Broken

by Karin Fossum

  The man had stopped in front of a painting by Reidar Fritzwold. He was looking at it closely now, his hands in his coat pockets, leaning slightly forward, eager. The painting was challenging: it depicted a roaring waterfall with chunks of ice and snow in the surrounding landscape. It was magnificent, Alvar thought, impressive and grand in every way, but it needed a lot of space. As a result it had been in the gallery for a long time. The man appeared to be in his early thirties. He had taken a few steps back and placed his hands on his hips. Now he was standing with his legs apart inspecting the painting.

  'Quite overwhelming, don't you think?' Alvar nodded, indicating the foaming water. You could almost feel the spray from the waterfall in your face. The colours were extraordinary, all shades of blue, green, turquoise, purple, yellow and white.

  'Is it by a Norwegian artist?' the man wanted to know. He filled out the light-coloured coat. He had broad shoulders, a trendy short haircut with a few blond highlights in it. Alvar nodded.

  'Norwegian born and bred,' he said. 'Name's Fritzwold. He paints landscapes. This is one of his most dramatic paintings. He usually paints mountain scenes, calm, blue paintings with a great deal of harmony.'

  'I'm buying a painting for my living room,' the man said, 'and I would like the painting to be a good investment. My point being that if it's not going to go up in value, it's of no interest.'

  Alvar moved forward very cautiously. He recognised the man's attitude and prepared for battle.

  'But you like it?' he said lightly.

  'Christ, yeah,' the man said, moving closer. 'Very, very good,' he muttered, nodding to himself. His eyes grew distant as if he had disappeared into another room and Alvar understood that he had mentally gone to his own living room where this painting might hang one day. Now he was trying to visualise it. The ice-cold torrents of water cascading down his wall.

  'There are times when it is very important to make a good investment,' Alvar said in that light, amiable voice he always used. 'However, it's terribly important that you like the painting, that it gives you something unique. Always follow your heart,' he said, 'don't intellectualise the process. Remember it's a relationship for life, it might even be passed on to the next generation.'

  'It's huge at any rate,' said the younger man, 'it's bound to create a stir.'

  Right, Alvar thought to himself. He wants attention, possibly from the guests, who would enter his living room and see the roaring waterfall, clap their hands with excitement, as they toasted their host's exquisite and dramatic taste.

  'Surely it's possible to buy with your head as well your heart,' he ventured, giving Alvar a challenging look. His eyes were blue and sharp.

  'Indeed it is,' nodded Alvar. 'But the fact is that this painting is not primarily a good investment.'

  The young man fell silent for a moment and his brows contracted while he thought hard. His eyes, however, could not bear to leave the colossal water masses on the wall.

  'So why isn't it a good investment?' he demanded to know. His voice had acquired a sulking touch, he hated that things were not going his way. He had taken a fancy to the painting now and it felt like his living room would be nothing without this work of art.

  'It will most certainly increase in value,' Alvar stated, 'but not to the same extent as other paintings. Partly because it is not an oil painting,' he continued. 'It's an aquarelle and it has been painted using an opaque technique.'

  The man was taken aback, but did not want to admit to his ignorance when it came to the visual arts.

  'I see.' He hesitated. 'I was wondering why the painting was behind glass.'

  'Plexiglass,' Alvar said. 'Regular glass would have been too heavy. And watercolours need more protection than oils.'

  'Watercolours?' He gave Alvar a confused look.

  'They're sun-resistant,' Alvar said quickly, 'but the painting ought to hang on a wall which is never exposed to direct sunlight.'

  Once again the man visualised his living room, as if to check out the light conditions.

  'A picture with glass is difficult to hang,' Alvar said calmly, 'precisely because of the glass. I'm only telling you this now so that you have all the information.'

  The man had fallen silent. He squirmed a little and seemed troubled at his own indecisiveness.

  'Why didn't he paint it in oil?' he asked as if Alvar would know.

  'Fritzwold has always worked with a range of techniques,' he explained patiently. 'Many artists do. And this is a very successful piece of work, in my opinion.'

  The waterfall continued to cascade in front of them. Suddenly the man started to walk backwards. He walked almost as far as the opposite wall.

  'You can't tell that it's not oil,' he argued, 'even from a short distance.'

  Alvar could easily tell that it was, but he did not say so.

  'I mean, it's not as if I have to tell anyone.'

  Alvar had to smile at this so he bowed his head to conceal his reaction.

  'It's a very fine painting indeed,' he said. 'Its surface is more delicate than an oil painting's, but you have nothing to fear. The waterfall will last,' he smiled, 'the waterfall has timeless appeal.'

