Broken Read Free

evenings, you’re addicted to millions of pills, you eat too little, you work too hard, so you’re clearly not going to live to be an old lady.”
    I ponder this. “Very well, you may be right. I can only do what I do, and death is never convenient. However, I’m only fifty-one and you are second in line.”
    “Name me,” he pleads again.
    I pull up my knees. My shoulders are freezing cold, and my temples are throbbing.
    “Come closer to the light.”
    He gets up and lifts the chair; he moves closer to the bedside table. He sits down again and folds his hands.
    “You have a sensitive face,” I say, inspecting him. “You’re gentle, poetic, with a tendency toward melancholy. You come from a small, unassuming family of hard-working people. They all have this humility, this awareness of nuances, with the exception of your mother, perhaps—I’m not quite sure about her. I can picture them: they are fair-skinned, and you can see their veins like fine green threads.”
    He pulls up the sleeve of his jacket and studies his wrist.
    “You have large gray eyes,” I go on. “However, your gaze is often defensive; if anyone talks to you, you’ll look away. Your hair is thinning; it bothers you because in your own way you’re vain despite your self-proclaimed modesty. You have dreams—they will never come true. Yet you’re patient. You’ve always been patient. Right up until now.”
    “And my name?”
    “Give me a little time. Names are very important. If I rush it will be wrong, and I doubt that you’ll be content with just anything.”
    “I’m sorry I interrupted you,” he says. “Please continue, I’m listening.”
    “Your hands,” I state, “are really quite small. Your shoe size is thirty-nine, which is small for a grown man. You’re clean, you watch what you eat, and you’re good at saving money. You’re never ill, and you drink moderately. You have a green thumb; you’re very fond of music. You notice how the light changes outside your window. You watch people and they fascinate you in a way you don’t understand, yet you don’t feel connected to them. You never approach anyone; you live your life without involving anyone else. You never complain, you don’t shout, you never object to anything, you never get stressed; you make yourself go on like a carthorse. What do you think of Torstein?”
    He gives me an uncertain look. “It’s not terribly poetic.”
    I think again. Names fly through my mind and with each one I observe him closely. I hold the name up to his face, trying to make it fit.
    “I would have to agree with you. Besides, Torstein is a strong man’s name, resourceful and decisive. And I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you’re a bit spineless.”
    He bows his head and blushes scarlet in the light from the lamp on the bedside table.
    “You must forgive me,” I say, “but it was your idea to enter my house, and I’m in charge here.”
    “I know, I know. I will take what I’m given—I mean that from the bottom of my heart.”
    “Then let’s continue.”
    I think again, close my eyes.
    “You sleep well at night, like a baby. You get up early and are always equally content with each new day. However, this serenity of yours, this meticulousness, is actually very fragile. No one is allowed to disturb it, enter into it, or distract you. You need to be in control and have a clear overview of absolutely everything that will happen.”
    New names fly by. Names full of gravity and poetry.
    “How about Alvar?” I suggest.
    “Is that a name?” He looks at me quizzically.
    “Of course it’s a name. Though better known in Sweden than here in Norway. Attractive too, in my opinion. Think it over.”
    “I am. What about my surname? I suppose I’ll be given one of those too?”
    “Of course. Personally I favor monosyllabic names. Like Krohn. Or Torp. But I want to give you more than that.” I close my eyes again. Search through myriad names.
    “Your surname is Eide,”