Broken by Karin Fossum
Alvar stared at the floor.
'Those who will be judging you need to know who you are. This means that you need to make yourself vulnerable and tell them all those things, it means you've got to trust me, you must believe that I want what's best for you.'
Alvar swallowed hard. 'I've never been in the habit of talking about myself in great detail,' he said quietly.
'What are you scared of?' Lind wanted to know.
'That they'll laugh, I think. That they'll despise me. That they'll call me a pathetic loner.'
'Don't be so negative,' Lind said firmly, 'chin up! Talk about yourself, start giving people a chance. People are much better than their reputation. Now you've got the opportunity to make a new discovery.'
'Perhaps they'll reject me,' Alvar said, deeply worried.
'Perhaps they'll find you not guilty,' Lind said.
The lift door closed. The space felt intimate.
'How did it start?' Lind asked. 'When did you first meet her?'
Alvar closed his eyes and remembered. Suddenly it all became clear to him. His first, but oh-so-fateful mistake.
'It was late last November, and it was cold. She came into the gallery where I work, staggering on her high-heeled boots, and she was freezing cold. I've never in all my life seen anyone so cold. Someone had to do something,' he said. 'For once in my life I decided that it was going to be me. So,' he sighed, 'I went up to the kitchen and got her a cup of coffee.'
CHAPTER 29
A man jumped the queue.
He was second in line, but he could not wait. He came into my house, all the way to my bedroom, he demanded to be heard. I carried him for twelve months. He has been in my thoughts every single day. His despair was my despair, I have felt responsible for him every single minute. Now I am standing by my window looking out at the world, the world I forget about for long periods of time when I am preoccupied with my writing. The azalea by my front door sways in the wind. Every now and then there is a sudden and forceful gust. It looks as if the whole crown of the tree is dancing a mournful dance, it bends, it surrenders. It has been standing there for more years than I have been alive, and it will still be there the day I die. That day may not be far away, I live a hard life. One day my teeth will be grinning in my skull, while the azalea dances.
The wide Lier Valley spreads out in all its glory. I can see farms, cows out to pasture, and now and then I can hear lowing, mild, woeful complaints in the stillness. I let the cat in, he goes to the kitchen for some food. I stroke his head lightly, feel his small skull underneath his fur. It is autumn, it is dark November. This season which I love most of all, the time when everything settles down. The outer landscape matches my inner one, it is gloomy and windswept. I go over to the computer, pull out my chair and sit down, pondering in the blue light. I have left Alvar Eide in the care of Benedict Lind. He does not need me any more, he can manage the remainder of the race himself, but I have given him some tools. He has been given his own story and he needs to tell it to those who will judge him. I hope they don't judge him harshly, I certainly don't. Yet there is one more detail before we finish. I feel that it belongs in the story. I want to give Alvar a final, friendly send-off. So I make myself comfortable and type, swiftly and fluently, a last important page. Just then I hear a sound from the corridor. Cautious steps, a door creaks. Alvar enters in his usual, shy way. He stops, he folds his hands. Looks at me across the room with mild eyes.
'Why are you still writing? I thought we'd finished?'
His eyes are unusually bright. I don't comment, I don't want to embarrass him.
'Yes,' I reply, 'but I have one important thing left to do.'
'What is it?'
He is intrigued
'I thought you might be interested,' I say. 'It's the post-mortem report.'
At this he goes white as a sheet.
'I don't know if I will be able to make sense of it,' he says, embarrassed. His grey eyes start to flicker, he shrugs helplessly.
'Then let me explain.'
I continue typing, my fingers run briskly across the keyboard. Alvar waits, I can hear his breathing.
'According to the pathologist Katrine Kjelland died from a cerebral haemorrhage,' I declare.
He gives me a frightened look.
'And what does that mean?'
'Bleeding in her brain,' I reply. 'What happens is that a vein bursts. It can occur in young people and can be caused by high blood pressure, or stress. In other words, she didn't die as a result of the pills you gave her, it was not a fatal dose, but they made her fall asleep. Thus you are not to blame for the death of Katrine Kjelland.'
Alvar cries out in relief. He buries his face in his hands, his knees look as if they might buckle.
'It that possible?'
'It says so here in black and white.'
