The young priest spoke. Then there was more singing: ‘Love from God, our Lord, has forever poured, like a fountain pure and clear…’ The hymn took me back to the times when Rebecca and I had sat together in the gallery of the parish hall where her father, the lay preacher, spoke, voice a-quiver, about redemption and perdition. Rebecca, who had weaved in and out of my life, who moved hither and thither, from when I was four until I was more than twenty, a girl I didn’t even need to close my eyes to see, from when she was five years old, in a cardigan with metal buttons, until, at eighteen years old, she just sat there waiting for me, until I leaned forward and circumspectly kissed her. ‘Who in love remains, peace from God obtains; God Himself is ever love.’

The coffin was lowered and the priest spoke: ‘Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.’ Three handfuls of earth fell with a thud on Jan Petter’s coffin. Now silent tears flowed on the front pew. Shoulders shook and someone mumbled something or 8other, quietly to themselves. ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.’

We sang ‘Beauty around Us’. The solo violinist played ‘In Moments of Solitude’ by Ole Bull. Jan Petter’s widow and his two children were at the front and laid a rose each on the lowered coffin before walking out into the Vestland winter.

The rest of us followed at a respectful pace.

As I passed the coffin I stopped for a few seconds. The door to the corridor had closed behind Jan Petter. Soon the school bell would ring.

The question you involuntarily ask yourself is: Who will be next? Will it be my turn?

That is how it is. You never know when you will be called to see the school dentist. And you never know when you are going to die.

9

2

We stood outside the chapel. None of us looked at one another directly; no one wanted to take the initiative and leave. By the front door Jan Petter’s widow, eyes red-rimmed, was receiving the last mourner’s condolences with a limp handshake. The sleet landed on our shoulders like colourless confetti.

Even Paul Finckel’s strident sarcasm had dwindled to nothing. ‘Anyone want a lift into town?’

‘I’ve got my car here,’ I said.

‘What about going out for a beer, all three of us? I just have to nip down to the newspaper.’ Finckel looked at Jakob.

‘That’s an idea. I have to go home first and take care of the kids.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘In Nygårdshøyden.’

I looked at Finckel. ‘I’ll drive Jakob down. Where shall we meet?’

‘We might have to drive our youngest daughter to my sister’s,’ Jakob said. ‘She lives in Sandviken.’

‘Call me when you’re ready,’ Finckel said. ‘I’m at the paper. It’s pretty central as far as all the important watering holes are concerned.’

‘That’s why he works there,’ I added.