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that they were casing the place, planning a raid. This thought sent a chill down his spine. However, nothing serious had ever happened during the time he had been working there, and he always felt safe and contented.
    Every day he spent some of his time framing pictures. Not the major paintings, not the ones by Knut Rumohr or Nerdrum—Ole Krantz dealt with those, as he was a trained frame maker—but other things, smaller items. He cut the glass and the passe-partout, he brushed dust and grit off the surface of the painting, he cut lists and joined them with tags, he made the fixings. There were small lithographs that sold for a thousand kroner, or paintings that people had handed in for framing. Drawings or photos, or something they had bought on their holidays abroad. It was pleasant work and he felt at ease in the framing workshop, which was at the back of the gallery on the ground floor. It smelled of wood, cardboard, and glue. He had a radio in there, which was always tuned to P., the arts channel.
    By now the coffee had filtered through and Alvar poured himself a cup. Ole Krantz had spared no expense when it came to the kitchen: it was equipped with a fridge, a dishwasher, and a microwave. In the fridge were several bottles of sparkling white wine; whenever he made a good sale Krantz was in the habit of opening a bottle so he and the customer could toast the painting. Alvar never did that.
Partly because he was shy. One glass of wine could lead him astray. Also, he would rather that the customer left with the painting, went home, hung it on his wall, and then had a glass of something to savor the moment and his own excellent choice, his own good taste. That was how he thought it ought to be. Alvar could tell immediately if Ole Krantz had sold a valuable painting on one of his Saturdays because there would be two wineglasses standing on the worktop.
    Alvar drank his coffee and kept an eye on the monitors. The big building was very quiet; there was not a sound to be heard, only his own slurping as he drank the strong coffee. This wasn’t a place people flocked to. Sometimes one hour, two hours passed between customers. Then he would sit and ponder—ponder life and himself—and at regular intervals he would take a walk through the building. He would start on the second floor, which housed all the foreign art—names unknown to most people, but the paintings were of a high quality. Prints were on the first floor, some of them French, but mainly good Norwegian prints. The Norwegian paintings were lined up on the ground floor; most were oils, but every now and again an artist would experiment with acrylics, which created a rather bold and vivid impression. There was something about acrylics: they commanded your attention more than oils did, Alvar thought, shuffling from picture to picture, his hands folded behind his back. He had a personal relationship with each and every one of these paintings: he made sure to develop that as soon as they arrived at the gallery. So when a customer’s attention was caught by a painting, a Rumohr for example, he could find the right words instantly. Words that would guide the customer inside the painting, help the customer understand and respect the work. If she asked whether it would increase in value, he deftly avoided the question by asking, What is important to you? Why don’t you simply buy the painting because you like it, because it gives you something unique? Why don’t you simply buy the painting because you think it was meant for you?
    He knew that Ole Krantz appreciated him and his contribution; he knew that his job was secure. A better person could not replace him; he was absolutely convinced of that. Pleased at the thought of this, he went down to the workshop to check out what was lying on the worktop, waiting to be framed. A photo of giggling, chubby toddlers. Their father had taken the photo; he regarded the result as particularly successful and had decided to have it