The image that arose from her memory was this: she was about ten, sitting in the window of the family bedroom, looking down into the courtyard, which was illuminated with a weak glow by the light over the back stairs. She was in her nightgown, and should have been in bed, but she had developed the habit, before going to sleep, of sitting there for a few minutes and staring out into the night without thinking about anything, while a gentle peace erased the events of the day from her mind. Suddenly, she saw the gate open, and across the wet cobblestones of the courtyard, onto which raindrops splashed in an excited rhythm, strolled a pretty, dreamlike creature. Her long yellow dress nearly touched the ground, and high above a profusion of silky blond curls floated an umbrella. It was not like the one Helga’s grandmother used – round, black and dome-shaped, with a solid handle – but a flat, bright, translucent thing, which seemed to complement the person who carried it, like a butterfly’s radiant wings. It was just a brief glimpse, then the courtyard was deserted as before, but Helga’s heart was pounding with strange excitement. She ran into the living room where her mother and father were sitting. ‘A lady was walking across the courtyard,’ she said softly. Then she added, with awe and admiration, ‘She had such a nice umbrella!’

She stood there barefoot, blinking into the light. The familiar room, which lacked anything with a comparable essence, now seemed to her cramped and poor. Her mother looked surprised. ‘A lady?’ she asked. Then the corners of her mouth turned downward, as they often did when something displeased or bothered her. ‘It’s that girl next door,’ she said sharply. ‘It’s scandalous.’ Then Helga’s father turned to her with a flash of anger. ‘Why the devil are you sitting staring out the window when you should be in bed?’ he yelled. ‘Get in there and go to sleep.’