Broken

CHAPTER 7

The waterfall was swiftly replaced by a merry-go-round.

Ole Krantz had hung it in the space that had belonged to Reidar Fritzwold, and the change in the room was striking because the painting was smaller and darker. When Alvar let himself into the gallery, he stopped short, took it in. The painting was unusually detailed. One metre square, with an extravagant gilded frame. Thin layers of paint, fine brushstrokes and gaudy colours. Alvar stood still, staring at the painting with one hand under his chin, leaning forward slightly with squinting, peering eyes. A big, old-fashioned merry-go-round from a fair, with black-and-white horses, snorting, galloping on shiny hooves. There was a rider on each horse, dressed in bizarre clothing. The picture lacked a focus, a centre that the eyes would be drawn to; he felt how his eyes flittered, jumping about looking for something, a point, a revelation. On his journey around the painting he noticed all the details, the reins of the horses, a boot with a shiny buckle, a broad-brimmed hat with a feather. A glove-clad hand, a whip, a spur, a velvet jacket with gold buttons. The canopy above the merry-go-round was beautifully decorated; there were red and green lanterns, an elegant cast-iron structure which held it all together. His eyes kept jumping about looking for somewhere to settle.

Finally, after a very long time, he made an unexpected discovery. It made him step back. The riders sitting on the horses were all dead. He had not spotted that at first, all he had seen was the merry-go-round, the horses and the long, colourful garments. Now he could see that the riders were ghosts, they grinned at him with yellow teeth. Their eye sockets were black holes and they cracked their whips and rode the horses in ecstasy and with malicious joy. He stepped back a bit further to get a better perspective. What was there to say about this picture? he thought perplexed; someone might want to buy it and it was vital to have some observations ready. A skilled art dealer would never stand dumbfounded in front of a picture. Well, he could highlight the element of surprise, that the merry-go-round was ridden by ghosts, that at first sight they looked as if they were enjoying themselves, a colourful experience, until the truth was brutally flung in your face. Death rides a merry-go-round, he thought, how disturbing. Once this discovery was made the picture became more of a clever display. Painted with a confident hand, that much was true, with a precision bordering on photographic, but apart from that the picture lacked soul. He narrowed his eyes and considered it. Many years in the gallery had turned Alvar into a connoisseur.

The picture was priced at eighteen thousand kroner and was likely to be sold quickly. To someone with little knowledge of art. Someone young. A man. No more than thirty-five years old. Someone it was easy to impress, someone who enjoyed gimmicks. Here I will need to highlight the painter's striking technique and the fine strokes, Alvar thought. The richness of detail, the colours. As he leaned forward again he noticed to his amazement that a few of the skulls had tiny white dots in their sockets. You had to be very close to detect them and it required a great deal of light. This was something he would need to mention to the future buyer. This painting needs a picture light above it if you are to see all the details, he would have to say. It varied from painting to painting. Some lit up all on their own, such as those by Advocat or Sitter. He went upstairs to make coffee. The merry-go-round haunted him for a few minutes; he started to think it might be an omen. After all, death had been on his mind a fair amount the last few days and now it had followed him into the gallery. But he dismissed it. No, it's only human to ponder death. They always had pictures with elements of death in them, this was merely a coincidence. Slowly he drank his coffee while he leafed through the local paper. Every now and again he looked up at the monitors.

The first customer arrived at eleven in the morning and entered briskly and purposefully. A woman of about fifty wearing a sea-green knitted coat. She smiled softly and in recognition as he came down the stairs; she had been there often, he knew her well. No, not knew, because he knew no one, but he was aware of how she behaved and this gave him a sense of calm. She was one of those mature women who were at ease with themselves and their lives, and Alvar could relax. Now she took off her gloves and looked around the gallery. Took a few steps forward and stopped.

'What a ghastly picture,' she laughed, taking in the merry-go-round. 'Who painted that?'

'An Englishman,' Alvar replied. 'His name's Wilkinson.'

He suppressed a comment to the effect that he did not like it either; it was a risk he could not afford to run, his primary purpose was to sell it, after all. But the way he saw it, it was vital that it was sold to the right buyer and this woman was not the right one. Although she might not like the picture personally she might want to give it to someone else; he always had to bear such things in mind.

'I don't like it,' she admitted. 'There's something wrong with this picture. Don't you think?'

Alvar exhaled deeply. Now he could relax and answer her question honestly.

'It doesn't come alive,' he explained. 'The painter wants to depict a jarring moment, but his expression is frozen, almost stylised. This subject should be generating a great deal of noise, but notice how silent it is.'

