They step with care. Portions of the boulevard have been smoothed with concrete, but in other places the old cobbles poke through, making the surface tricky, especially for Martä in her high-heeled shoes. In order to keep her balance (and because it is difficult for a short woman to walk with a tall man under an umbrella) she takes Malcolm’s arm. Not a bold gesture, not at all, but a forthcoming one, also intimate. It is likely that Malcolm extended his elbow slightly by way of entreaty-half a centimeter would have done it, would have given permission ; an old-worldly habit to walk arm-in-arm, emphatically neutral but with a ripple of protective tribute.

The distance between the Hotel Turista and the People’s Square is only a kilometer, a mere stroll, 0.6 of a mile. The rain grows more intense, but instead of hurrying them along, it slows them down. First Malcolm must adjust his long steps to match Martä’s and, after a minute or two of faltering, of amused back and forth glances, they find their ideal stride, a strolling, rolling gait, right and left, right and left. Malcolm brings his elbow closer to his body so that the back of Martä’s tucked hand is in contact with the large damp paleness of his jacket. There it stays, there it fuses.

Ahead of them the lights of the People’s Square blink unsteadily. It is the slashing of the rain that gives this look of unsteadiness. Lights seen through a whorl of weather throb rather than shine, producing a rhythmic pulse that is always trying to mend itself but never catching up. Martä and Malcolm are locked together by this rhythm, left and right, left and right, one body instead of two. If only they could walk like this forever. Malcolm has spent his whole life arriving at this moment; this is the best bit of walking he’s ever going to do, and it seems to last and last, one quarter-hour unfolding into a measureless present.

Martä, dazed by a distortion of time and light, thinks how this round black umbrella gives an unasked-for refuge, how the rain becomes a world in itself, how the kilometer of rutted city street has become a furrow of love. It will never end, she thinks, knowing it is about to.