The young woman got up too, blushing slightly, and started setting out the cups, while his mother sat down, recovering from the exertion.

‘Asger,’ she whined, ‘would you mind attaching the hook in the kitchen window for me?’

As he left the room, it was evident from his back that he felt he was being watched, and she felt a sudden tenderness arise within her over his charming awkwardness, his dreamy, idealistic view of life, and his amazing ability to feel joy over the most insignificant things; also the wrinkles around his eyes when he smiled, which he evidently got from his father, since his mother didn’t seem able to smile – I mean, had she ever laughed in her whole life?

She smiled uncomfortably at the old woman, who nodded slowly and sadly back at her: ‘Well, we have to hope it will lead to a blessing this time,’ she intoned.

‘Yes,’ said the young woman quietly, and a shadow passed through her impressionable mind. A reflection from the eyes across from her, so filled with misery, reached her own open and questioning gaze, and a speck of invisible dust settled on her features, as if for a moment she had merged with the silent horde of photographs which spent their shadowy lives here on the furniture and the windowsills, where no flowers seemed to thrive.

His mother poured the tea when Asger returned. She had dirty fingernails, just like him. But with him it was from all that fidgeting with his pipe, or maybe forgetfulness – at any rate, it didn’t matter. But an old woman, she thought, should at least keep herself clean.

The three of them sat around the large round table, so far from one another they had to rise in order to reach the plate of cookies or the fine blue sugar bowl. The young woman’s bare summer legs were cold, and appeared pale next to the old woman’s dark gypsy-brown skin. Asger took two sugars, and kept stirring his cup long after they had dissolved. It was necessary to say something to him several times before he turned his gaze from the distant point it dwelled on, and looked straight at the person who spoke to him. ‘Sorry, what did you ask?’ She tended to find this endearing, and she jokingly waved her hand back and forth in front of him, like a person does to see if the other is conscious or not; but even that wasn’t always enough to bring him back. Back from what?

He was bored visiting his mother. Naturally. It was morose. She reported on her recent calamities with a dark, droning voice: the little girl who had fallen down the kitchen stairs the other day, and her sister, who was no longer able to communicate. ‘But she’s not insane, because it’s obvious she recognizes me; still, being in such a horrible place must make her feel even more miserable!’

Asger smiled gently.