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who’ll be taking care of them. It’s a matter of honor with me.”
    “That’s your twentieth cigarette today,” he points out shyly.
    “So you’re keeping count?”
    “I don’t have any bad habits like that.” He says this with pride. “I’m sure you don’t. But we all have our crosses to bear. You can die from so many things. Perish for any number of peculiar reasons.”
    I flick the ash off the cigarette and stare out the window; the azalea by the entrance sways in the wind. I can’t decide what fascinates me the most: his badly concealed eagerness, his spotless character, the light in his gray eyes.
    “Dear God,” he says, terrified, “are you going to let me perish?”

Chapter 4
    T HE OAK DOOR OPENED and the bell rang out.
    The bell had a fragile and wistful ring to it, which Alvar really liked. It announced that someone had arrived, someone who needed his expertise and his always impeccable service. He was sitting in the gallery’s kitchen with a list of names. Krantz wanted to arrange a special exhibition in the new year: the preparations were under way, brochures would be printed and sent out to all their regular customers. Alvar looked through a pile of colorful photographs. The artist’s best painting would adorn the cover, together with a brief paragraph about his achievements so far. In this case, the artist being Knut Rumohr, these comprised fifteen large paintings, which were all outstanding. Alvar looked closely at the photos. He felt he could vouch for every single one of them, and this was not always the case. Most artists were inconsistent. Rumohr, however, never disappointed. Every painting was unique; there was strength and radiance in all of them. Besides, he was an unassuming man, private and polite, friendly and modest, a man after Alvar’s own heart. He often visited the gallery wearing green boots and with a sturdy sheathed knife hanging from his belt. A craftsman, almost a laborer.
    However, when Alvar looked up at the sound of the bell, on the left monitor he could see a woman entering. She was tall and slim and wore a dark coat. He let her wander around. It was not Alvar’s style to charge in; the customer needed to be given time. His coffee had gone cold, so he poured it into the sink. He went over to a mirror on the wall to check that his hair was in place. He looked at himself for a long time. His head was large; he took after his father. His features, however, were clean and fine, his dark brows strong and straight. He arranged his thinning hair across his scalp and then he went slowly down the stairs to the ground floor. She noticed him as he took the last few steps, and smiled at him and nodded. A minute, elegant bob of her head. She was an attractive, well-groomed woman, a little older than he was, and judging from her clothes, she was well off. She probably owned some works of art already. Alvar greeted her in a friendly manner but remained standing, a little defensive, with his hands folded across his stomach. He did not recognize her: perhaps she had only recently moved to the town, or she might be passing through, he was not sure which, but he had a number of regular customers whose names he knew. Or the artists themselves popped in to see if anything was going on. He enjoyed talking to the artists. He had quickly discovered that the vast majority were down-to-earth, hard-working people.
    The woman in the dark coat wore a foxtail around her neck and gloves of fine brandy-colored leather. She wore boots with buttons. Alvar became almost besotted by them: they were black and pointy with high heels and, like his own shoes, polished to a shine. She continued to wander around; Alvar stayed in the background. It was easy for him to spot whether the customer had any knowledge of art. This woman stopped in front of a painting by Axel Revold, to Alvar’s intense joy; however, the painting was so expensive that it was unlikely she would be in a position to buy it. You do not