The colour starts to return to his cheeks.
'But what did I give her then?' he asks quickly.
'Morphine,' I reply. 'She was probably experiencing some sort of blissful state when her heart stopped beating. And in her last moments someone wiped her brow with a warm cloth. She died on the sofa of a good friend,' I add. 'I might not be that lucky.'
He circles the floor. He clearly wants to shout for joy, but controls himself as always.
'But I drove off with her,' he recalls, 'that's unforgivable, what will people think?'
'I've got an old copy of the Penal Code here,' I say. 'If you like I can read it out to you.'
He nods silently. He waits.
'Section three hundred and forty-one. "Anyone who unlawfully or secretively either destroys the body of a deceased person or disposes of it so that it cannot be examined appropriately, or who refuses to inform the authorities of the whereabouts of a child or other incapacitated person they have in their care or who participates in so doing will be punished by a fine or up to six months' imprisonment."'
'Six months' imprisonment?'
He turns pale again.
'Let's hope they let you off with a fine,' I say. 'Now give people a chance.'
He nods again. Looks at me kindly as if he is seeing me for the first time.
'And what about you?' he asks. 'How are you doing? You've reached the end of the road. Are you happy?'
I shake my head. 'I haven't reached the end, Alvar, the worst is yet to come.'
'What's that?' he asks quickly.
'The book needs to reach an audience. I can barely find the courage. So I'll go over it a few more times. Adding, deleting a sentence here and there. And I still have to read the proofs, that's pure torture. Is that really all I did? I think, battling hard with myself, while I plan my next book. The book where I'll finally succeed once and for all.'
'Are you saying that you're disappointed with this one?' he asks nervously.
'Well,' I say, 'I'm not ecstatic. But that's the way life is. My dissatisfaction drives me to act, to write another book.'
I look up at him. I smile.
He nods. 'Do you wish me luck?'
'That goes without saying. You're on your own now. Trust those who will be judging you. Believe that they are compassionate people who'll understand.'
'I'll do my utmost,' he says. 'I want to thank you, you've been very generous.'
'You paid a high price,' I say, 'for the events you're about to face. But friendship is never free, you have to do your share.'
'It was worth it,' he says firmly. 'Besides, I'm wiser now.'
'How about Ole Krantz?' I ask. 'Have you spoken to him?'
'Yes. Benedict helped me explain. Krantz doesn't blame me and the job in the gallery is still mine.'
'What about the severed bridge?' I ask.
He smiles. He tilts his head. 'The bridge has been sold,' he says calmly.
'Is that right?' I say, giving him a big blue-eyed look of innocence. 'How do you feel about that?'
He juts out his chin. 'I don't need the bridge any more, not for anything. Because I have finally connected with another person
He walks quietly towards the door. I know that I'll never see him again and I'm filled with a sudden surge of grief. The door will never creak again, he'll never return to the room we shared for so long. Then he is gone and it goes very quiet. I switch off my computer, get up from my chair. I stand in the empty living room, left to my own devices, to a reality which is almost unbearable. Dear God, this silence, all I can hear is my own heart and I no longer have a destiny to cling to. My hands are empty. Who can I turn to, where can I go? I walk softly over to the window. I look out at the long queue of people still waiting on my drive. The woman with the dead child is still at the front. I watch her for a while, she doesn't move. She doesn't appear to have noticed me, she seems paralysed. I go out into the corridor, I put my shoes on, I open the front door. I walk down the drive, crunching the gravel. For a while I stand underneath the porch light studying them one by one. A couple of them look up at me hopefully. Some poke at the gravel with their shoes. They stand there with all their problems, all their guilt and shame. They stand there with hope of happiness and true love. I take the last few steps towards the woman with the child. I stop in front of her and give her a kind look.
'Hello. Do you want to come inside?'
She does not reply. Her eyes are apathetic. There is no doubt that her child has died, his small face is lightly marbled, his eyes are sunken.
'What happened?' I ask, trying to get her to look me in the eye. 'Did you find your child dead?'
Still no reply. Only silence, only her vacant eyes.
'I really want to help you,' I say, 'but you need to talk. If you don't talk, I won't be able to help you. Do you understand what I'm saying?'
Karin Fossum, Broken