Karin Fossum - Broken

I look over my shoulder at him. His voice is falsetto.

'I'm not in the habit of chatting to people like that, volunteering personal information, I don't think it's appropriate and I certainly don't want total strangers to know. And I have never been dissatisfied with my appearance, that visit to the hairdresser's was entirely out of character. I've ended up looking like a fifty-year-old.'

He is genuinely upset. His newly shaven cheeks are flushed.

I tilt my head and look at him.

'Calm down. You look good. Trust me.'

He runs his hand over his naked scalp.

'Why did you reintroduce her?' he asks. 'I had almost forgotten about her, I was waiting for something else to happen.'

'It's not easy to change track once I've made a decision,' I reply. 'Let's wait and see where it takes us. There's no point in worrying about something that hasn't happened yet.'

'But,' he objects, 'so much is happening at the same time. You've created a longing in me that I never knew existed. That severed bridge won't leave me alone, I can't relax. If I buy the painting I spend all of my savings. That in itself is a huge risk and I never splash out. If I don't buy the painting I have to live with the loss of it. That awful feeling when the painting goes to another.'

'In other words, you're being forced to make a decision,' I reply drily. 'And you have to make it quickly.'

He collapses uninvited into a chair and folds his hands.

'Why are you putting all this pressure on me? Does it all have to happen so quickly? It unsettles me.'

I look at him across the desk.

'Well, that's how it's turning out. This is a short narrative, I don't have many pages at my disposal'

'Not many pages? But why not? Surely that's up to you. Whether you want to write a hundred and fifty pages or six hundred?'

'No, it's not up to me. And I realised that as soon as I began. You're a modest man, this will be a modest tale.'

The thought of this depresses him.

'I am, in other words, not terribly important?'

I sigh heavily.'Of course you're important. And surely you're not saying that a short life is less important than a long one? The real question is: does anyone see us while we are here on earth? I see you clearly. I'm showing you to others. But it would seem that you're still not satisfied?'

He blushes once again. Strokes his forehead with a trembling hand. 'I'm sorry, but I'm still worried. People will be able to judge me. My actions and my values. It's a frightening thought. Dear God, what will they think, what will they say?'

'Some might take you to their hearts,' I reply, 'others will pass by unmoved. That's how life is. The point is that you have to give them a chance. If you want to be seen, you have to put yourself out there, it's that simple.'

'But why does it have to be through a drug addict?'

I light a cigarette, I inhale. Get up and let the cat in, he has been scratching at the back door.

'That's just how it's turning out.'

He shakes his head. 'Your replies confuse me. It's as if you have no will of your own. You could have chosen someone different. You must have had a reason. Consciously or subconsciously. Can't you outline the plot so that I can relax?'

'No, not really,' I reply frankly. 'However, I needed a conflict. Your relationship with Ole Krantz is clear, there is nothing for me to explore. I needed a contrast. Someone who lives their life in a completely different way from you. The door to the gallery opened and there she was. I could see her very clearly. For the time being I am watching you from a distance waiting to see what will happen. And to be honest, I like being surprised. Perhaps I'll end up in a different place from where I originally intended. Perhaps you'll do better than I fear at the moment. You've had your hair cut,' I say to him, 'and I see how much you fret about this one spontaneous act. But changing your hairstyle does not make for very interesting reading. Anyway, it really suits you. More manly, somehow. And exchanging a few words with a stranger shouldn't exactly knock you sideways. Most people are well intentioned towards you. Let yourself go a little, Alvar, and see what happens.'

'So you're saying I should buy the painting?'

'That's not what I'm saying, I've merely offered you the chance. Now don't force me to analyse it too deeply, I need to be flying free in order to write.'

'There are times,' he objects feebly, 'when I wish I had called on someone else. On a writer with a better overview, more control.'

'Well, we've already discussed that,' I say. 'But as it happens you're here with me.'

He relaxes his shoulders. Gives me a sidelong glance.

'I guess I'm a complete nuisance,' he says. 'I suppose I ought to be pleased about what you've done so far rather than throw a spanner in the works. That was never my intention. That really was not what I meant. That was not what I meant at all.'

'You're not a spanner in the works. We're a team now, you and I, it's called letting things happen. You have no experience of that and that's why you're feeling afraid. So am I, I live with it every day. But my heart is still beating, as is my pulse, the minutes pass one by one. The sun will come up tomorrow, I'm absolutely certain of that. I really do pity mankind,' I say, 'we don't have the ability to live in the moment. Soon other things will happen, difficult things, they will happen tonight or next week. And even though we're not there yet, our thoughts race ahead like horses through an open gate. In other words, only genuine contemplation can stop this clock inside us ticking and ticking towards our death. A painting, a piece of music, an engrossing book, a chat to a good friend. Bad things will always happen, but they are not going to happen today. Because today the sun is shining and we get out of bed. We put our feet on the floor and breathe. There is actually a good deal of courage in you, Alvar, I'm absolutely convinced of that. But, of course, I'm worried that you've chosen to isolate yourself. If something goes wrong, you've got no one to turn to. Do you ever think about that? Do you understand what that means?'

His eyes become distant, they seek out the window.

'I've been thinking a great deal about dying,' he admits. 'Who will arrange my funeral, will anyone mourn me? Who'll clear out my flat, what will happen to my furniture and all my other belongings? But then again I'm only forty-two. And all sorts of things might happen before I grow old. I hope that time will take care of it for me.'

'It won't,' I say gravely. 'If you want things to change, you have to change them yourself. I'm with you all the way, but I rely on you grabbing the opportunities I give you. Otherwise we're never going to get anywhere. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?'

He gets up and goes over to the window. He stares out across the Lier Valley.

'You authors are a funny lot,' he says with his back to me.

'No, we're like most people. We work hard, we have a profession. We have office hours, we toil.'

'I can see all the way to Fjell,' he says over by the window.

'Yes, you can.'

'And all the greenhouses. They glow like gold bullion in the dark.'

'It's pretty, don't you think?'

'Does all this beauty inspire you?'

'No.'

He turns round. 'Really?'

'I would have preferred a cell in a basement.'

'You're not serious?'

'Yes. A single solitary source of light. No windows. A spartan room. Where no external influences can penetrate my mind. In spring, living as I do here, it's unbearable, with the pretty valley in front of the house and the woods right behind it.'

'What's wrong with the woods?'

'The birds just won't shut up! Doves cooing, cuckoos singing, and the woodpeckers, they drive me crazy. But I do like the cows when they start to low at five in the morning. You know, Alvar,' I explain, 'for human beings to be in balance, their external landscape must match their internal one. That's why I like fog. Darkness and storms. Northern lights, a full moon. Shooting stars. Heavy, persistent rain, leaves falling.'