He clasped his hands behind his back. The rest of us, still anticipating a declaration of love, briefly wondered if love would suddenly be launched at Selma from an entirely unexpected direction, if it were ultimately revealed that Palm secretly loved her, and what Selma would do if Palm declared his love for her. After all, since Martin’s death, Selma had been unable to refuse him anything, except the deer.

I put my eggnog on the coffee table and took my mother’s hand.

“I wanted to murder you, Selma,” Palm said softly, looking at his feet in his Sunday shoes. “For Martin’s death.” He looked up briefly. “Because of your dreams. I thought that would be the end of it and no one else would die.”

We all stared at Selma. We couldn’t tell if she would let it pass or if she would suddenly deny him everything, all her affection and all his explications. It was clear that that’s what Palm expected.

She let it pass.

“You didn’t do it,” she said, and went over to Palm.

“I’d loaded the gun,” he whispered.

Selma wanted to stroke his shoulder, but since that wasn’t possible, she stroked the air a few centimeters above his shoulder.

“It was nice of you not to shoot me.”

“I was so stupid,” Palm said with a sob. “Only God is immortal.”

“The roast is getting cold,” Selma said. “Any more attempted murders, or should we eat?”

“By all means, let’s eat,” my mother said. “By the way, Peter’s still on the line.”

“Oh God,” Selma cried, and ran to the phone.

“I didn’t understand a thing, the connection’s so bad,” my father said. “Are you done singing?”

“Yes,” Selma replied, “everyone’s done singing.”

Later that evening, I went out for a walk with Alaska and took a piece of the roast, wrapped in tinfoil, to Marlies’s house. Before, she used to join us at least on holidays, but now she refused to come at all.

The night was very clear and very cold.

“Look how beautiful it is here,” I said to Alaska, “a symphony of clarity, cold, and darkness.”

Friedhelm waltzed past, softly singing “Every Year Again.” He tipped his hat and I nodded at him. I wondered if the shot my father had given him for his panic attack twelve years ago was a depot injection that gradually released happiness and satisfaction over the decades.

Because Marlies wouldn’t open the front door anyway, I went right around the house to the kitchen window she always left ajar.

“Happy holidays, Marlies,” I said. “Here’s some of the roast. It’s excellent.”

“I don’t want it. Go away.”

I leaned against the wall next to the window.

“You missed something tonight,” I said. “Palm almost murdered Selma, and the optician almost murdered Palm.”

There was the noise of a kitchen chair being pushed back.

“What?” Marlies asked.