in any way, surely? Baffled, he went looking for a bottle of turpentine. It was easy to remove the paint from his finger. He stared at the painting once more. Look, there was the Danilo with his own thumbprint. Someone would buy that painting and hang it in his living room, but he would never know about this print, Alvar Eide’s secret signature. He began cutting glass, cardboard; he sawed lists. He tagged and he glued. He hummed to himself, but he was disturbed. It was only a sudden impulse, he thought, trying to reassure himself and calm his pounding heart.
Nothing to fret about.
Chapter 5
I T WAS FIVE in the afternoon when Alvar left the gallery.
First he checked in the mirror to make sure his hair was in place. He put the plate and his mug in the dishwasher; he checked that every room was clear of customers. He locked the door and activated the alarm. He took the first right and wandered down toward Albumsgate, came out at Bragernes Square, and strode purposefully across the large open space. Pigeons were sneaking around hunting for crumbs. He noticed the old man who always sat on a bench with a bag of stale bread, leaning forward, his hands trembling, and a confusion of birds between his legs. He saw several of the town’s homeless people stagger around, their eyes vacant. The sight of them made him feel despondent; they were so pathetic and shabby, and every single one of them pricked his conscience. He sneaked past them while averting his eyes, turned in to the pedestrian area, and headed for the Cash and Carry; he wanted to get himself something quick and easy for dinner. Something simple, something from the deli counter he could reheat in his microwave. The store was big—he preferred the smaller shops, but they didn’t have a deli counter like the Cash and Carry’s.
He took a number and stood in line patiently and quietly. When it was finally his turn, he hesitated. Stew, lasagna, or casserole? He opted for the lasagna—he knew it was good. He bought a large piece and had it wrapped in foil before moving on with his basket. He found a bag of ground coffee and a half-liter of milk. That was everything he needed, the modest shopping basket of a bachelor. He went to the checkout and joined another line. And it was while he was waiting that he started to look at the shopping carts around him. People shopped to excess—the carts were loaded. He looked at his own purchases and recognized how sad they looked, how surely anyone would guess that he lived alone. That no one was waiting for him, that his flat was empty. He did not mind living on his own, but right now he minded that it was so obvious to other people. That man over there, they might be thinking, he’s never found someone, there’s probably something wrong with him, a loner, an outsider.
Finally it was his turn to be served and he placed his modest purchases on the belt, paid, and left the shop. He turned left, passed the light bulb factory, and began the long, slow ascent to his home. The Green family in the ground-floor flat had two teenage children, a boy and a girl. He would sometimes see them in the morning on their way to school. They were both laden down with heavy rucksacks as they walked out through the gate, and every time he saw them it struck him that it was hard to tell them apart. They wore the same type of clothing and were exactly the same height. Perhaps they’re twins, it suddenly occurred to him—he had never thought of that before.
He walked calmly and contentedly up the hill and arrived at the front garden. Let himself in and carefully hung up his coat in the hall. He went into the kitchen. He unwrapped the lasagna and put it in the microwave, then he laid the table in the living room for dinner. He placed the newspaper he had just bought next to his plate and poured water into a jug. Three minutes later the microwave emitted a ping and he burned his fingers as he lifted out his plate. He ate extremely slowly, alternating
Nothing to fret about.
Chapter 5
I T WAS FIVE in the afternoon when Alvar left the gallery.
First he checked in the mirror to make sure his hair was in place. He put the plate and his mug in the dishwasher; he checked that every room was clear of customers. He locked the door and activated the alarm. He took the first right and wandered down toward Albumsgate, came out at Bragernes Square, and strode purposefully across the large open space. Pigeons were sneaking around hunting for crumbs. He noticed the old man who always sat on a bench with a bag of stale bread, leaning forward, his hands trembling, and a confusion of birds between his legs. He saw several of the town’s homeless people stagger around, their eyes vacant. The sight of them made him feel despondent; they were so pathetic and shabby, and every single one of them pricked his conscience. He sneaked past them while averting his eyes, turned in to the pedestrian area, and headed for the Cash and Carry; he wanted to get himself something quick and easy for dinner. Something simple, something from the deli counter he could reheat in his microwave. The store was big—he preferred the smaller shops, but they didn’t have a deli counter like the Cash and Carry’s.
He took a number and stood in line patiently and quietly. When it was finally his turn, he hesitated. Stew, lasagna, or casserole? He opted for the lasagna—he knew it was good. He bought a large piece and had it wrapped in foil before moving on with his basket. He found a bag of ground coffee and a half-liter of milk. That was everything he needed, the modest shopping basket of a bachelor. He went to the checkout and joined another line. And it was while he was waiting that he started to look at the shopping carts around him. People shopped to excess—the carts were loaded. He looked at his own purchases and recognized how sad they looked, how surely anyone would guess that he lived alone. That no one was waiting for him, that his flat was empty. He did not mind living on his own, but right now he minded that it was so obvious to other people. That man over there, they might be thinking, he’s never found someone, there’s probably something wrong with him, a loner, an outsider.
Finally it was his turn to be served and he placed his modest purchases on the belt, paid, and left the shop. He turned left, passed the light bulb factory, and began the long, slow ascent to his home. The Green family in the ground-floor flat had two teenage children, a boy and a girl. He would sometimes see them in the morning on their way to school. They were both laden down with heavy rucksacks as they walked out through the gate, and every time he saw them it struck him that it was hard to tell them apart. They wore the same type of clothing and were exactly the same height. Perhaps they’re twins, it suddenly occurred to him—he had never thought of that before.
He walked calmly and contentedly up the hill and arrived at the front garden. Let himself in and carefully hung up his coat in the hall. He went into the kitchen. He unwrapped the lasagna and put it in the microwave, then he laid the table in the living room for dinner. He placed the newspaper he had just bought next to his plate and poured water into a jug. Three minutes later the microwave emitted a ping and he burned his fingers as he lifted out his plate. He ate extremely slowly, alternating
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