Karin Fossum - Broken

'Yes,' I say. 'Hand-carved. From Indonesia. I'm fond of that casket, it's important.'

'What do you keep in it? Letters?'

I shake my head. 'The casket is filled with worries.'

His eyes widen. 'What do you mean? Bills?'

His literal thinking makes me laugh.

'No, it's like I say. The casket is filled with worries, all kinds of worries. I write them down and place them in the casket and then I slam the lid shut. So they can lie there in the darkness and never materialise.'

'May I take a look?' he asks cautiously.

I shrug in resignation. 'If you want to. Even though I think worries are very personal.'

He lifts up the lid. Looks at the little heap of white scraps of paper. Picks one of them up. Reads it.

' "This novel won't be good enough. I'm going to get slaughtered."'

'Precisely,' I say earnestly. 'That's how it is. That's what I think.'

He takes another one, holds it up.

' "I probably won't grow very old."'

'That's something I've always known,' I explain. 'And I can live with that, it's fine.'

' "Alvar Eide won't make it."'

He shudders and looks at me in horror.

'There, there,' I say, 'it was just a spontaneous outburst. As I told you, I follow the current and I promise you that I will use all the literary skill I possess to save you from destruction.'

But now he is deeply worried. He slams the lid shut, goes to the window. Stares out at the azalea by the entrance.

'Not a single leaf is moving,' he says, 'even though there must be thousands of them, gossamer-thin leaves on stems as delicate as silk. Not one movement, not a tremor. Where is nature's overwhelming force?'

He turns round and looks me in the eye. 'Is it the calm before the storm, I wonder?'

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?'