We drove through Eidesdalen, where the lake lay before us, huge, silent, and blue on the summer day, where the fields were green and the trees in the orchards full of ripening fruit, past Magnus’s family farm, Sønstebø’s farm, without letting them know we were here, and all the way to the waterfalls—the two parallel silver strings on the precipitous mountain.

I stepped out of the car and could feel immediately how saturated the air was—it felt like dewdrops on my face. The sound pounded against me, thousands of liters of water every second, a push, a scream. The falls frightened me. Every time I stood here, images flew through my mind of people under the torrents of water, of children who tripped and fell on the slippery stones, landing where the water hit the ground. Water has power, a force. I had considered it to be invincible. But not any longer, not when encountering human hands, power shovels, steel pipes, tunnels, not in the face of license revenues, industrialization, and the welfare state.

Magnus had come up behind me, lifted his arms, and slipped them around my waist.

“They’re powerful,” he said.

“Is that the only adjective you have in your repertoire?”

“What do you mean?”

“Of course they’re powerful. They’re also beautiful. Gorgeous. Magnificent. Dramatic.”

“What are you getting at now?”

“Have you seen the latest tourist brochure? Bridal veil, it says there. You could say that . . . you could say that they are as beautiful as twin brides at the photographer. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

“Signe . . .”

“And then you have to say useful. Did you forget that one?”

“It wasn’t the adjective that came to mind, but of course the falls are useful.”

“Not so much the falls themselves, but the water that comes from them.”

“The water that comes from them is useful.”

“The falls are exceptional.”

“That too.”

I got back into the car and he did the same.

“We’re driving to the dam,” I said, without asking whether he minded. “I want to go diving.”

He didn’t say anything until we reached the mountain. We had to park the car and walk the final stretch, because the road leading to the dam was bad.

We followed the riverbed, a dry gash in the mountain, stopping at the top. I could sense that old feeling of something lifting, that it became easier to breathe when I no longer had to crane my neck to see the sky.

He stood there looking at the power lines that cut through the mountain landscape. “Can I say something about this?” he asked, pointing to the huge constructions.

I smiled. “Fine.”

“The adjective I want to use is—”

“I can hardly wait.”

“Hideous.”

“That was a good choice of words.”

“Right?”

“But . . .” He fell silent, glancing at me quickly. “Am I allowed to say that it’s also beautiful?”

“Beautiful? Where did that come from?”