We went into the bedroom. She lifted up a corner of the carpet and one of the boards underneath it. Her excavations with an unsuitable tool had made a mess of that floor. A package was underneath, wadded and wrapped in plastic. I thought of the curious existence those notes had had since they were so carelessly and prodigally handed over by James or Claudia, first living in a chocolate tin in a bedroom cupboard, then traveling everywhere with Liv in a money belt, later packed between a television set and a video, hidden by me below ground in a table napkin drawer, parceled up in food wrap and buried under floorboards, finally—or would it be finally?—handed over into the safekeeping of a presumably responsible person.

Håkan Almquist took the package in silence, turned it over and back again, unharnessed himself from his backpack, opened one of its many flaps, and put the money inside. He seemed to have forgotten all about “unpoliteness,” for more rapid interchanges in Swedish took place. Liv told me afterward he was once more urging her to come back with him while she was telling him that she would, she soon would, but she had to get herself used to going down to ground level and then to the ultimate bugbear, the street. To that end she went downstairs with him, I following because I was afraid she might have some nervous crisis the farther she descended and I feared Håkan Almquist would do nothing to help if she did.

He told her, in English, I suppose for my benefit, and in a gloomy tone, that he’d go back to Sweden the next day. I don’t know whether his reluctance stemmed from returning without her, facing his wife after his long absence, or leaving the pubs and pleasures of London. In the hall he kissed Liv austerely on both cheeks and shook hands with me. He seemed to regard me as some kind of stabilizing influence on her, in which regard he could hardly have been more wrong.

The front door was opened, the rain had almost stopped and grayish damp air came in. Liv turned pale. She shrank back from the airy void where the door had been as if some threatening thug stood on the step. I closed it quickly. We went into the Silvermans’ living room, newly dusted and vacuumed by Beryl, and watched the bearer of Liv’s hoard make his way through the drizzle across Russia Road in the Torrington Gardens direction. A taxi with its light on appeared from Castlemaine Road, cruising slowly. I expected him to take it, but he let it pass him and turned toward the roundabout and Elgin Avenue.

“He will not spend his money on a cab,” said Liv, speaking, it seemed, from experience.