Free Broken by Karin Fossum

realized that he lacked something that many others had. However, many people went without sex—it was perfectly possible to live a celibate life. What if I tried sex, he thought, blushing instantly. Would I then start to need it? Maybe. Perhaps it was something you could become addicted to, like food and drink.
    He had reached the church, and he looked up at the cemetery. This is where I’ll end up one day, he thought, and it’s beautiful. On a hill above the town. He had put money aside for his funeral, and he also had some savings. Seventy thousand kroner. He was a regular saver. He was not saving up for anything in particular, but it was always good to have something set aside for a rainy day. During the time he had worked at Gallery Krantz he had bought some prints and a few drawings. Not expensive items, but pictures that he really appreciated. He had often dreamt of finding the one painting that was destined for him. Because he believed it existed: he had seen it happen many times in the gallery. A customer would enter and stop in her tracks in front of a picture, mesmerized. And she would be rooted to the spot, incapable of returning home without this painting. The painting was something she had been searching for, something she had been missing. He never thought it was an act, but a precious moment. A unique meeting between the artist and the spectator, a singular language that would be understood by a chosen one and would seduce him. Personally he had never encountered such a picture.
    He greatly appreciated the coal drawings of Käthe Kollwitz, but Kollwitz was out of reach both in terms of price and in other ways. But something along those lines, he thought. In fact, the artist’s name was less important; however, the impact had to match that of Kollwitz if it were to move him. Few artists had such an impact. But if he were ever to spend his seventy thousand kroner on anything, it would surely have to be a painting. He had often thought that he might do a bit of traveling, but it had remained a thought. He fancied a trip to Copenhagen at some point, a weekend break perhaps. Putter about in the friendly Danish atmosphere, eat warm open sandwiches with liver pâté and crispy bacon, have a Tuborg and a schnapps or a “lille en,” as Danes called it. However, he preferred his flat, and from this base he went for walks in the town and surrounding area. For example, he often drove up to Spiralen and went for long walks through the forest. There were people and dogs he could watch, there was nature with its smells and mild breezes. There was a view. And last but not least a lovely café where he would buy a roast beef sandwich with rémoulade. On a few occasions someone had struck up a conversation with him and he had stopped and replied politely, but he never encouraged a lengthy conversation. He went to the cinema from time to time. He studied the film reviews in the newspaper, and whenever he came across something interesting, off he would go to buy a ticket. He had seen many excellent films. He liked sitting in the dark cinema with all the other people he would never have to talk to. And munching some chocolate, a Cuba bar perhaps. He even liked the advertisements: he found them entertaining. He liked going out into the street afterward, filled with this experience, if the film had been a good experience, and it had been on some occasions. He never got tired of playing Mozart’s Requiem on his stereo. He thought the best paintings were good enough to hang on a living room wall a whole lifetime, and would last into the next generation. Though if he were to buy a picture there would be no one to leave it to; however, this did not worry him unduly. After all, when you are dead you are dead, and he was not troubled by how strangers might dispose of his property. A retirement home? he thought next. No, not a retirement home, not at any cost. True, his mother had spent three years in a retirement home and been looked