Broken Read Online Free PDF

enlarged and now framed. He has asked for a red passe-partout, something that vexed Alvar. The way he looked at it, one should never, ever, regardless of what type of picture it was, choose anything other than an off-white passe-partout. Only the picture should speak, not its frame. The red passe-partout would sap the photo of its strength. But the customer is always right, he thought, and calmly began his work. He lifted up the sheet of glass and placed it carefully on the worktop. Found the cutting diamond and the ruler and started cutting with a steady hand. He liked the sound of the hard stone; he enjoyed snapping the off-cuts, the crispy sound like brittle caramelized sugar. He worked slowly and with concentration. But all the time parts of his mind were occupied with other things. He was alone—no colleagues disturbed him, and his thoughts freewheeled. Was he really a good person deep down? Why was it starting to haunt him like this? Selling art to people was a fine thing to do: it was honest work, he did it diligently, he did it with conviction, respect, and love. He was doing well in life. He donated to charities. He led an orderly life; he did not hurt anyone. So why had this strange feeling come over him?

Chapter 3
    I TURN OFF the computer and go into my kitchen.
    The cat follows and starts to beg; he is hoping for a prawn, perhaps, or a bowl of tuna. He pleads silently with his green eyes. I give him pellets and fresh water. I hear his sharp teeth crunch the dry feed.
    So, I think, he’s really got to me, Alvar Eide, indeed he has. I have taken off and I’m in the air. I need a bite to eat before I go back to work; I open the fridge and look inside, spot a scrap of salami, a curled-up piece of brown cheese, four eggs, a tub of mayonnaise. And a wheel of Camembert cheese. I take an egg and the Camembert from the fridge, find a bowl and a fork. Crack the egg on the rim of the bowl and whisk it forcefully. I find some stale bread in the bread bin. I crumble it on the breadboard and unwrap the Camembert. Then I hear footsteps in the hall, soft, cautious steps. Alvar enters my kitchen. He stands in the doorway with his hands folded across his stomach, watching me with meek, apologetic eyes.
    “I’m sorry to disturb you,” he says, and looks down.
    “What is it?” I ask him, surprised. I lean against the kitchen counter and look at him with curiosity.
    “Just wanted to stop by,” he says shyly.
    He spots the cheese and the egg. Chews his lip. His voice is a mere whisper. “Shouldn’t you be working?”
    I let my arms fall and give him a stern look. “You won’t even allow me to stop for lunch?” I reply. “I can’t think when I’m hungry. Don’t you understand?”
    He slumps on a kitchen chair. Dusts off the knees of his trousers even though they are immaculate.
    “Of course,” he says quickly. “I didn’t come here to make a fuss; I don’t want to cause you any trouble. Really, I don’t.”
    He looks at my food on the breadboard. The cheese, the bowl with the beaten egg, the bread crumbs.
    “Why don’t you just wolf down a sandwich? You normally do, you stand by the counter when you eat. This is going to take time. But, don’t get me wrong, I’m not telling you how to organize your day. I’m just very anxious to get started.”
    I cut two thick wedges of cheese with a sharp knife. Find a frying pan in a cupboard, put it on the stove.
    “Now calm down, Alvar,” I say. “You’re inside now. Right inside, as a matter of fact,” I say, tapping my temple. “Besides, you’re only forty-two. Think about the old man; I do.”
    I put a lump of butter on the pan and immediately it starts gliding toward the edge; the stove tilts slightly toward the wall.
    “And I do, I really do,” Alvar says. “He’s really very patient—he stands there like a post, waiting. No one in the line minds that I jumped it. You must believe me.”
    I dip the wedges of cheese in the beaten egg and coat them with