The sky had twinkled, it was a night in June. There had been a dance in the next village south. The green of the mountain hovered above the stones. Stumbling homeward together, they fell and stayed lying where they were. He cast off his age for her, his earnestness.

Afterwards he lay like a naked hermit crab in the moss. She put her fingers on his round stomach. It glowed palely through the black hair, it jumped in alarm, and they giggled. His beard smelled dark, a little of train oil. She scraped it off and smeared it over her face. 67

There was one time, and then a second time, a little bewildered, which only half counted, because they broke down laughing and gave up midway through. Their friendship grew deeper, lighter.

One morning they found a puffin chick in the stream. Ragnar was in the middle of a long story when she caught sight of it rolling around in confusion, a tiny little steamboat slipping on the stones. Ragnar laughed into his beard. Tucked the feathery blob into his jacket pocket. They carried it down the path. Its heart beat in woolly chirrups all the way down to the sea.

Birds are wiser than people, he likes to say. Gulls especially; he calls them the proletariat of the sea. When he stands on the quay or by the rocks in a cloud of filthy white wings, he agitates for the prisoners of want.

Death can be something one slips into. A long friendship.

The pain is more intense. The wool scratches at her groin. In this cabin, in this pillbox, this oven. The heat under the blanket.

At first she behaved as though nothing had happened.

The date of her departure was approaching.

She went home and saw her own family. On her way back she called on Ingrún at the hotel.

‘You must be looking forward to seeing our Fritz again.’

It was an order. Ingrún splashed coffee into the whiteness of the porcelain with a big, bony hand. 68

Fritz. Was she? Yes, she was.

Marita was wasting away, the hotel proprietress decided with barely concealed satisfaction, offering her the sponge cake.

Marita let a slimy dollop of fondant slide down her throat while Ingrún briefed her on the various tribulations of hotel management. A girl in the laundry had run away. Another ran around with any old Tom, Dick or Harry.

Ingrún had plenty to get off her chest. All Marita had to do was chew and nod.

From the dining room, the sound of cutlery against porcelain.

A chair scraped across the floor.

The scent of boiled potatoes, of meat, small bunches of heather on the tables.

One cheery gentleman launched into a few verses of Danish song. Another shushed him. The lively mood of business and pleasure found its way into the kitchen like a draught.