  Once again the man walked up close to the painting. He had reached the most important point.

  'The price?' he said softly. Alvar could see he was nervous now.

  'Thirty thousand,' Alvar replied. 'Plus the usual three per cent, but I'm sure you're aware of that'

  The man breathed a sigh of relief.

  'I can afford that,' he said. 'I could actually do this.' He stood there admiring the painting a little longer. It did not lose its impact, it went on roaring, he liked the forces and the play in the torrents of water. He liked the fact that the painting was huge, almost overwhelming, as he had never seen a watercolour of this size, and in his living room the painting would almost reach the ceiling. Everyone who entered the room would instantly be met with all this force.

  'But,' he then said, 'why isn't it primarily a good investment?' He had wanted to make a good investment and he was annoyed that he couldn't have everything his way.

  'For several reasons,' Alvar said. 'It's not an oil painting and it's not a typical Fritzwold. Fritzwold's forte is calmer landscapes than the one he has painted here. In some respects this painting is an exception to his style. As though for once he wanted to go to town. Indeed, he normally paints far smaller paintings. His paintings sell quickly, but this one needs a special buyer. If you like the painting then you will form a special bond with it and thus you will have made a good emotional investment. That's valuable too.'

  The man exhaled and took a few steps back.

  'Yes,' he said. 'I'll go for it. Why the hell not?' He laughed and seemed instantly happy as if he had finally come out of the shade and ended up in the sun. 'But how am I going to get it into my car?' he wondered, looking at the parking bay outside the gallery. A dark blue Audi, the latest model, was parked there.

  'Mr Krantz, who owns the gallery, will drive it home to your house,' Alvar said. 'He has a Blazer Chevrolet and it'll take most paintings. However, I can't promise you that it'll be today. It depends on how busy he is, he does all sorts of things. If you would like I can call him and find out right now.'

  The man nodded enthusiastically even though the light in his eyes went out because now he could not wait to have the painting in all its glory up on his wall. He paced up and down restlessly while Alvar ran upstairs to telephone.

  'Krantz,' Alvar said down the receiver, 'you won't believe this, but I've sold the waterfall!'

  'Really,' said an elated Krantz down the other end, 'I have to hand it to you, Eide, I really do. Let me guess. It's a man. He's under forty. Wants to show off.'

  'Correct.'

  'Ask him if he works in advertising. Or, he might be an estate agent.'

  Alvar could not help but smile. Krantz had a good nose after all his years in the business.

  'And I'll bet he frequents some gym or other. And I'm sure he's the
type who likes to do a line of coke or two at the weekend.'

  'Is there anything else?' Alvar asked him, still smiling.

  'He prefers red wine to beer.'

  They chatted for a few minutes then Alvar went downstairs again.

  'He'll deliver it tomorrow,' he said cheerfully. 'That's not too bad, is it? After all, you'll need to make room for the painting or do you have a big empty wall just waiting to be filled?'

  'No,' the man had to smile, 'I don't,' he admitted. 'I have some old photos and other stuff that I need to take down.'

  'And you need to get a very strong hook,' Alvar said. 'It's a heavy painting; the frame alone weighs a good deal. Please make sure that you buy the right fixings or the waterfall will land on your head.'

  He nodded and followed Alvar to pay for the painting. As he took out his card, Alvar detected the minute hesitation, which occurred from time to time. However, a moment later the man seemed content once more.

  'Are you local?' Alvar asked.

  'Yes, I live out at Bragernes,' he said. 'Do you want me to write down my address?'

  He found a pen and a piece of paper and wrote the address in very neat handwriting. He was a little edgy, the way people are when they have spent a considerable amount of money, or what they would regard as a considerable sum. A thirty-thousand-krone painting was still a modest sum in Alvar's eyes, he had sold paintings worth two hundred thousand.

  'So, tomorrow afternoon it is,' he said smiling to the younger man. 'Go home and make room for the magnificent painting.'

  Oh yes, he would go home immediately and make some room. He thanked Alvar for his help, and went on his way happily; he even threw a pining glance at the painting as he went out to the Audi. Alvar heard him rev up the engine. He returned to the kitchen on the first floor. He felt very pleased with himself. He had sold a huge Fritzwold and he had been honest the whole time. He immediately sank his teeth into a sandwich. He was now so hungry that his stomach was rumbling. He ate slowly as he listened to a radio programme. Half the day had already gone. Life's not too bad, he thought, I enjoy it here, I do. I haven't achieved a great deal, but then again not everyone does. Some stick their necks out, they choose to take risks, others seek the path of least resistance. He was suddenly reminded of his parents and how they had lived their lives. It's none of our business, his mother always said, whenever anything happened. Her attitude to life was that people should take care of themselves. She did not want her life upset.

