“And meanwhile . . .” said Tvist, gesturing beyond the huddle to where Bror stood talking to Vee. I looked at Bror, saw how his hand rested on Vee’s back. I felt Tvist’s eyes on mine. “For a man who dislikes white supremacism, you’re surprisingly relaxed about its advocates. Old friends?”

“That man is emphatically not a white supremacist.”

“He’s clever. He hitches it to progressive causes. But he is widely quoted and shared. By white supremacists.”

I looked him square in the face. “Found any trace of a network?”

“No . . . But has he mentioned female emancipation to you yet? Sustainability? A general suspicion of the police?”

Bror had noticed us, could see that we were speaking about him. He smiled, raised a hand in greeting.

I said, “He has shown us great kindness. He listens. It’s nice to feel someone is on our side.”

Tvist made a little scoffing sound. “That comment about fruit flies. That’s the real Bror.”

“He never linked it to immigration.”

“Perhaps because he knew other people would?”

Elsa was picking her way across the snow toward Bror. He caught sight of her, took his hand from Vee’s back, smiled very broadly, stepped toward Elsa. They hugged. He was turning away, was saying something to Vee. Vee began to speak. Elsa put her hand on Vee’s shoulder, shook her head, smiled.

I turned back to Tvist. “There’s this thing you do,” I said. “You sow doubt. About good people.”

“I sow doubt?”

“I mean, yes, Bror is odd,” I said, “and yes, his sexual politics are a little off. But so what, if he’s spreading hope?”

Tvist considered this. He gave an exaggerated frown. “And what if he’s using you?”

Elsa was crouching down now, speaking directly to Vee, while Bror looked down upon them, smiling his benevolent smile. He gestured to one side, and there were Arno and his mother, approaching across the snow. Vee stood, held out a hand to Arno, who eyed her suspiciously. Bror said something to the boy. Arno stepped forward, still holding his large, leather-bound book. A Bible. Bror put his left hand on Arno’s shoulder, his right hand on Vee’s.

“Man’s doing what he can to help,” I said. “Seems unfair to write him off as a racist.”

“Oh?” Tvist turned to me. “How easy would Norwegian racism be for you to discern?”

“Given that I’m not black?”

“People speak more freely in their own language.” Tvist smiled sadly, as if my question disappointed him. “Perhaps that is hard for an outsider to understand?”

For a moment I wanted to apologize. I valued this man. Those moments we shared in the morning as we handed over our children at the kindergarten felt like something close to friendship. But he was a master at placing blame elsewhere.