Broken Read Online Free PDF Page B
Author: Karin Fossum
the bread crumbs.
“What about the woman with the child?” I ask. “What does she say?”
He bows his head. I see his chest heave.
“It was like I said. She is unable to say anything, because the baby is dead.”
I look at him and sigh. “She’s just standing there with a dead child, waiting?”
“Yes. She’s incapable of action, I presume. It upsets me, really it does. I feel it here.” He places a hand on his chest.
“So it should,” I say, putting the cheese wedges, now coated in egg and bread crumbs, in the frying pan. The butter is golden yellow and it sizzles temptingly; the smell of melting cheese begins to fill the kitchen.
“It upsets me too,” I say. “And I have thought a great deal about this. Whether it’s acceptable to anticipate events in this way.”
Slowly the wedges of cheese turn golden. I go to the fridge for cranberry sauce, then find a plate, a knife, and a fork.
“Well, I stand by my decision. But nevertheless something about it troubles me. Now take it easy, Alvar, and don’t put too much pressure on me.”
I turn the cheese over. The wedges are perfect.
“I do like my flat,” he says. “I’m very pleased about my job at the gallery. It’s almost more than I dared hope for. I could have ended up in a dirty workshop with a gang of noisy, crude men. I would not have enjoyed that.”
“If you’re so pleased,” I say, “why are you here? I think you’re too quick to interfere—I’ve only written one chapter.”
He squirms a little on the chair. I look at his black shoes—they are so shiny you can see your face in them.
“The thing is, I’m worried,” he says. “I’m forty-two years old and I am starting to question my own worth. My
goodness,
which I have always taken for granted. And pardon me for mentioning this, but from what you’ve written so far it’s starting to look suspiciously like a midlife crisis.”
I stop what I am doing and my eyes widen.
“Surely I’m not destined for that kind of story?” he asks nervously. Then he smiles apologetically and lowers his head.
I lean back and fold my arms across my chest. “If this is going to work at all, we have to trust each other,” I say. “Last night you said that you would accept whatever fate you were given. Do you stand by that?”
Alvar is embarrassed, but he nods. I look at his folded hands; they lie like a knot in his lap.
“Why do you always sit with your hands folded?” I ask him out of curiosity.
“I can’t put them in my pockets,” he says quickly. “It ruins the cut of my trousers—my mother taught me that.”
I nod and I understand. I remove the wedges of cheese from the frying pan and slide them onto my plate, arrange the cranberry sauce next to them, and carry everything into the dining room. Alvar follows me softly. He pulls out a chair.
“You will go back to work when you’ve finished eating, won’t you? There’s still much of the day left.”
I rest my chin in my hands. “Would you kindly let me eat in peace?”
He falls silent. His gray eyes flicker around the room as he looks at the pictures on my walls.
“Death,” he says all of a sudden. “You have a picture of Death on your wall.”
I nod and spear a slice of cheese with my fork.
“Why is that?”
“He’s an old friend.”
He shakes his head at this. Gives me an uncertain look. “What’s that supposed to mean? An old friend’?”
I cut a piece of the melted cheese and dip it in the cranberry sauce.
“Well, how can I put it? He feels familiar, like an old, faithful friend. When I can’t manage anymore, he comes and takes me away. Maybe he’ll put me on his lap, just like the picture.”
“It’s a drawing by Käthe Kollwitz,” Alvar says. “‘Maiden in the Lap of Death.’”
“That’s right. It’s beautiful. Look how gentle he is, see how delicately she rests against his chest. Sometimes when I work, Death comes into my room. He places a hand on my shoulder.”
“That would
“What about the woman with the child?” I ask. “What does she say?”
He bows his head. I see his chest heave.
“It was like I said. She is unable to say anything, because the baby is dead.”
I look at him and sigh. “She’s just standing there with a dead child, waiting?”
“Yes. She’s incapable of action, I presume. It upsets me, really it does. I feel it here.” He places a hand on his chest.
“So it should,” I say, putting the cheese wedges, now coated in egg and bread crumbs, in the frying pan. The butter is golden yellow and it sizzles temptingly; the smell of melting cheese begins to fill the kitchen.
“It upsets me too,” I say. “And I have thought a great deal about this. Whether it’s acceptable to anticipate events in this way.”
Slowly the wedges of cheese turn golden. I go to the fridge for cranberry sauce, then find a plate, a knife, and a fork.
“Well, I stand by my decision. But nevertheless something about it troubles me. Now take it easy, Alvar, and don’t put too much pressure on me.”
I turn the cheese over. The wedges are perfect.
“I do like my flat,” he says. “I’m very pleased about my job at the gallery. It’s almost more than I dared hope for. I could have ended up in a dirty workshop with a gang of noisy, crude men. I would not have enjoyed that.”
“If you’re so pleased,” I say, “why are you here? I think you’re too quick to interfere—I’ve only written one chapter.”
He squirms a little on the chair. I look at his black shoes—they are so shiny you can see your face in them.
“The thing is, I’m worried,” he says. “I’m forty-two years old and I am starting to question my own worth. My
goodness,
which I have always taken for granted. And pardon me for mentioning this, but from what you’ve written so far it’s starting to look suspiciously like a midlife crisis.”
I stop what I am doing and my eyes widen.
“Surely I’m not destined for that kind of story?” he asks nervously. Then he smiles apologetically and lowers his head.
I lean back and fold my arms across my chest. “If this is going to work at all, we have to trust each other,” I say. “Last night you said that you would accept whatever fate you were given. Do you stand by that?”
Alvar is embarrassed, but he nods. I look at his folded hands; they lie like a knot in his lap.
“Why do you always sit with your hands folded?” I ask him out of curiosity.
“I can’t put them in my pockets,” he says quickly. “It ruins the cut of my trousers—my mother taught me that.”
I nod and I understand. I remove the wedges of cheese from the frying pan and slide them onto my plate, arrange the cranberry sauce next to them, and carry everything into the dining room. Alvar follows me softly. He pulls out a chair.
“You will go back to work when you’ve finished eating, won’t you? There’s still much of the day left.”
I rest my chin in my hands. “Would you kindly let me eat in peace?”
He falls silent. His gray eyes flicker around the room as he looks at the pictures on my walls.
“Death,” he says all of a sudden. “You have a picture of Death on your wall.”
I nod and spear a slice of cheese with my fork.
“Why is that?”
“He’s an old friend.”
He shakes his head at this. Gives me an uncertain look. “What’s that supposed to mean? An old friend’?”
I cut a piece of the melted cheese and dip it in the cranberry sauce.
“Well, how can I put it? He feels familiar, like an old, faithful friend. When I can’t manage anymore, he comes and takes me away. Maybe he’ll put me on his lap, just like the picture.”
“It’s a drawing by Käthe Kollwitz,” Alvar says. “‘Maiden in the Lap of Death.’”
“That’s right. It’s beautiful. Look how gentle he is, see how delicately she rests against his chest. Sometimes when I work, Death comes into my room. He places a hand on my shoulder.”
“That would
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