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“We’re off,” Yngve said, turning to Grandma. “It won’t take long. Back soon.”

“That’s fine,” she answered.

I got into the car, strapped myself in. Yngve plumped down in the seat beside me, inserted the key in the ignition, twisted it, craned his head and began to reverse down the little slope. Grandma was standing on the top step. I waved to her, she waved back. As we reversed into the alley and could no longer see her I wondered if she was still waiting, as she had always done, because when we moved forward again we could see each other for a last time and wave a final goodbye, then she would turn to go in and we would enter the road.

She was still there. I waved, she waved, and then she went in.

“Did she want to come along today as well?” I asked.

Yngve nodded.

“We’ll have to do what we said. Be quick. Although I wouldn’t mind sitting in a café for a while. Or visiting some record shops.”

He touched the indicator with his left index finger as he down-shifted and looked to the right. Nothing coming.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

“Absolutely fine,” Yngve said. “And you?”

“I can still feel it,” I said. “Think I’m still a bit drunk in fact.”

He glanced at me as he set off.

“Oh dear,” he said.

“Wasn’t such a great idea,” I said.

He smiled thinly, changed down again, came to a halt behind the white line. A white-haired, elderly man, stick-thin with a large nose, crossed in front of us. The corners of his mouth drawn down. His lips dark red. He first looked up at the hills to my right, then to the row of shops across the road before lowering his gaze to the ground, presumably to be sure where the coming curb was. All of this he did as though completely alone. As though he never took any account of other eyes. This was how Giotto painted people. They never seemed to be aware that they were being watched. Giotto was the only painter to depict the aura of vulnerability this gave them. It was probably something to do with the era because succeeding generations of Italian painters, the great generations, had always interwoven an awareness of watching eyes in their pictures. It made them less naïve, but they also revealed less.

On the other side of the street, a young, redhaired woman with a stroller bustled up. The pelican crossing lights changed from green at that moment, but she was watching the traffic lights, which were still on red, and she ventured across, dashing past us the very next second. Her child, about a year old, with chubby cheeks and a small mouth, sat upright in the stroller, looking around, slightly disorientated, as they rushed past.

Yngve released the clutch and carefully accelerated into the intersection.

“It’s two minutes past,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “If we can find a place to park quickly, that’s not too bad.”

As we came to the bridge, I looked up at the sky above the sea. It was overcast, so light in some places that the white had taken on a touch of blue, as though a semitransparent membrane had been stretched over it, in other places it was heavier and darker, gray patches, their outer edges drifting across the whiteness like smoke. Wherever the sun was, the cloud cover had a yellowish tinge, though not so strong that the light beneath was anything but muted and seemed to come from all directions. It was one of those days when nothing casts a shadow, when everything holds on tight.

“It’s tonight you’re going, isn’t it?” I said.

Yngve nodded.

“Ah, there’s one!” he said.

The very next moment he pulled up to the curb, switched off the engine, and yanked the hand brake. The undertaker’s was on the other side of the street. I would have preferred a slower transition, one in which I could have prepared myself for what was awaiting us, but there was nothing to be done, we just had to throw ourselves into it.

I got out, closed the door, and followed Yngve across the street. In the waiting room the woman behind the counter sent us a smile and said we could go straight in.

The door was open. The stout funeral director got up from behind his desk when he saw us, came over, and shook hands with a courteous but, in the circumstances, less than cordial a smile on his lips.

“So, here we are again,” he said, motioning to the two chairs with his hand. “Please take a seat.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I’m sure you’ve given the funeral some thought over the weekend,” he said, sitting down, reaching for a thin sheaf of papers on the desk in front of him and flicking through them.

“We have, yes,” Yngve said. “We’ve decided on a church burial.”

“I see,” said the funeral director. “Then I can give you the phone number of the priest’s office. We’ll deal with the practical side, but it would be good if you could have a word with him yourselves. As you know, he has to make a little speech about your father and it would be helpful if you could pass on some information.”

He looked up at us. The folds of skin around his neck hung, lizardlike, over his shirt collar. We nodded.

“There are many ways to do this,” he continued. “I have a list here of the various options. Such things as whether you would like music, for example, and if so in what form. Some people like to have live music, others prefer recorded music. But we do have a church singer whom we use a great deal and he can also play several instruments … Live music, of course, has a special atmosphere, a solemnity or dignity … I don’t know, have you considered what you would like?”

My eyes met Yngve’s.

“That might be good?” I offered.

“Yes,” Yngve replied.

“Shall we go for it then?”

“I think so.”

“So we’re agreed then?” probed the funeral director.

We nodded.

He stretched across the desk to hand Yngve a sheet of paper.

“Here are a few options regarding the choice of music. But if you have any particular wishes not on the list it’s not a problem, so long as we know a few days in advance.”

I leaned over and Yngve moved the sheet to allow me to see.

“Bach might be good,” Yngve suggested.

“Yes, he was very fond of Bach, wasn’t he,” I said.

For the first time in close to twenty-four hours I started to cry again.

Damned if I’m going to use one of his Kleenex tissues, I thought, wiping my eyes on the crook of my arm, took a deep breath, and slowly released it. I noticed Yngve sending me a quick glance.

Was he embarrassed by my tears?

No, he couldn’t be.

No.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Where were we?”

“Bach would be good,” Yngve said, looking at the funeral director. “The cello sonata, for example …”

He faced me.

“Do you agree?”

I nodded.

“So that’s agreed then,” the funeral director said. “There are usually three musical items. And one or two hymns that everyone sings.”

Deilig er jorden,” I said. “Can we have that one?”

“Naturally,” he said.

Ohhh. Ohhh. Ohhh.

“Are you alright, Karl Ove?” Yngve asked.

I nodded.

We chose two songs that the church singer would perform, as well as a hymn everyone would sing, plus the cello piece and Deilig er jorden. We also agreed that no one would give a speech by the coffin, and with that the funeral was planned, for the other elements were part of the liturgy and fixed.