by Alicia Rudnicki, Library Mix

Broken, A Mystery, by Karin Fossum, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2010,
ISBN 0-547-52036-0


 A line of sad-looking people lingers in the driveway of an author’s house at all hours. “There are so many of them, they are hard to count,” she reflects while preparing for bed.

After midnight, the stairs creak. One of the strangers has entered her bedroom and her life uninvited. Similar to all the others in the queue, he isn’t real. He is an unnamed man who lives in the limbo of her imagination — an unformed character who demands that she create a story for him to inhabit.

Meek, mild, and murderous
So begins Karin Fossum’s Broken, an unusual and thought-provoking mystery. Although the author character remains unnamed throughout the novel, she gives her meek anti-hero a name, Alvar Eide, and a life as a quiet art gallery salesman who can’t say no and is forever changed by the demands of a drug- addicted acquaintance.

Although it is subtitled “A Mystery,” Fossum lets readers in on whodunit without subterfuge. There is no puzzling over clues; we know what happened and why. But the book presents other riddles. For me, Broken is ultimately about the mysteries of how a novel evolves, why the author creates it, and how the characters affect both novelist and readers.

As Eide’s story grows, so does concern for him. The sleeplessness of the nameless author telegraphs her worry. Readers may find themselves troubling over her stress as well as Eide’s emotionally sterile life that proves to be fertile ground for bad decisions.

Eide reminds me of a butterfly, which can never fly properly if it doesn’t have enough room to completely stretch out its wings upon emerging from its cocoon. His childhood has made it nearly impossible for him to form the family and friendships necessary to enjoy and navigate social interaction.

Characters who come to life
It is difficult not to believe in Eide’s existence; he seems so real. Some readers might even visualize themselves grabbing his shoulders and facing Eide for a heart-to-heart bit of advice. But it is a wasted fantasy. The fictional author who is creating him lets Eide be whom he is, someone who recoils from touch and involvement let alone bravery.

I was reminded of this transference of feelings — real-life worry for a fictitious person — long after I finished Broken, said goodbye to Eide and let him disappear into the queue of characters that may linger on or fall into potholes along the driveway of my memory.

But sometimes characters step out of line and remain with me, demanding my fascination and concern. It’s difficult to say goodbye to them. Such is the case not only with Eide but also with the mysterious, unnamed author who creates his story. I wonder whether she ever reappears in the queue of characters in Karin Fossum’s imagination requesting an opportunity to tell a new story. I would like to hear from her again.