‘Since 1965.’

His eyes assumed a faraway look. ‘1965? Can you really remember that with such accuracy?’

I nodded.

‘1965,’ he said. ‘Johnson was president of the USA. The Vietnam War was escalating. The Beatles brought out Rubber Soul. The Harpers were at the peak of their career, and you and I…’

‘Had gone our separate ways.’

He beckoned for two more beers and they arrived at the table before the froth had had time to settle.

‘Odd how life goes in circles, Varg. We could draw geometrical shapes. Find where they intersect.’

‘In the strangest of places.’

‘You’re right. In the strangest of places.’

‘How did it all end with The Harpers?’

He didn’t answer straightaway, but hummed the tune of one 16of their most popular songs and finished it on an ugly, dissonant note. ‘But we had some good years, Varg.’

‘In The Harpers?’

He grimaced. ‘You and I. Before, I mean.’ He took a swig. ‘I often think back on childhood as the only truly happy time in our lives.’

‘You may be right about that.’

‘No responsibilities, no worries, apart from someone threatening to beat you up after school, but we knew from experience this would pass. By the following week all these things would be forgotten.’

‘Yes, often as not.’

‘The seasons, Varg. They were as long as eternity. Winters, we would go tobogganing in the streets where there were hardly any cars. Or hang on to the back of the Minde bus down to the big Klosteret square, and for another few hundred metres, if we were really lucky.’

‘We used to call it bumper skiing.’

‘Yes, that’s right. And the summers when we swam in Nordnes from the seventeenth of May. Springtime with all the street games, autumn with bike trips to the orchards in Minde. All…’ he puckered his lips and said sadly ‘…gone.’

‘Remember how Paul would sit at the back of the class and make cheeky comments? And how Bergesen had an extra-long pointer made by the woodwork teacher so that he could whack Paul around the head from his desk?’

‘Paul, yeah. Let’s give him a bell, shall we?’

‘Good idea.’

‘I’ll do it.’

While Jakob was phoning I allowed the atmosphere of a country & western festival to wash over me. Most of the people 17around me were half our age and belonged to the v.b.c. generation: videos, beer and crisps. A spare tyre was their trademark; they were sitting knees akimbo and horseless, knocking back the beer one early winter afternoon in this western saloon. Outside, darkness had fallen, a grizzled grey because of the sleet, artificially suffused by Bryggen’s toxic-yellow street lighting.

Jakob returned with two more beers. ‘Paul will be round soon.’

‘He’s been round for years,’ I said. ‘He looks like he’s permanently six months’ pregnant.’

Jakob shook his head. ‘To think Paul’s a journalist. Well, he was never short of a witty word. But I always saw him as a grocer. What do you reckon?’