Broken by Karin Fossum Read Free Book Online

After all, weren’t there stories about aid workers who became totally caught up by all the misery they witnessed in foreign countries? They ended up consumed by despair at the world’s bloodthirsty injustice, and when they returned to Norway developed huge problems just eating a meal without feeling wracked with guilt. He did not want his life upset like that.
    He got up and decided to start work on some frames. He left the kitchen and went down to the workshop, to the little pile of small pictures. The chubby children were ready, and he thought the photo was good, but not striking. The children had round cheeks and large, soft mouths. He had never understood the appeal of children or why people became so fascinated by them. Children always made him feel anxious and awkward, and they had a habit of staring at him in a cannibalistic manner. When it came to children he felt as if they shone a spotlight directly at him and stared with large, bright eyes right into his soul. Obviously he did not believe that they had this power, but that was how they made him feel. He preferred adults, if he was forced to deal with other people. But most of all he preferred the elderly. The secretive wrinkled faces, the slow movements. Nothing unpredictable ever happened in their company. That in turn made him relaxed and calm; it meant he was in control.
    He selected another picture. It was a drawing, made by an amateur who clearly felt he had surpassed himself, given that he had asked for the drawing to be framed. The subject was a very muscular horse. And it was presumably these muscles that had inspired him to make the drawing to begin with—perhaps it was his own horse, or his daughter’s, because in the bottom left-hand corner he had written in pencil underneath his signature “Sir Elliot, 4 June 2005.” The paper had a faint yellow tint, which meant that it was good quality, and the drawing was not at all bad. However, the actual soul of the animal was lost in the formidable mass of muscles, and that was the proof that he was, in fact, not a good artist at all. Alvar cut glass and cardboard for the picture. The customer had requested a gold frame. Alvar was not a huge fan of gold frames; personally he would have chosen a narrow black or gray list for the picture. However, he always sided with the customer and would give him what he had asked for. He finished framing the drawing and returned to the kitchen. He felt like having his packed lunch now; it was half past twelve and he had not eaten since breakfast. He had three open sandwiches with slices of cold cuts and slivers of cucumber wrapped in wax paper. He made another pot of coffee and found a plate in the cupboard, placed his sandwiches on a chopping board, and halved them. Just then the downstairs bell repeated its fragile and wistful greeting. A young man entered. Alvar saw him on the left monitor:
he was wearing a fashionable light-colored coat. Once more Alvar left the kitchen and went downstairs.
    The man had stopped in front of a painting by Reidar Fritzwold. He was looking at it closely now, his hands in his coat pockets, leaning slightly forward, eager. The painting was challenging: it depicted a roaring waterfall with chunks of ice and snow in the surrounding landscape. It was magnificent, Alvar thought, impressive and grand in every way, but it needed a lot of space. As a result it had been in the gallery for a long time. The man appeared to be in his early thirties. He had taken a few steps back and placed his hands on his hips. Now he was standing with his legs apart, inspecting the painting.
    “Quite overwhelming, don’t you think?” Alvar nodded, indicating the foaming water. You could almost feel the spray from the waterfall in your face. The colors were extraordinary, all shades of blue, green, turquoise, purple, yellow, and white.
    “Is it by a Norwegian artist?” the man wanted to know. He filled out the light-colored coat. He had broad shoulders, a