'But it's a picture of ghosts,' she smiled, 'they're not meant to be alive, are they?'

'No, perhaps not,' he smiled back. 'But there's something about this painter, he's missing something. The way I see it it's nothing but a clever display.'

She agreed with him, yet remained standing in front of the merry-go-round for a long time.

'Some yuppie will come along and buy it,' she stated.

'Yes, that was my thought too,' he admitted. 'Someone who likes to show off a bit.'

He looked at her politely. 'So what can I do for you today?'

'Nothing at all,' she said. 'I just wanted to pop in to see if you had anything new. Something exciting.'

'I've sold the waterfall,' he told her.

'Yes, of course, it's gone!' She spun round and stared open-mouthed. 'I'll really miss that,' she said. 'That waterfall was here for a long time.'

'Two and a half years,' he said.

'Who bought it?' she wanted to know.

'A yuppie,' Alvar smiled and they both laughed conspiratorially at this. Afterwards she wandered around for a long time visiting all three floors and Alvar left her to it. He returned to the kitchen and watched her on the monitors every now and again. She probably knew that he was doing this, but it did not bother her, she moved around confidently and calmly and gave herself plenty of time for each picture. At half past twelve he ate his three sandwiches. Up until now my life has been fine, he thought, once his hunger had started to abate. Nothing unforeseen has happened. No big surprises, no unexpected turns. Other people are struck down by all sorts of things and here I am eating my lunch without a care in the world. He thought that it would last. He was once more lost in his newspaper when he heard the bell downstairs. He raised his eyes and looked at the right-hand monitor. Something resembling a grey shadow had entered the gallery.

A grey shadow.

Alvar remained sitting staring at the monitor as he watched it slip quietly through the door. Then it stopped and stood immobile on the stone floor. A shadow, strange, blurred. He narrowed his eyes in order to get a better look and it occurred to him that it was obviously a person. A small person, he thought, as she glided towards the wall. A woman. He thought it was a woman, but could not understand why she moved so oddly, she was rigid and fluid at the same time. Something told him instantly that this was no ordinary customer. He straightened up, scratched his cheeks nervously. But the shadow did not appear to be interested in the pictures. It was supporting itself against the wall and now it stood there motionless. The seconds ticked away and she did not move. Alvar left the kitchen and went quietly down the stairs, his heart beating faster. When he reached the ground floor she came into focus. A young woman, skinny and dressed in grey clothes. She wore tight, pointy ankle boots with incredibly high heels. A grey jacket, which came down to the middle of her thighs. It had a trim of filthy, tatty fur. Her legs, too, were very thin. Her hair was blonde and matted, wisps of it hung over her cheeks and her roots were dark. Her eyes were heavily made up. Her doll-like face was pinched and pale and all he could see were these panda eyes. They were staring at him. He stopped. What was it about her eyes? Her pupils were as tiny as pinheads. And how she trembled, she was actually shaking, as she stood there slumped against the wall. Alvar had never in all his life seen anyone as cold and translucent as this young woman. He stopped some distance away and kept watching her. His heart was pounding as he tried to get a grip on the situation.

'It's bloody cold outside,' she said feebly.

He nodded automatically. At the same time it began to dawn on him what kind of creature she was. She was a drifter, there were so many of them in this town. They normally hung out around Bragernes Square where they wandered about aimlessly. But this one here had found her way to Albumsgate and the gallery.

'Just trying to warm up,' she whispered.

She seemed both lethargic and excited at the same time. Trembling and quivering, yet she spoke slowly, slurring her words, and he realised that she had to be on something, he did not know what, but she was only partly present. Her eyes were distant, they rolled and then she closed them. She leaned upright against the wall next to the merry-go-round and she had clearly forgotten all about him. Alvar did not know what to do. He saw her thin, narrow hands and the pointy ankle boots and thought that she ought to be wearing fhick-soled boots and thick woollen socks and a padded jacket and a woollen cap rather than wander around in such thin clothes, after all it was November and very cold. He saw her tiny mouth and her pretty snub nose and thought that she was in fact quite nice. And yet so incredibly ravaged. She had dark circles under her eyes, her lips were drained of colour. And she was just standing there, far away in her own world and not even aware of him. What was it Ole Krantz had told him again and again? If any drug addicts come in here, you've got to get rid of them straight away, Eide. Sometimes they come in here to shelter and you just can't trust them. Don't start talking to them, just show them the door. But she was not doing anything. She was just standing there borrowing a little of their central heating. In his head he could hear the three words he needed to say to get rid of her. Please go away. However, he was unable to open his mouth and say them. He had never ever said anything so dramatic to another human being. And as far as he was concerned she could stay there. There were no other customers in the gallery, no one who might take offence at this wretched creature.

