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sell a Revold just like that—a Revold is an event. So Alvar thought while he watched the woman furtively. She had moved on to a painting by Gunvor Advocaat. An Advocaat would be a respectable choice too. But no, she carried on and after a few minutes she disappeared up to the first floor to the prints. He followed her but went into the kitchen; he did not want to pester her with his enthusiasm. Because that was what he experienced at every sale: enthusiasm. Selling a painting was like finding a home for a stray dog. A work of expressive art would finally find its place and give daily joy.
    The woman seemed self-assured as well as determined. He could tell from looking at her that she wanted something specific, and he felt quite sure that he would shortly secure a sale, because of the purposeful way she was moving around. While he waited, he followed her on the middle monitor. She walked from picture to picture, came back again, took a closer look, read the artist’s signature, leafed through some brochures that lay on a table. Then she straightened up and approached a picture, stood calmly in front of it. At this precise moment Alvar got up from his chair and joined her. She had stopped in front of a work by Jon Bøe Paulsen. A small picture modestly priced. Alvar sold a great deal of Jon Bøe Paulsen: people liked his beautiful lines and a few even said, I like Bøe Paulsen because at least I can see what it’s meant to be. The pictures could resemble photographs; they were darkly lit and full of atmosphere. The print depicted a svelte, graceful woman seen from behind. She had lifted up her long hair and was piling it up on the top of her head, so that her body arched and all her curves and muscles were clearly and attractively displayed.
    He stopped behind the woman and cleared his throat.
    “The appeal of Bøe Paulsen,” he said, “is his gentleness. His delicate hand, his light strokes. No strong expression, but softness.”
    She nodded and smiled at him.
    “Yes,” she said, “it’s lovely. But it’s not for me. I’m looking for a present for a friend who’s turning fifty. She’ll probably like this.”
    Her tone clearly indicated that her own taste differed. She did not dismiss the print, but it was not her type of art.
    “Personally I prefer a somewhat stronger expression,” she admitted.
    Alvar nodded.
    “Have you seen the paintings by Krantz?” he asked, thinking that she might enjoy the strong latex pictures.
    “Yes, they’re impressive,” she said, “but they won’t last.”
    Alvar agreed completely, but he did not say so. Ole Krantz’s paintings got your attention instantly, but what they had to say, they said in a moment.
    She had made up her mind and decided on the print. As the picture was a present, he took it downstairs to the workshop to gift-wrap it. He cut a piece of corrugated cardboard and folded it around the picture, then wrapped it in tissue paper. Finally he covered it in wrapping paper and made a rosette from some gold ribbon. She paid with a credit card as people always did, then said goodbye, and Alvar was once more left to his own devices. If only Ole Krantz had heard that, he thought, that he won’t last. On the other hand it was unlikely he would have been offended, because Krantz did not consider himself to be a proper artist, more a decorator. Alvar poured himself another cup of coffee and pondered his lack of goodness once more. The thought kept returning and had now begun to torment him in earnest. Here he was sitting by the kitchen table, enjoying a cup of coffee; he was at work, he performed his job well in every way—so why would he reproach himself on account of his absent goodness? He who had never hurt a fly.
    He drank big gulps of coffee as his brain began to spin. Was there anything he could do about it? And if he were to do something, would that make the thought go away, or would it grow worse? You could never be certain when it came to human psychology.