Broken Read Free Page B

outside.
    He grabbed the door handle, pushed it down, and went out into the cool air; it felt clean and fresh against his cheeks. The light caused him to squint. Alvar Eide lived in the upstairs flat of a house in Nøste outside Drammen; his neighbors, the Green family, owned the ground-floor flat. He did not know them very well. They came and went and he nodded briefly by way of acknowledgment, but he did everything he could to avoid having to make small talk. Alvar Eide was a shy man. Green, however, could be intrusive; sometimes he would linger downstairs by the letterboxes, wanting to chat about everyday matters. The weather, the price of gas, interest rates, the new government. And as Alvar liked to think of himself as a good person, he was never curt so that his behavior might be interpreted as frosty or arrogant. Yet he kept Green at arm’s length, gave monosyllabic answers to every question while smiling politely the whole time and speaking in a low, educated voice. But is that goodness? he suddenly started to wonder, and felt upset. Am I really a good person after all? I have never hurt anyone, but does that make me good? Surely you’re meant to do good deeds, go the extra mile, make sacrifices, in order to earn the label “a good person.”
    He struggled with these questions as he walked down the steep hill into town. The fjord gleamed metallically in the low sun. He felt weighed down by gloom. How impossible it was to know anything about yourself, something you could be certain of. And he had never been severely tested. Of course he donated to charity, modest sums. It never occurred to him to refuse. The thought of this brightened his mood instantly. Many people said no. They said, no, actually I wouldn’t dream of helping, the hungry will just have to fend for themselves, the same goes for drug addicts. And cancer, well, that’s never affected our family, I’ll probably be struck down by other things and when the time comes I will make my contribution to whatever charity will benefit me and my own health. It’s everyone for themselves. It’s not my fault that people starve in Africa, that there’s a war in Iraq. Maybe that’s what they said, holding their heads high, looking right at the face of the child with shiny eyes, perhaps, who might be standing outside their front door holding out a sealed collection tin. Some, possibly, said nothing at all; they simply slammed the door with a bored look. Or even worse, they never even bothered to open it. He always opened the door whenever someone rang the bell even though he found it very difficult. Not a great deal happened in his life: he saw no one and had no family, no friends, no wife and child. So he went to the door when the bell rang even though it made his stomach lurch. He became very nervous when the shrill tone of the bell rang out through the rooms, at the mere thought that someone might want something from him. Might demand things, beg. Break into his neat, ordered world. On one occasion he had happened not to have any money on him; he had found that terribly embarrassing: having to close the door without having helped, to close the door with downcast eyes and flushed, burning cheeks. Had they even believed him when he said he was out of cash? Or had they walked off, angrily denouncing him as a skinflint? The very thought of it tormented him because he regarded himself as generous, if only people would give him the chance. He usually found some kroner in a pocket or the bowl in the kitchen where he stored excess change from his wallet. Heavy wallets ruined the cut of his clothes—his mother had taught him that.
    He continued walking into town feeling troubled. He no longer felt good about himself. He gave money because it was embarrassing to say no. He never went back into his living room with the feeling of having contributed something—it felt more like a game and he was simply playing by the rules. Perhaps it’s because I don’t give enough,