by Karin Fossum
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.
CHAPTER 8
'Hello, it's me again, sorry to disturb you. Shouldn't you be working?'
I nearly jump out of my chair. Alvar appears behind me. He leans forward and reads a few lines on my screen.
'I'm writing a letter to a good friend,' I reply tartly. 'Is that all right with you?'
He nods, a little contrite.
'Just wanted to drop by as soon as possible to say thank you,' he says politely.
I turn round and look him in the eye.
'Thank me? For what?'
'For the girl. The poor freezing girl you sent me.'
I feel a prickle of guilt and look away.
'I mean,' he says enthusiastically, 'I got the chance to do a good deed. Of course, there is no reason to make a song and dance about a mug of coffee, but afterwards I was pleased that I did what I did.'
'That's good, then,' I say and look at the screen again.
'I'm not one to start chatting to people like that,' he goes on, 'in fact, I'm quite surprised at myself. But my own circumstances became so clear to me. How lucky I really am. And as you know, if you're well off, you have a duty to do good. Don't you think so?'
'Alvar,' I make my voice firm. 'I need to finish this letter, it's important to me. It needs to be posted today and the last post is at three thirty this afternoon.'
He folds his hands and shifts from one foot to the other. 'You're starting to get a little cross, aren't you? I spot things like that straight away. But I just wanted to mention something: I've always considered it a matter of honour to be respectful. Or to have good old-fashioned manners, if you like. But the thing is that we have a relationship, you and I, and you can't expect me to just sit back and wait when it concerns my own fate; you know I'm someone who needs to be in control.'
'Yes,' I say drily, 'I've noticed that.'
'And that's why,' he carries on, 'I must admit that I was terribly upset when this girl came into the gallery.'
'Whatever for?'
He coughs nervously covering his mouth with his hand. 'Well, we've talked about relationships. For one awful moment I thought you were going to turn us into a couple.'
I give up trying to finish the letter. I fold my arms across my chest instead and study him.
'My dear Alvar,' I say in a kind voice, 'I'm well aware that you prefer men.'
I am totally unprepared for his reaction. He flushes deeply all the way from his throat and up his cheeks. He takes a step sideways to recover his balance. Then he buries his face in his hands.
'You thought I didn't know?' I ask softly.
He does not reply, he groans. Frozen in this desperate position with his hands over his face. He wants to speak, but cannot find his voice.
'Please don't be so upset,' I comfort him.
He exhales deeply and gasps. Turns away in shame.
'Do you have to tell them that?' he whispers.
'You mean, do I have to include it in the story? We can talk about it. I obviously know more about you than what I put in the book. However, we can't prevent those who meet you from speculating. Don't underestimate people. You will never be able to control their thoughts.'
Finally he straightens up, but he finds it difficult to look me in the eye.
'I'm begging you on my knees,' he stutters. 'Please, please cut that bit, it's not as if it's important.'
I ponder this. Reluctantly. 'No, I'm not going to cut it, but I can treat it with respect.'
He begins to relax a little. He breathes a sigh of relief. 'I want to put the record straight,' he says suddenly. 'I have no such feelings for Ole Krantz. Just so you know.'
I have to smile. 'I know.'
'So we understand one another,' he says, reassured. 'And please forgive all my interventions, but I'm very shy, you know that. The idea that people can read me like an open book is unbearable.'
'It's not as scary as you think,' I reply, 'people knowing who you are. Wasn't that why you jumped the queue? You jumped the queue because you wanted to be noticed.'
'I did,' he admits instantly. 'But they don't need to know everything.'
'True,' I concede. 'Of course I make choices. But readers can be very perceptive, they add to the story and complete the picture. Ultimately you're protected by the boards of the book.'
Again he looks relieved.
'Will my story be several hundred pages?'
'Oh, no,' I reply immediately, 'it will be a modest story about a modest man. As I said before. If you're looking for volume, you'll have to go elsewhere.'
