‘Everything?’

‘Exactly. To explain why she reckoned she had such good grounds to leave me. And Berge Brevik – believe me – he’s quite a moralist, Varg.’

‘You don’t think…’

‘If he saw himself as God’s instrument on earth he might’ve got it into his head to start doing the strangest things…’

I heaved a sigh and sat back on the sofa. I could imagine them in front of me, like in a film, sitting in the spartan vestry: Rebecca with her head bowed, animated, upset. Berge Brevik straight-backed, retreating, shocked. ‘And Ruth,’ I said gently. ‘Did you ever contact her? Afterwards?’

He looked at me. ‘How could I?’

I glared back. ‘Mm. How could you?’

‘It’s obvious, Varg. The angels in the post. Who else but a sick person, someone trapped in their own moralism, could send anything like that?’

I stood up. ‘I have to go.’

He made to get to his feet.

‘Stay where you are, Jakob. I’ll find my own way out.’

He stood up anyway. ‘When will I … will we … see each other again, Varg?’375

‘I doubt we will, Jakob. Ever.’

I went to the door. He didn’t move. Without saying another word, I went into the corridor and closed the door behind me.

She had heard me. Now she was standing in the kitchen doorway, with flour on her hands and a wall of baking aromas behind her. ‘Are you going already, Varg?’

I nodded.

She closed the door behind her, but stood holding the handle. ‘I hope you understand. It was best like this.’

I waited for her to continue.

‘Out of consideration for the children. For all of us. Leaving is so easy. Returning is much harder. But isn’t the art of forgiveness the most noble of all human virtues?’

I didn’t answer. For a moment, I looked to the side. Then I caught her with my gaze again. She was standing three or four metres away from me, rumpled hair, in a simple, red-and-white checked blouse and everyday jeans, flour on her hands, some on the side of her chin and the reflection of a childhood on her face.

‘It was best like this, Varg. We belong together, Jakob and I. For good or ill.’

I cleared my throat. ‘And for us everything has gone?’

‘What has never been cannot have gone,’ she said with a sudden mixture of melancholy and ruthlessness.

‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re right.’ On the way to the door I mumbled: ‘Love is a lonely…’

‘Ah, I know that one now.’

I nodded and opened the door. On the threshold I turned around and looked at her for a last time. ‘Take care, Rebecca.’

‘Take care, Varg. Drop in on us if you feel like it.’

‘Unlikely, Rebecca. Unlikely.’376

I closed the door behind me with a sense that I was closing the door on another chapter of my life.

And I still hadn’t finished.

I had another journey ahead of me.

377

48

There was the aroma of Christmas baking at Anita Solheim’s too. She came to the door herself like a scorned Mother Christmas, wearing a red jumper, brown cotton trousers and with the unmistakeable smell of white Curacao wafting around her.