  His father had been a silent and shy man who never showed any initiative; Alvar had barely known who he was. And thus I became a decent, but very defensive man, he thought, and that is fine. It makes life simple, no conflicts, no unexpected events. A little flat, perhaps, a little dull. But comfortable. In the evening I can relax with a good book and sometimes I treat myself to a sherry. Only one, but it's a large one. I sleep well. I have no friends, but then again no enemies either. He swallowed coffee in between mouthfuls of sandwich and looked out of his window onto the street below. A steady stream of cars was heading for the town centre. Having finished his lunch, he returned to the workshop. He wanted to frame a few more pictures, he enjoyed tinkering downstairs.

  On the wall hung a picture by Danilo. The painting was in the gallery's workshop as it was still drying. Krantz had been visiting the artist in his studio, he had bought it instantly and brought it to the gallery to allow it to dry. Danilo was easy to sell. It was quite a charming picture, not one of his more impressive ones, but nevertheless, reasonably well executed and it was priced at ten thousand. Alvar went over to the picture, stopped, legs apart. The subject was a bowl of strawberries. It had been tipped over, the red glistening berries had rolled out onto a rustic wooden table. The berries were so ripe, so juicy that you felt like sinking your teeth into them. Alvar stood there looking at the moist, shiny surface. And then suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, he raised his right hand. Then he planted his thumb right in the middle of a strawberry. The paint smeared. He quickly withdrew his hand and jumped as if he had received an electric shock. What kind of behaviour was this? And his thumb covered in red paint. Terrified, he moved closer. He could clearly see the lines of his thumbprint. For a moment he was paralysed. Where had that impulse come from, and what did it mean? He was not someone who felt the need to draw attention to himself in any way, surely? Baffled, he went looking for a bottle of turpentine. It was easy to remove the paint from his finger. He stared at the painting once more. Look, there was the Danilo with his own thumbprint. Someone would buy that painting and hang it in their living room, but they would never know about this print, Alvar Eide's secret signature. He began cutting glass, cardboard, he sawed lists. He tagged and he glued. He hummed to himself, but he was disturbed. It was only a sudden impulse, he thought, trying to reassure himself and calm his pounding heart.

  Nothing to fret about.

  CHAPTER 5

  It was five in the afternoon when Alvar left the gallery.

  First he checked in the mirror to make sure his hair was in place. He put the plate and his mug in the dishwasher, he checked that every room was clear of customers. He locked the door and activated the alarm. He took the first right and wandered down towards Albumsgate, came out at Bragernes Square and strode purposefully across the large open space. Pigeons were sneaking around hunting for crumbs. He noticed the old man who always sat on a bench with a bag of stale bread, leaning forward, his hands trembling and a confusion of birds between his legs. He saw several of the town's homeless people stagger around, their eyes vacant. The sight of them made him feel despondent, they were so pathetic and shabby, every single one of them pricked his conscience. He sneaked past them averting his eyes, turned into the pedestrian area and headed for the Cash and Carry; he wanted to get himself something quick and easy for dinner. Something simple, something from the deli counter he could reheat in his microwave. The store was big, he preferred the smaller shops, but they didn't have a deli counter like the Cash and Carry.

  He took a number and queued patiently and quietly. When it was finally his turn, he hesitated. Hotpot, lasagne or casserole? He opted for the lasagne, he knew it was good. He bought a large piece and had it wrapped in foil before moving on with his basket. He found a bag of ground coffee and a half-litre of milk. That was everything he needed, the modest shopping basket of a bachelor. He went to the checkout and joined another queue. And it was while he was waiting that he started to look at the trolleys around him. People shopped to excess, the trolleys were loaded. He looked at his own purchases and felt how sad they looked, surely anyone would guess that he lived alone. That no one was waiting for him, that his flat was empty. He did not mind living on his own, but right now he minded that it was so obvious to other people. That man over there, they might be thinking, he's never found someone, there's probably something wrong with him, a loner, an outsider. Finally it was his turn to be served and he placed his modest purchases on the belt, paid and left the shop. He turned left, passed the light-bulb factory and began the long, slow ascent to his home. The Green family in the ground-floor flat had two teenage children, a boy and a girl. He would sometimes see them in the morning on their way to school. They were both laden down with heavy rucksacks as they walked out through the gate, and every time he saw them it struck him that it was hard to tell them apart. They were wearing the same type of clothing, they were exactly the same height. Perhaps they're twins, it suddenly occurred to him, he had never thought of that before.