He runs his hand across his head, but takes care not to disturb the comb-over, which does not move. 'In other words: you don't think I'm very important? What about the woman and her dead child? They'll get more space, won't they?'
'Perhaps. I don't know yet, I've got my hands full with you. And my head,' I add, 'and my heart.' I place my hand on my chest. He smiles bashfully and looks at the floor.
'That's almost more than I had hoped for,' he says, 'that I can truly move another person. You. It's a wonderful feeling!'
Again I have to smile.
'But I'm not funny,' he warns me. 'Don't add humour to this story, it wouldn't work.'
'I don't have a sense of humour,' I confess, 'so you have nothing to fear. I'm looking for depth and drama.'
'Drama? That sounds disconcerting. Why do you have to have so much of that?'
'Drama makes the blood run faster through your veins. When the story reaches its peak that's when I feel most alive. You could do with a shot of adrenaline, you know, it's a fantastic high and totally addictive.'
'I think I'll stick with sherry,' he replies and smiles. 'There's something else. Where did you find the girl?'
'On Bragernes Square. There were several of them, all I had to do was choose one. And the one I picked stood out. She was so skinny and pale and translucent that she appeared to be almost ethereal. Did you notice her eyes? They're like ice. Her hair is like cotton grass. Her skeleton as fragile as a bird's. I felt I could snap her in half with one hand like a twig. I was taken with her frailty. She reminds me of Royal Copenhagen china.'
'That was beautifully put,' Alvar says.
'Thank you, I do try.'
'But she should be wearing something else on her feet for this time of year. Did you see her ankle boots? I've never seen such high heels, she could barely walk in them. And those boots aren't terrible warm either, did you know that? I'm sure they're synthetic, only plastic. What do you think?'
'Mm. They're plastic.'
/> 'I mean, they must be very uncomfortable, on top of everything else. For example, she can't run in such boots, should she have to.'
'Heroin addicts don't run, Alvar, in fact they're very, very slow.'
He looks at me for a long time. 'So if something were to happen to her, she wouldn't be able to escape?'
I do not reply. I look at the screen again and my half-finished letter. I rest my chin in my hands.
'You've suddenly gone very quiet,' Alvar says. 'I'm convinced that you've thought of something, that you've just had an idea of what's going to happen.'
'That's correct. And I can't tell you what it is, I'm sure you understand.'
I look at him, he is twisting his fingers. There's something very virginal about him. A man of forty-two with his innocence intact. A man who has hidden himself away his whole life. It feels as if I'm about to throw him to the wolves. His unease is totally justified, he senses that something is about to happen. I force myself to be tough and push ahead with my plan even though I know I will cause him a great deal of pain.
'What are you thinking about?'
He looks directly at me.
'I'm thinking of everything we humans have to suffer. Restless hours filled with anxiety and distress. Sleepless nights, pain. I'm thinking of the bravery dormant in us all. How we grit our teeth and carry on. Some go with God. And those of us who don't have that option, those of us who don't lift our heads towards heaven, we walk on all the same with our heads bowed, right until our own end.'
'I can visualise what you've just said,' Alvar says. 'It's a powerful image. If I were a painter that is the very subject I would have chosen. Two people going to their deaths, one with and one without God.'
'Have you ever dreamt of being a painter?' I want to know.
'Oh, no, not ever, I don't have the talent. I'm perfectly happy just admiring the work of others. Whenever I stand in front of a painting, I can always find the words. Then I'm able, despite my shyness, to have long, in-depth conversations with another human being. However, when I'm outside on the street and someone stops me to ask directions, then I'm helpless.'
'Because there isn't a painting between you?'
'That's right. Of course, I give them a reply, but only a very brief one, and then I hurry on as quickly as I can. But in the gallery I can stand in front of a painting and talk for an hour.'
'You're an enigma,' I smile.
'Perhaps I'll surprise you along the way,' he says, looking terribly pleased with himself.
No, Alvar my dear, I think to myself, you're the one who is going to be surprised.
