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when we came back from Las Palmas? Do you remember the Negro who fell on the escalator at Gardermoen?” he asked. “He broke both his legs. In several places. It was terrible.”
    â€œYou shouldn’t say Negro,” Mass corrected him. “What made you think about him anyway?”
    â€œWell, we have to go down the escalator too. We’d better be careful. Hold on to the handrail. I’ll carry the bags.” He licked his lips.
    â€œI’m going to watch
Tracker Tore
tonight. I wonder who he’s going to help this time, and if they’ll find who they’re looking for,” he said. “It always starts me thinking about Gran and Granddad. And all the others on Dad’s side. Where they came from. And everyone before them. And how they lived. And what they did.”
    Mass took a sip of coffee. “But they’re dead,” she objected. “It doesn’t matter anymore. It’s you and me now, and I think we manage very well.”
    She ate some of her waffle. “Perhaps you should get a girlfriend,” she said. “After all, I’m not going to be here forever.”
    Eddie looked up with a horrified expression on his face. “Why do I need a girlfriend when I’ve got you?” he exclaimed. “Were you upset when Dad left?”
    â€œNo,” she replied. “Not really. I think I was expecting it. He was a womanizer, Eddie, just so you know. He found someone else—someone much younger than me, of course. That’s just the way men are. But then he got ill and died, so she didn’t get much joy from him either. I don’t know if they had any children; maybe they did. But we’ve talked about all this before, Eddie. There’s nothing more to tell.”
    â€œIt sounds like you think it’s all OK,” Eddie said, offended. “Didn’t you think about me?”
    â€œOf course I did. I just didn’t want you to grow up with a father who didn’t want us.”
    Â 
    Later that afternoon, Eddie sat on the sofa with the newspaper. He liked to read the deaths and obituaries, savoring them like candy. Lots of old ladies who tasted like camphor. Some, like all the little children, were as sweet as toffee. And some were stronger than Turkish pepper. It might be a murder or a suicide, or the many who lost the fight against cancer. His thoughts started to wander. Then he returned to the crossword. Corona, five letters, and the last one was “s.” He knew that Corona was a beer; he knew that it was a town. And it also had something to do with the sun. He looked it up on the Internet and discovered to his great surprise that it was also a virus. The things I know! he thought to himself happily. I’ve got my eye on the ball.

3
    HER SON WAS ASLEEP beside her, a damp lock of hair on his forehead. Four and a half years old, with big blond curls and small white hands with nails like mother-of-pearl.
    â€œSimon,” she whispered, “are you awake? The day has begun and we have to get up.”
    The boy wriggled and turned over; he wanted to carry on sleeping.
    â€œI’ll get up without you, then, and make the porridge,” she said with some resignation, putting one foot down on the floor. “With butter and raisins and sugar and cinnamon.”
    What sounded like a sigh came from the child, as though the thought of buttery porridge had penetrated his sleep. She kissed him on the cheek; it was warm and covered in the finest down. Then she pulled on a thick sweater and crossed the cold floor into the kitchen. She poured some milk into a pan and added oats and a teaspoon of salt. And finally a handful of raisins. Then she went back into the bedroom and lifted the boy up from the bed. He opened his eyes drowsily and put his arms around her neck. He weighed next to nothing. She carried him into the bathroom and helped him get dressed while he leaned against the sink. Eventually he sat down at