Death turns the boat round and rows with steady strokes, he knows where we are going, he knows these waters and he is confident.'
'Is it night and is it dark?' Alvar wants to know.
'No,' I say. 'It's twilight. And Death rows until we have reached the middle of the fjord; then he places the oars at the bottom of the boat and looks at me firmly. "Tomorrow is another day," he says. "Do you want it?" I think about this for a long time. I have been in this world for over fifty years; I suppose I can manage one more day. So he turns the boat round and rows me back, and I disembark. Back on dry land for a new day, which was never a certainty. Because every night I have to choose.'
Alvar is silent for a long time. Again he looks at the paintings on my wall.
'You also have a Lena Cronquist,' he enthuses, pointing to a painting above the television.
'I do. Do you know her?'
'Of course. I pride myself on being well informed when it comes to modern art.'
I eat more cheese, it tastes delicious. And while I eat, my thoughts are drifting. What do we people have in common? I wonder. Well, we're born. Not because we want to be, but because someone else wanted it. We grow up and we don't know where we're going or what we'll get. We think we can make our own decisions, that we can plan things. And so we can to a certain extent, but fate can be very capricious. A late-running bus can change a whole life, it can steer us towards another fate. We stumble on the kerb, someone rushes to our aid, we catch someone's eyes for a brief second and lightning strikes. A glance can lead to marriage and children, suddenly we've ended up in a totally different place from what we imagined. Alvar doesn't have much, not at the moment. A flat, a job, and a very sensitive personality. This sensitivity, I decide, watching him secretly, that will be his fate. He wants to be a good person; however, we don't live in a world where good people are rewarded, but he doesn't know that.
Alvar follows each mouthful with his eyes. I finish eating and clear up after myself, then I sit down in the living room, I light a cigarette; Alvar follows me. He comes into the room hesitatingly and finds a chair for himself.
'Please don't let anything happen to Ole Krantz,' he says out of the blue. Again he looks down as if every time he says something he instantly regrets his words.
I blow a column of smoke across the coffee table, it hovers there swirling in the light from the lamp.
'I'm not allowed to let anything happen to Krantz?'
'No, because he's a fine man, he doesn't deserve it.'
'My dear Alvar,' I say in a patronising voice, 'there can be no dramatic tension if I'm not allowed to make anything happen. I would have thought you understood that.'
Again he is embarrassed. There are red patches on his throat and his grey eyes blink.
'You're mine now,' I continue, 'you're not responsible for the other characters. I'm the one who'll be taking care of them, it's a matter of honour 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 of 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 grey eyes.
'Dear God,' he says terrified, 'are you going to let me perish?'
CHAPTER 4
The 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 underway, brochures
'Is it night and is it dark?' Alvar wants to know.
'No,' I say. 'It's twilight. And Death rows until we have reached the middle of the fjord; then he places the oars at the bottom of the boat and looks at me firmly. "Tomorrow is another day," he says. "Do you want it?" I think about this for a long time. I have been in this world for over fifty years; I suppose I can manage one more day. So he turns the boat round and rows me back, and I disembark. Back on dry land for a new day, which was never a certainty. Because every night I have to choose.'
Alvar is silent for a long time. Again he looks at the paintings on my wall.
'You also have a Lena Cronquist,' he enthuses, pointing to a painting above the television.
'I do. Do you know her?'
'Of course. I pride myself on being well informed when it comes to modern art.'
I eat more cheese, it tastes delicious. And while I eat, my thoughts are drifting. What do we people have in common? I wonder. Well, we're born. Not because we want to be, but because someone else wanted it. We grow up and we don't know where we're going or what we'll get. We think we can make our own decisions, that we can plan things. And so we can to a certain extent, but fate can be very capricious. A late-running bus can change a whole life, it can steer us towards another fate. We stumble on the kerb, someone rushes to our aid, we catch someone's eyes for a brief second and lightning strikes. A glance can lead to marriage and children, suddenly we've ended up in a totally different place from what we imagined. Alvar doesn't have much, not at the moment. A flat, a job, and a very sensitive personality. This sensitivity, I decide, watching him secretly, that will be his fate. He wants to be a good person; however, we don't live in a world where good people are rewarded, but he doesn't know that.
Alvar follows each mouthful with his eyes. I finish eating and clear up after myself, then I sit down in the living room, I light a cigarette; Alvar follows me. He comes into the room hesitatingly and finds a chair for himself.
'Please don't let anything happen to Ole Krantz,' he says out of the blue. Again he looks down as if every time he says something he instantly regrets his words.
I blow a column of smoke across the coffee table, it hovers there swirling in the light from the lamp.
'I'm not allowed to let anything happen to Krantz?'
'No, because he's a fine man, he doesn't deserve it.'
'My dear Alvar,' I say in a patronising voice, 'there can be no dramatic tension if I'm not allowed to make anything happen. I would have thought you understood that.'
Again he is embarrassed. There are red patches on his throat and his grey eyes blink.
'You're mine now,' I continue, 'you're not responsible for the other characters. I'm the one who'll be taking care of them, it's a matter of honour 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 of 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 grey eyes.
'Dear God,' he says terrified, 'are you going to let me perish?'
CHAPTER 4
The 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 underway, brochures