‘Give a wide berth to social media and reader comments.’

‘Is it because she …’

He checked himself. She finished for him: ‘… isn’t wholly Norwegian? Maybe. She doesn’t think so herself.’

‘I know. We decided it should be like that. That racism shouldn’t be our problem. It never has been either. It can be different with adopted children. They become Norwegian in a different way. Than …’

He let the comparison hang in the air.

‘Maybe,’ Selma replied. ‘Or maybe not. What did people always say about Marit Bjørgen?’

‘A lot. That she shouldn’t have quit in the spring. That she should have postponed having a second child. That she should have continued for another season and competed in PyeongChang in February, for example.’

He suspected that Selma was giving a genuine smile at last, even though they were both still staring out at the lawn, where the elk calf was quickly clearing the area of carrots.

‘Yes, of course. But I was referring to how Norwegian she was regarded. So down to earth and easygoing. Let nothing go to her head. So gloriously Norwegian! As people said.’

The calf was replete. It began to wander across the lawn, slightly hesitantly, as if the food station were too valuable to leave. The two people at the window stood gazing at the graceful animal, which abruptly pricked up its ears, picked up speed and disappeared into the fringes of the forest bordering the property.

‘And what have people always said about Petter Northug?’ Selma asked, turning to put more wood on the fire.

‘It depends what you mean by people.’

‘He’s so terribly un-Norwegian.’

Selma drew quote marks with two fingers on either hand.

‘So full of himself. So self-assured and egocentric. Brash and cheeky. So accustomed to victory. In other words: un-Norwegian. That’s how we divvy up our skiers, Jan, into the many Norwegians and the few ‘terribly un-Norwegian’ ones. But they’re always from Norway all the same. They have names such as Haakon and Martin and Petter. Marit and Ingvild. None of them have that little “Chin” added as a disturbing element in their names.’

Jan opened his mouth to say something, but hesitated so long that she went on: ‘You mustn’t forget that this is the most Norwegian of all sports. The real primeval sport. That unifies radicals and racists. That makes even the most ardent anti-nationalist go wild. And into the bargain, the only sport we have all taken part in ourselves, so to speak. As outdoor recreation, most of us, but there’s scarcely a Norwegian who doesn’t have a pair of skis or five in storage in their basement.’

‘The ethnic Norwegians amongst us.’

The fire had begun to crackle.

‘Spot on,’ Selma said, tossing yet another log on the flames. ‘The ethnic Norwegians amongst us. Cross-country skiing is an identity sport. Measured globally, it’s a tiny, minority sport, in which probably a hundred Norwegians could go straight into one of the national teams. Three million of us who could have qualified for all the national teams as well as the six or seven best skiers. Have you ever heard anyone say of a handball player that she or he is so “gloriously Norwegian”?’