Because the floor was, accordingly, unreliably repaired, the optician marked the patched sections with red packing tape so we could avoid them. The optician also marked the spot in the living room floor where Selma’s foot had broken through right after my father had said, “I’ve started psychoanalysis.” We all automatically avoided the patched spots, and even Alaska, when he entered the kitchen for the first time on Selma’s birthday, had instinctively stayed clear of the area marked in red.

Selma loved her house, and every time she left it, she patted the façade like the flank of an old horse.

“You should let more of the world in,” my father would say, “instead of living in a house that is always on the verge of collapsing.”

“As long as it’s only on the verge,” Selma would answer.

“That’s exactly the problem,” my father would continue, “that it’s not worse.” Then he would start in again on how the house should be torn down and a new one built, one with more room, since the upstairs apartment had always been too small, with or without extensions. Selma would become furious and tell my father that he should take his wasteful tendencies elsewhere, but please watch where he stepped on his way out.

When we got home, my father was sitting on the front steps. His consulting hours were over. “You’re not wearing shoes,” he said to Selma. “Are you going senile? Or did you have one Mon Chéri too many today?”

“I threw my shoes at some dogs,” Selma said.

“That’s not exactly a sign of mental health, either,” my father remarked.

“Yes, it is,” Selma said. She opened the door. “Come in.”

The optician lifted his hands off the hot compress, took Elsbeth by the shoulders, and turned her to face him. “Of course,” he said, “you can tell me anything.”

“It’s just that I’d like to confess something in case I …in case today something …” Elsbeth said.

“Because of the dream,” the optician said.

“Exactly, even though I don’t actually believe anything will happen,” she lied.

“Neither do I,” the optician lied right back. “I think it’s extremely unlikely that the dream is foretelling anyone’s death. It’s nonsense, if you ask me.”

It’s very calming to tell a few small lies when you know a hidden truth is about to be revealed. The optician thought of Martin, who always hopped up and down a little before trying to lift something almost impossibly heavy.

“It’s not easy,” Elsbeth said.

“If you’d like, I’ll tell you a secret in return,” the optician offered.