The optician drove Frederik and me back to the county seat. Palm had, in fact, not spoken a single word the entire visit. Only at the very end, when they were all standing by the door to wave a lengthy goodbye, did Palm step forward, take Frederik’s hand, and say, “I wish for you God’s bountiful blessings.”

“I wish them for you, too,” Frederik replied, and bowed so deeply that Palm reached out his hand to catch Frederik in case he lost his balance, but it wasn’t necessary.

When we had already reached the village border, in front of Marlies’s house, my mother came running toward us. She held a long bouquet wrapped in cellophane over her head. The optician braked and rolled down the window. The rain was still pouring down. My mother stuck her dripping head through the window.

“Dammit, once again I’m too late, I’m sorry.” She reached past the optician and shook Frederik’s hand. “I’m Astrid, her mother. I’m also now Luisa’s father’s ex-wife.”

“Good evening,” Frederik said.

My mother pulled her head back. “This is for you,” she said, and stuck the bouquet of very long-stemmed gladiolas through the window.

“Oh, thank you. They’re beautiful,” Frederik said, and awkwardly stowed it between his knees. The flowers touched the car’s ceiling. My mother knocked on the back window and smiled at me. She looked happy and very young. I nodded at her and, behind her, saw something move in Marlies’s darkened living room window. My mother held her bag over her head even though it made no difference and hurried away. I opened the car door and went up to Marlies’s house.

“Marlies, it’s me,” I called. “Do you want to come say hello?”

Nothing moved.

“You don’t need to be approachable. It was a very dumb idea.”

Marlies opened the window a crack. “Leave me in peace with your stupid visit,” she called.

“Fine, then, take care,” I said, and got back in the car.

Frederik turned and looked at me. “Anyone else coming?”

“No,” I said, “no one else.”

THE BLUE WHALE’S HEAVY HEART

The optician’s car was an orange Passat station wagon from the 1970s and it, too, could have been used in an experiment to find the secret of immortality. The optician had driven Martin and me to school in this Passat when the local train was canceled because of too much snow, and he had driven me to school every day for six months because I refused to get in the train after Martin’s death.

“Why didn’t the train door on my side open?” I’d asked the optician from the back seat two months after Martin’s death.