yet. I'm still thinking about it.'

His eyes look haunted. He takes a seat on the sofa, brushes the knees of his trousers. He is immaculately dressed as always, his shirt is white and freshly ironed.

'I suppose it's for the best if I break off all contact with her immediately,' he says after a pause. 'That I toughen myself up. That I don't let her in, especially not into my flat. Do you know something? She puts her feet on my coffee table. It's a flame birch table from 1920. My mother would turn in her grave.'

I give him a wistful smile. 'Do you really think you can manage that? You don't have it in you, Alvar, you're not able to turn anyone away. Especially not a fragile young woman. Did you know,' I continue, 'at the start I contemplated sending you a child? A chubby, cheeky child.'

He looks up.

'A child? That wouldn't have worked very well,' he declares. 'I'm not good with children, I don't know how to behave in front of them. They always stare at you, it's like they're spying on you, and then they drool.'

'Yes, they do, don't they?'

He leans forward across the table and rests his hands on his thighs.

'In that case I'm really pleased that you changed your mind,' he says, relieved. 'I'll just have to manage as best I can. One day at a time. But am I allowed to make a wish?'

I hesitate. I fold my newspaper.

'As long as you don't wish for a happy ending,' I say eventually.

He runs his hand across his head. Still somewhat surprised at his baldness.

'No, I'm not asking for anything specific. A pleasant interlude, perhaps. A moment, an experience. Anything.'

'It won't be easy,' I reply, 'you're not terribly spontaneous, Alvar, and consequently not much happens in your carefully organised life.'

'But what if I make an effort?'

I nod. 'Let's go for it, let's see what happens. I'll offer you some bait and we'll see if you take it.'

'There was one other thing,' he remembers. 'I don't mean to be pushy, but when do you think we'll finish?'

I shrug. I mull it over.'We're talking about a year probably. But this assumes I'm allowed to get on with my work without too many interruptions.'

'You think I'm pushy, don't you?'

I nod. 'You're pushy in a very disarming way,' I reply. 'I'll make an exception this time, but I've no intention of making it a habit. You spotted an opening, Alvar, and caught me off guard. Now I want to let events unfold, and I hope we both make it to the end. And please forgive me for saying this, but I never intended for you to be an ambitious project.'

He frowns and his face droops.

'So what was I meant to be?' he asks feebly.

'Well,' I venture, 'a lesser work. Something charming, unpretentious. A fleeting joy, a pleasant acquaintance. A minor literary game.'

'In other words,' he says, 'not a masterpiece?'

I am taken aback. 'That's asking for too much. Now you're making me nervous.'

'Allow me to add,' he says quickly, 'that I'm quite happy so far, I really am. I would hate to complain. But I suppose I had a faint hope that I might be heroic. In some way.'

'You are,' I tell him, 'in your everyday life. The question is what you'll do when you're tested.'

He looks at me closely.

"What does your gut instinct tell you?' he asks.

Again I cannot help but laugh. It is liberating, I laugh till the tears roll down my cheeks. 'You're unbelievable, you really are,' I hiccup. 'I've never experienced such pestering, you're worse than a spoiled child. Now please be patient, Alvar, I have a good feeling about you, I'll admit that much, and that's a good sign. All the same,' I add, 'based on my past records I can be quite brutal. Besides, I need to resolve something within myself along the way. Your weakness, this tendency to keep your distance from everyone and everything, your inability to act, your bashfulness, your modesty, your meticulous-ness, how do I honestly feel about that? Where do I place you in terms of morality, what do I think about the way you live your life? Are you a coward, are you arrogant, are you socially maladjusted or are you an attractive man with a pure heart? You have a fair amount of resources and talents, but you've isolated yourself and you're terrified of going off the rails.'

'So you want to derail me? You want me to crash?'

'I'm afraid you're right,' I reply.

Alvar turns pale. He takes a handkerchief out of his shirt pocket and wipes his forehead.

'But that doesn't mean that you won't recover,' I add. 'Perhaps you'll get back on another, an even better track. What do you say to that?'

'I'm not very fond of changes,' he admits.

'Me neither,' I say honestly. 'I know how you feel, Alvar, I empathise. But sometimes I get frustrated. You stay within the confines of your safe existence and as your audience I get fed up with it. Just let yourself go a little, I urge you; swear out loud, tell a customer to clear off, start slamming some doors.'

'That wasn't the done thing when I was growing up,' he says quickly.

'But you're a grown man now,' I retort.

He folds the handkerchief neatly and returns it to his shirt pocket.

'I'm no good at confrontation,' he says quietly. 'I like it here with you,' he adds, 'you never lash out.'

'I'm afraid to,' I say. 'Like you, I'm simply too scared.'

'Why, what do you think would happen?' he asks.

'There are times when I just want to scream, but I'm afraid to because I think the windows would shatter.'

'Why?' he insists.

'Because the scream would be so loud.'

He goes silent again, he looks distant.

'Do you want me to leave?'

'Yes, I do actually. If that's all right with you. I want to do another hour of work or two.'

He gets up from the sofa.

'Like I said,' he emphasises, 'we all have free will and I have chosen an ordered life with fixed routines. You're saying you want to derail me, but you'll have to expect that I will protest.'

'Really?'

'You'll just have to wait to see if I can take care of myself, if I can scope out the territory and watch my own back.'