Karin Fossum: Broken

'What are you waiting for?' I ask. My voice is back to normal, I might be about to die, but then I have always been aware of that.

Yet again he changes his position in the chair, he crosses one leg over the other having first hitched up the fabric to prevent creases. This manoeuvre seems calming, this is how an educated man behaves, I think, I am still panting, my body's need for oxygen is constantly increasing.

'I'm waiting for my story to be told.'

I fall back into my bed. For several long seconds I lie there feeling my heartbeat return to normal.

'Turn on the light,' I ask him softly.

He does not reply, does not stir, his body is still in the chair. So I raise myself up on my elbow and turn on the light. I stay in this position watching him in amazement. He sits with his hands folded. The light causes him to blink fearfully, his grey eyes avoid looking at me.

'You've jumped the queue,' I say.

He bows his head in shame. Nods his heavy head.

'I recognise you,' I say. 'You're second. There is a woman with a baby in front of you.'

'I know!' he groans, his face contorting with pain. 'There's always someone ahead of me, I'm used to that. But I can't bear it any longer, I'm exhausted. You have to tell my story now, you have to start this morning!'

I sit upright and smooth my duvet. I lean against the headboard. The cat jumps up and listens, his ears perked up, he does not know how to react either.

'You're asking me to make you a promise,' I say, 'I can't. The woman has been waiting too, she has been waiting for many years and she is deeply unhappy.'

He rocks restlessly in the chair. Moves his hands to dust off something from the knees of his trousers, then his fingers rush to the knot of his tie, which is immaculate.

'Everyone is unhappy,' he replies. 'Besides, you can't measure unhappiness, the pain is equally great in all of us. I have come forward to ask for something, to save my own soul. I'm using the last of my strength and it has cost me a great deal.' And then in a thin voice: 'Should that not be rewarded?'

I give him a look of resignation; I'm filled with conflicting emotions. I'm not a naturally commanding person, but I try to be firm.

'If you have been waiting that long,' I say, 'you can wait another year. The woman with the baby will be done in twelve months.'

He is silent for a long time. When he finally speaks, his deep voice is trembling.

'This assumes that you live that long,' he says eventually. His voice is very meek, he does not look me in the eyes.

'What do you mean?' I ask, shocked.

'I mean,' he says anxiously, 'you might die. Then I'll have no story, I'll have no life.'

The thought that I might die soon does not upset me, I live with it daily and every morning I'm amazed that I'm still alive. That my heart beats, that the sun still rises.

'But then that applies to all of you,' I reply in a tired voice. 'I can't save everyone. Have you seen the old man behind you in the queue? He is way past eighty. He is valuable to me. The very old know more than most people, I want to hear what he has to say.'

He gives a heavy, prolonged sigh. Glances at me, a sudden touch of defiance in his grey eyes.

'But I've summoned the courage,' he says, 'I've come all the way to your bedroom, I've taken action. I'm begging you! And I want you to know something; this is terribly difficult for me. It goes against my nature, because I'm a very humble man.'

I watch him more closely now. His eyes are downcast once again, his face tormented. His hair is thinning and a little too long, it sticks out inelegantly at the back, he is wearing a slate-grey shirt, a black narrow tie and a black jacket. Grey trousers, black well-polished shoes with even laces. He is very clean and neatly groomed, but old-fashioned-looking, a man from another age.

'A very humble man,' he repeats.

I exhale; my breath turns into a sigh.

'I'm completely awake now,' I say. 'I won't get any sleep tonight.'

Suddenly he cheers up. The pitch of his voice rises.

'Well,' he says excitedly, 'if you make the decision now that you will get up in the morning and start my story, then you will be able to sleep, I'm certain of that. You need structure and I can give you that.'

'And what about the woman with the child?' I ask. 'She's first in the queue, you know, and has been for a long time. It's extremely hard to pass people over, I can't handle that.'

At that he looks me straight in the eye. It comes at a price, his breathing quickens.

'I think it is too late for her anyway,' he says quietly.

I reach for the cat, draw him to me, hold him tight.

'What do you mean, too late?'

He nods his heavy head.

'I think the child is dead.'

I shake my head in disbelief.

'Why do you say that? Have you spoken with her?'

Once again he brushes his trousers, I imagine it is a kind of reflex, which he cannot suppress.

'You write crime novels, don't you?' he mumbles. 'So the child will have to die. Her story is about the child's fate, about what happened to it. Did she find her child dead? Did she kill it herself? Was the child killed by its father, was it ill? Things like that. She would get picked by someone else anyway. Whereas I'm not interesting like her, no one else would pick me. Do you see?'

His voice is timid and pleading.

'You're wrong,' I state.

'No, I'm not. Please don't tell me that I have to go outside again, please don't ask me to go back to that wretched queue!'

His voice falters.

'I know lots of people who would pick you if you came their way,' I say, 'greater writers than me.'

'But this is where I've come,' he says, hurt.

'Why?'

'Why?' He shrugs. 'You must have summoned me, I was driven here, it's already been three years. For three long years I've been waiting under the porch light.'

'I never summon anyone,' I say in a firm voice. 'I haven't invited you. Suddenly you appeared as number two in the queue. And yes, I've known you were there for a long time, I've seen you very clearly, but there needs to be some sort of system, otherwise I lose control.'

The cat has curled up once more in my lap and is purring unperturbed.

'What's the cat's name?' he asks suddenly.

'Gandalf,' I reply. 'Gandalf, after Tolkien's wizard.'

'And what about me?' he goes on. 'Give me a name too, please, if nothing else.'

'What if I have a cruel fate in mind for you?' I ask him. 'Painful, difficult? Filled with shame and despair?'

He juts out his chin. 'I thought we might have a little chat about that. And agree the bigger picture.'

I narrow my eyes and give him a dubious look.

'So you're going to interfere too?' I shake my head. 'That's not going to happen, I'm very sorry, but I'm in charge here. No fictitious character ever stands by my bed telling me what to do. That's not how it works.'

'All the same,' he pleads, 'hasn't it occurred to you that I might make your job easier?'

'How?' I reply sceptically.

'There will be two of us making the decisions. If you get stuck I can tell you what I would like to happen; don't push me away, think about it, please.'

'I never get stuck,' I declare. 'I need to sleep now, it's night-time and I need to get up early.'

'A name, please!' he begs. 'Is that too much to ask?'

'Right, I'll name you,' I say, 'and before I know it, you'll want something else. A profession. Somewhere to live. A girlfriend.'

'No girlfriend,' he says quickly.

'Really? Why not?'

He becomes evasive once more. He falters. 'I don't need one, let's keep it simple.'

'So you're already interfering?'

Suddenly he looks wretched. 'I'm sorry, so sorry, I didn't mean to, but I'm scared! If you die soon, I will be lost for eternity.'

'I'm not going to die,' I comfort him.