He moved away and headed for the workshop; he could stay in there and watch her from a distance. Krantz was undoubtedly right: people like that could not be trusted. But he found it hard to imagine that she might suddenly stir, snatch a picture off the wall and then push open the door as she escaped. She doesn't even look as if she could lift a carton of milk, he thought. She was only just managing to remain upright. Suddenly he was frightened that she might collapse. He had heard that they often did that. In which case he would have to call the police. But it seemed to him to be quite ridiculous that he, a grown man, would need help to get rid of a young woman, that two broad-shouldered police officers would have to turn up to remove a girl weighing forty kilos. And even to ring a public authority would be beyond his capabilities. She looked to be less than twenty years old and her skin was transparent like delicate paper. When he had been standing in front of her, he had noticed the veins in her temples, a delicate blue-green web. At least there was real blood coursing through her body, he thought, though she looked like a zombie. Her skin was waxen. And cold. He stood in the workshop watching her through the doorway. No, she could stand there. And if a customer were to enter, he would just go over to her and politely but firmly escort her to the door. He doubted that she would resist, she seemed without a will of her own. Alvar reached for a bottle of glass polish and started polishing some graphics, which strictly speaking were in no need of being polished, but at least it gave him something to do. He kept looking at her furtively. He wanted to leave her alone. After all he was a good person. But if it had been Ole Krantz who had been working in the gallery that day she would have been turfed out instantly, Alvar was sure of that, and probably been given a piece of Ole's mind as well. There would have been swearing. Krantz was not known to be merciful. Alvar kept on polishing the pictures.

The young woman kept leaning against the wall, but suddenly she squatted down on her heels. She started blowing into her hands. Oh, dear God, how cold she is, Alvar thought, he could hardly bear to watch her. And there was the familiar nagging of his conscience again. He remembered that he had some coffee left in the coffee machine upstairs in the kitchen. Quietly he walked up the stairs and when he reached the top step he turned round and looked at her again. Some coffee. A warm mug to hold in her hands. It was a tiny gesture, it cost him nothing and after all he was a good person. He found a clean mug in the cupboard and filled it right up to the brim. He went back down the stairs. Hesitated. When he stood in front of her she looked up at him indifferently. She spotted the mug and took it without thanking him. Perhaps he had been expecting a small word of thanks, yet at the same time he understood that she had very little surplus energy for good manners. She drank the coffee greedily. He thought that she would burn her tongue. But she did not, she carried on drinking until the mug was empty. He had never seen anyone drain a mug of hot coffee so quickly. When the mug was empty she held it out to him. A big blue mug.

'Feeling better?' he asked cautiously, taking it from her. Then something strange occurred. She held on to it. One of her fingers was hooked around the handle and a strength he would not have credited her with prevented him from getting hold of it. He stood there desperately trying to snatch the mug. Her eyes fixed him with sudden lucidity and just as he was about to let go, she released the mug and he took an involuntary step backwards. This manoeuvre wrong-footed him. She put her hands, which had now been warmed up a little by the mug, on her cheeks. Her white, cold cheeks. He thought, you have to go now. You've been here a while, someone might come. But she did not go. She stayed squatting with her hands on her cheeks and Alvar stood there utterly helpless. She's almost like a child, he thought, even though she was eighteen, yes, she had to be eighteen and thus of age. An adult. But incapable of looking after herself. So why had she come? Was she homeless? He could not imagine that she might not have a room or a home somewhere, after all she was so young. Homeless people were older, at any rate he thought so.

'Thanks,' she said suddenly. He was startled, her words were so unexpected. She had thanked him after all and he felt a tiny warm spark of joy inside.

'It was nothing,' he said softly. And then after a while: 'Are you starting to warm up?'

She looked up at him again and he noticed that her make-up-smeared eyes were actually very pale. They were bluish, like thin ice.

'I'll be gone in a minute,' she said, lowering her head again. He stared down at her dark roots. He wanted to say that she was welcome to stay, but that would not be entirely true. Besides, he was feeling rather pleased with his efforts. He was not a man to turn people away, he had a heart. And this much he knew: that many businesses in the town would not even hesitate when it came to people like her. He looked at her and said: 'I've got some work I have to do.' Then he returned to the workshop. He polished more glass. He kept glancing furtively out of the door the whole time. After fifteen minutes she got up. She staggered for a while trying to find her feet. Then, as she turned round, she noticed the paintings. It was as if she had not seen them until that moment. She'll go now, he thought, and she did. She shuffled towards the door. He had never seen a young body as ravaged as hers. She was like a doll, fragile and slender as a reed. She leaned all of her forty kilos against the door and slowly forced it open. Then she was gone.