I turn my back on him so I can finish my letter. He stands behind me for a few minutes; I sense his presence like a shadow and I find it hard to concentrate.
'Do you ever dream about me at night?' he asks out of the blue. I sigh deeply, save the last sentence and turn round again with resignation.
'No, never. I dream vividly every single night, but I have never dreamt of you.'
He looks disappointed.
'May I ask you what you dreamt about last night?' he asks cautiously. 'I mean, if you don't think I'm being too forward?'
I lean back in my chair. I recall last night's events and the very unpleasant dream which still haunts me.
'I dreamt I was living in a city with narrow streets,' I tell him. 'I was drifting around this city; I had no mission, no purpose. Everyone was busy doing their own thing, but I wandered through the day with nothing to do. Then an important delegation came to the city, five grave-looking men dressed in black. They walked in procession through the streets carrying their heavy suitcases. One of the men was carrying a small bundle, but I couldn't see what was in it. They soon spotted me. They stopped and looked at me solemnly.
' "We have an important task for you," the man with the bundle announced. "We're here for five days, we have something very important to discuss and during those five days you must take care of this." He passed me the bundle, which was wrapped in a piece of filthy cloth. I unwrapped it and inside I discovered a baby.'
Alvar listens attentively, never taking his grey eyes off me.
'It wasn't a normal baby,' I say, 'it was the tiniest baby I'd ever seen. Three pounds at most and stark naked. Baffled, I looked at the child and the man fixed me with his eyes, then he said in a stern voice, "This is your responsibility. We will come back to collect it in five days." Then they left with their suitcases, they disappeared into the town hall and I lost sight of them. I was left standing on the cobbled street with the baby in my arms. And it wasn't just any baby, Alvar, it was slippery and smooth like a bar of soap and it immediately started to squirm, you know, like a cat struggles when it no longer wants to be held. I tried to tighten my grip on it, but despite my best efforts, it slipped from my hands and hit the cobbled street head first. I felt a sudden attack of dizziness as if I was about to pass out. Strange gurgling sounds were coming from the child's mouth, and its head on its fragile neck looked sickeningly as if it was loose. I felt nauseous with fear when I bent down to lift it up. But it was alive. It had shrunk a little, but I could see from its tiny chest that it was breathing. I started walking to a small hideaway with a simple bed and a blanket. I went inside still holding the baby and quickly lay down on the bed. There I felt safe in the knowledge that nothing would happen. We lay there until the next day. From time to time the baby made sucking noises and I realised that it needed food. I got out of bed. Very carefully I held the naked baby and went over to a bench where I had access to fresh water. I found a cup, filled it halfway and tried to pour the water into its tiny, tiny mouth; it didn't go very well. The baby began to squirm and wriggle again and in an unguarded moment it hit the ground for the second time. I heard its tiny skull smack against the floorboards. My heart skipped a beat. There was no doubt that the child had been injured, and it was as if its neck had been stretched into a long thin thread; its head was barely connected to its frail shoulders.'
I look at Alvar; he returns my gaze breathlessly.
'Again I lay down on my bed. But I understood that you can't spend your whole life in bed, you have to get up and face the world and thus risk exposing yourself and those you love. So I went out into the streets clutching the baby, pressing against the walls, looking left and right. Again the baby started to squirm, again it hit the cobbles, and when I lifted it up I thought it was dead. But I detected a weak pulse, and its head was still hanging by that thin thread that its neck had become. I crossed the square, ashamed because I had failed this simple task entrusted to me. Another four days passed and I knew that the important delegation would soon come out of the town hall to collect the child. I stared at it and could see that it had shrunk a great deal. For the fourth time I dropped the baby and I felt that hope was fading. Finally I slumped against a stone wall, leaned my head against it, clung on to the child, closed my eyes and just wanted the time to pass. And it passed, and the delegation came walking down the street with their black suitcases. I felt relieved that everything would be over soon and I could hand back the uncontrollable baby that kept squirming. They stopped a metre away from me, formed a semicircle and watched me with their black eyes.