I looked around the large sitting room, which was L-shaped as two rooms had been merged and the dividing wall replaced with a big, white sliding door. At the back, on wooden flooring treated with lye, there was a black grand piano surrounded by rag rugs and black-and-white pictures on the walls. One wall was covered with shelves of books and sheet music, and inside a half-open cupboard I glimpsed a not inconsiderable collection of records and cassettes.12

The part of the room I was in now was full of contrasts. The majority of the furniture was old-fashioned, in a kind of imitation baroque style, with ornate legs and upholstered in a smooth, brown-and-green patterned material. Two modern, black leather armchairs, two others in a burlap fabric and a child’s spindle-back chair completed and reinforced the impression of a lack of system.

In the traditional sixties style wall shelving were a radio, a record turntable, a CD and cassette player and in the middle of the floor a TV set with a VCR underneath. Beside the bow-legged baroque sofa was a rack crammed full with newspapers, and in all the free spaces, on the wall shelving, the table, floor and shelves were piles of newspapers, magazines, books and sheet music. Strewn across the floor were Lego blocks, dolls, Playmobil pieces, sketch pads and crayons in the most delightful chaos I had experienced since I was divorced.

The mixture of style and content was apparent on the walls as well. Crucifixes and icons hung side by side with graphics by Elly Prestegård and Ingri Egeberg, a watercolour by Oddvar Torsheim and a Hardanger landscape. A pavement artist had sketched the three children at various points in their short lives. All three looked as children do in such sketches: like tourists to life before their visas run out.

The eldest child was entering the sitting-room now, with her father.

Maria wore grey jeans and a pink jumper. Her hair was fairer than Jakob’s, but she had the same round facial features he’d had. Her eyes were blue and ill at ease, her mouth was adolescent, and she wore a pink lipstick and blushed becomingly when her father said: ‘Say hello to Varg, Maria. He’s an old classmate of mine.’13

She passed me a limp hand and mumbled something incomprehensible. Then she beat a hasty retreat to her room.

‘She‘s going out,’ Jakob said awkwardly, as though he still hadn’t got used to his daughter making arrangements he no longer authorised. ‘We’ll have to pick up Grete from the crèche and take her to Åse’s. I’ll ring her and ask if that’s alright. Petter can look after himself when he comes home. I’ll leave a note for him.’

He cast around, heaved a pile of newspapers to one side with his foot, gave up trying to create a better impression and went out to make a call.

Åse?

I tried to remember his sister, but I could barely recall that he even had one.