Alvar rushed out of the workshop and over to the window. From there he watched her stumble down the street on her high-heeled ankle boots. He guessed she was heading back down to Bragernes Square in search of more drugs. That was how it was for those wretched creatures, they had to have drugs all the time. As it left their bodies, the hunger for more returned. He stood there watching her for a long time. Then she turned left and disappeared at the crossing and he lost sight of her. The large room was empty once again. He returned upstairs to the kitchen and sat down, contemplating what had just passed. How would she spend the rest of her day? And night? Did she have somewhere she could sleep? Perhaps she was a vagrant who would eventually collapse somewhere, on a bed he hoped, where she would sleep a dreamless sleep. She had to have someone. Parents or brothers and sisters. He sincerely hoped that this was the case.

He tried to read his paper again, but was unable to concentrate. He kept thinking about the kohl-black eyes, and the thin fingers, frozen blue like icicles. How do such people make it through the winter, he wondered, being outside freezing like this month after month? He was able to return to a warm flat, a hot shower. A fireplace and a bed with a feather duvet. He could not get her out of his mind. People visited the gallery, they admired all his pictures, the hours ticked away.

When the working day was over and he had tidied up after himself and locked the door, he crossed Bragernes Square to look for her, he could not help himself. To his great surprise he spotted her outside the Narvesen kiosk. She was with a man and counting coins, which she held in the palm of her hand. He did not want her to recognise him, so he walked past her at a distance. He wondered what her name might be. He wondered about the man standing next to her, he was older, thirty maybe. Scruffy and dishevelled. He hoped that she was not a prostitute, but did not want to be naive either. Addictions cost money. A lot of money. Once again he went to the Cash and Carry, as always he went to the deli counter, and bought a meal for one. A heat-and-serve casserole. God only knows when that girl last had a decent meal. Alvar walked home slowly. He heated up the food and sat down by his dining table; he felt terribly privileged. Yes, he really did. He was all alone in the world, but at least he was able to take care of himself. Not everyone was. However, it did not follow that she was a bad person, that much he understood. At the same time he was a little nervous. She had unsettled him. She had clung on to the blue mug and her glance had demolished his defences.

He thought about her a great deal in the days that followed.

Not all the time, but in brief snatches he remembered her frozen body and her kohl-black eyes. The spiky, thin fingers, the pointy ankle boots. Every time the gallery bell went he would glance quickly at the monitor, but she did not return. It was not that he hoped she would come back, but he was unable to forget her ice-blue eyes. She looked like a fallen angel, he thought, with her blonde strands of hair and her frail shoulders. She had to belong to someone. Surely someone as young as her could not be all alone in the world, he refused to believe that. Every day when he left the gallery he looked out for her on Bragernes Square, but it was as if she had vanished into thin air. Other lost souls wandered restlessly around begging alongside the pigeons. From time to time they managed to get a few crumbs too, a five or a ten kroner. In the course of a long day it probably added up to one shot of relief. A miserable but simple existence, Alvar thought, with only a single aim: more drugs.

Alvar was getting ready for Christmas. He always spent Christmas on his own and he knew how to pamper himself. He bought ribs, sausages and sauerkraut. He placed poinsettias on his windowsill, he lit candles. He burned incense; he enjoyed its sweet smell. On his door he hung a wreath of the kind normally placed on graves, they were his favourite kind. He enjoyed listening to Christmas carols on the radio; he liked the lights and decorations in town. Christmas never highlighted his loneliness, he simply pampered himself with a little extra. Sometimes he bought a chocolate yule log, cut it into thin slices and placed the slices in an elegant fan shape on a plate. He also made glühwein for the customers in the gallery. Sales increased dramatically. In fact, the last two days before Christmas were usually their best days in the whole year. When people came at the last minute they parted with their money more easily. Ole Krantz had invested in some beautiful shiny wrapping paper and the small lithographs sold like hot cakes. Life's good, Alvar thought, I can't complain, I'm doing fine. I'm a very contented man.

The new year brought cold temperatures and an abundance of fireworks over the town. Even the dome of the light-bulb factory paled in comparison with the colourful visions in the night sky. He went to bed at half past midnight. A new year had begun. He did not think that it would bring any exciting changes as far as he was concerned, but on the other hand he was not looking for exciting changes. Though minor, unexpected events were not to be sniffed at.

You never could tell.