Broken

'The thing is, I'm worried,' he says. 'I'm forty-two years old and I am starting to question my own worth. My goodness, which I have always taken for granted. And pardon me for mentioning this, but from what you've written so far it's starting to look suspiciously like a midlife crisis.'

I stop what I am doing and my eyes widen.

'Surely I'm not destined for that kind of story?' he asks nervously. Then he smiles apologetically and lowers his head.

I lean back and fold my arms across my chest.

'If this is going to work at all, we have to trust each other,' I say. 'Last night you said that you would accept whatever fate you were given. Do you stand by that?'

Alvar is embarrassed, but he nods. I look at his folded hands, they lie like a knot in his lap.

'Why do you always sit with your hands folded?' I ask him out of curiosity.

'I can't put them in my pockets,' he says quickly, 'it ruins the cut of my trousers, my mother taught me that.'

I nod and I understand. I remove the wedges of cheese from the frying pan and slide them onto my plate, arrange the cranberry sauce next to them and carry everything into the dining room. Alvar follows me softly. He pulls out a chair.

'You will go back to work when you've finished eating, won't you? There's still much of the day left.'

I rest my chin in my hands. 'Would you kindly let me eat in peace?'

He falls silent. His grey eyes flicker around the room, he looks at the pictures on my walls.

'Death,' he says all of a sudden. 'You have a picture of Death on your wall.'

I nod and spear a slice of cheese with my fork.

'Why is that?'

'He's an old friend.'

He shakes his head at this. Gives me an uncertain look. 'What's that supposed to mean? An old friend?'

I cut a piece off the melted cheese and dip it in the cranberry sauce.

'Well, how can I put it? He feels familiar, like an old, faithful friend. When I can't manage any more, he comes and takes me away. Maybe he'll put me on his lap, just like the picture.'

'It's a drawing by Käthe Kollwitz,' Alvar says. 'Death with a Maiden on his Lap.'

'That's right. It's beautiful. Look how gentle he is, see how delicately she rests against his chest. Sometimes when I work, Death comes into my room. He places a hand on my shoulder.'

'That would chill me to the bones,' Alvar says. 'Doesn't it frighten you?'

'No. It's more like a gentle caress. Not now, I tell him calmly, not now, I'm in the middle of a book and I have to finish it.'

'There's never a good time for dying,' Alvar says. 'We know that we all have to and it's a fate we carry with dignity as long as it doesn't happen today. Or tomorrow, because there are a few things we were hoping to do.'

'That's how it is,' I reply. 'However, I prefer to maintain a degree of contact with Death. It's an exit, which is always open. At night I play a game. I go to bed and feel my sleeping pill wash over me like a wave. Suddenly I'm on a beach and a man dressed in black comes rowing. I stand completely still waiting while he moors the boat. The water ripples over the stones, the old woodwork creaks.'

'Do you get in?' Alvar asks me earnestly.

'Yes, I do. The water is like a mirror. Death turns the boat round and rows with steady strokes, he knows where we are going, he knows these waters and he is confident.'

'Is it night and is it dark?' Alvar wants to know.

'No,' I say. 'It's twilight. And Death rows until we have reached the middle of the fjord; then he places the oars at the bottom of the boat and looks at me firmly. "Tomorrow is another day," he says. "Do you want it?" I think about this for a long time. I have been in this world for over fifty years; I suppose I can manage one more day. So he turns the boat round and rows me back, and I disembark. Back on dry land for a new day, which was never a certainty. Because every night I have to choose.'

Alvar is silent for a long time. Again he looks at the paintings on my wall.

'You also have a Lena Cronquist,' he enthuses, pointing to a painting above the television.

'I do. Do you know her?'

'Of course. I pride myself on being well informed when it comes to modern art.'

I eat more cheese, it tastes delicious. And while I eat, my thoughts are drifting. What do we people have in common? I wonder. Well, we're born. Not because we want to be, but because someone else wanted it. We grow up and we don't know where we're going or what we'll get. We think we can make our own decisions, that we can plan things. And so we can to a certain extent, but fate can be very capricious. A late-running bus can change a whole life, it can steer us towards another fate. We stumble on the kerb, someone rushes to our aid, we catch someone's eyes for a brief second and lightning strikes. A glance can lead to marriage and children, suddenly we've ended up in a totally different place from what we imagined. Alvar doesn't have much, not at the moment. A flat, a job, and a very sensitive personality. This sensitivity, I decide, watching him secretly, that will be his fate. He wants to be a good person; however, we don't live in a world where good people are rewarded, but he doesn't know that.

Alvar follows each mouthful with his eyes. I finish eating and clear up after myself, then I sit down in the living room, I light a cigarette; Alvar follows me. He comes into the room hesitatingly and finds a chair for himself.

'Please don't let anything happen to Ole Krantz,' he says out of the blue. Again he looks down as if every time he says something he instantly regrets his words.

I blow a column of smoke across the coffee table, it hovers there swirling in the light from the lamp.

'I'm not allowed to let anything happen to Krantz?'

'No, because he's a fine man, he doesn't deserve it.'

'My dear Alvar,' I say in a patronising voice, 'there can be no dramatic tension if I'm not allowed to make anything happen. I would have thought you understood that.'

Again he is embarrassed. There are red patches on his throat and his grey eyes blink.

'You're mine now,' I continue, 'you're not responsible for the other characters. I'm the one who'll be taking care of them, it's a matter of honour with me.'

'That's your twentieth cigarette today,' he points out shyly.

'So you're keeping count?'

'I don't have any bad habits like that.' He says this with pride.

'I'm sure you don't. But we all have our crosses to bear. You can die from so many things. Perish for any number of peculiar reasons.'

I flick the ash off the cigarette and stare out of the window; the azalea by the entrance sways in the wind. I can't decide what fascinates me the most. His badly concealed eagerness, his spotless character, the light in his grey eyes.

'Dear God,' he says terrified, 'are you going to let me perish?'

CHAPTER 4

The oak door opened and the bell rang out.

The bell had a fragile and wistful ring to it, which Alvar really liked. It announced that someone had arrived, someone who needed his expertise and his always impeccable service. He was sitting in the gallery's kitchen with a list of names. Krantz wanted to arrange a special exhibition in the new year, the preparations were underway, brochures would be printed and sent out to all their regular customers. Alvar looked through a pile of colourful photographs. The artist's best painting would adorn the cover together with a brief biography about his achievements so far. In this case, the artist being Knut Rumohr, these comprised fifteen large paintings, which were all outstanding. Alvar looked closely at the photos. He felt he could vouch for every single one of them and this was not always the case. Most artists were inconsistent. Rumohr, however, never disappointed and every painting was unique, there was strength and radiance in all of them. Besides, he was an unassuming man, private and polite, friendly and modest, a man after Alvar's own heart. He often visited the gallery wearing green wellies and with a sturdy sheath knife hanging from his belt. A craftsman, almost a labourer.