Broken by Karin Fossum

frame alone weighs a good deal. Please make sure that you buy the right fixings or the waterfall will land on your head.”
    He nodded and followed Alvar to pay for the painting. As he took out his card, Alvar detected the minute hesitation that occurred from time to time. However, a moment later the man seemed content once more.
    “Are you local?” Alvar asked.
    “Yes, I live out at Bragernes,” he said. “Do you want me to write down my address?”
    He found a pen and a piece of paper and wrote the address in very neat handwriting. He was a little edgy, the way people are when they have spent a considerable amount of money, or what they would regard as a considerable sum. A thirty-thousand-krone painting was still a modest sum in Alvar’s eyes; he had sold paintings worth two hundred thousand.
    “So tomorrow afternoon it is,” he said, smiling, to the younger man. “Go home and make room for the magnificent painting.”
    Oh yes, he would go home immediately and make some room. He thanked Alvar for his help and went on his way happily; he even threw a pining glance at the painting as he went out to the Audi. Alvar heard him rev up the engine. He returned to the kitchen on the first floor. He felt very pleased with himself. He had sold a huge Fritzwold and he had been honest the whole time. He immediately sank his teeth into a sandwich. He was now so hungry that his stomach was rumbling. He ate slowly as he listened to a radio program. Half the day had already gone. Life’s not too bad, he thought. I enjoy it here, I do. I haven’t achieved a great deal, but then again not everyone does. Some stick their neck out, they choose to take risks; others seek the path of least resistance. He was suddenly reminded of his parents and how they had lived their lives. It’s none of our business, his mother always said whenever anything happened. Her attitude to life was that people should take care of themselves. She did not want her life upset.
    His father had been a silent and shy man who never showed any initiative; Alvar had barely known who he was. And thus I became a decent but very defensive man, he thought, and that is fine. It makes life simple: no conflicts, no unexpected events. A little flat, perhaps, a little dull. But comfortable. In the evening I can relax with a good book, and sometimes I treat myself to a sherry. Only one, but it’s a large one. I sleep well. I have no friends, but then again no enemies either. He swallowed coffee in between mouthfuls of sandwich, and looked out his window onto the street below. A steady stream of cars was heading for the town center. Having finished his lunch, he returned to the workshop. He wanted to frame a few more pictures.
    On the wall hung a picture by Danilo. The painting was in the gallery’s workshop, as it was still drying. Krantz had been visiting the artist in his studio and had bought it instantly and brought it to the gallery to allow it to dry. Danilo was easy to sell. It was quite a charming picture, not one of his more impressive ones but nevertheless reasonably well executed, and it was priced at ten thousand. Alvar went over to the picture and stopped, legs apart. The subject was a bowl of strawberries. It had been tipped over and the red glistening berries had rolled out onto a rustic wooden table. The berries were so ripe, so juicy, that you felt like sinking your teeth into them. Alvar stood there looking at the moist, shiny surface. And then suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, he raised his right hand. He planted his thumb right in the middle of a strawberry. The paint smeared. He quickly withdrew his hand and jumped as if he had received an electric shock. What kind of behavior was this? His thumb was covered in red paint. Terrified, he moved closer. He could clearly see the lines of his thumbprint. For a moment he was paralyzed. Where had that impulse come from, and what did it mean? He was not someone who felt the need to draw attention to himself