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Turkey, a window that looked out at a fig tree; in Norway, one overlooking the icy ocean; in Cairo, a farmer’s market. Always another place, another window. A litany of windows. Hanne sees herself standing in the doorway, staring at her mother’s rigid back, imagining the bumps of her vertebrae perfectly aligned, like a message written in Braille that she’d never understand, no matter how hard she tried.
    Always her father was away at work or traveling, and then, when Hanne was ten, he was gone for good. So it would be her mother she’d tell, though she can’t remember what she was waiting to say. Whatever it was, it would never be uttered because her mother whipped around, her perpetual look of disappointment fully displayed: “Don’t interrupt me!”
    What was the Muse whispering to her that was so important? Not great works of literature, or even mediocre ones. Would that have made it easier? She was poring over corporate documents. French, Swiss, German, anyone who would pay, her mother orchestrating the grand movement of goods, translating French to German, German to English, her Muse murmuring the languages of commerce, of moneymaking. At some point, her mother installed a lock for the door because, she said, “I need utter and complete silence, without even the itch of a thought that I could be disturbed.” The entire house enshrouded in silence, Hanne waiting for the Muse of commerce to shut up.
    There is no more waiting for her mother, who died twenty years ago and has taken her place alongside her parents in a cemetery in Kiel. Just as her father, who remains a shadowy presence in her memory, had assumed his place with his family members in a cemetery in Delft years before. Where Hanne will end up is easily solved; she’ll not lie beside either one of them, but be cremated. But death isn’t looming—she has too many obligations—what is looming is her deadline.
    She re-opens Kobayashi’s novel.
    The next day, Jiro wakes. The house feels bigger, relieved of heaviness and gloom. There is no need to reach over and touch his fingers to her neck to find a pulse. No need to run downstairs to see if she’s plunged a knife into her heart. Or overdosed on pills or stepped outside and thrown herself in front of a car. He read somewhere that each culture has its preferred way of committing suicide. His wife, however, considered all ways. But now he can luxuriate in a pool of calmness and ease his way into the day.
    Sunlight streams in through the bedroom window and he becomes aware of vast acreage in his mind that is wonderfully uninhabited. Where just yesterday it was populated by worry, anxiety, and vigilance, there is now a small country of nothingness. He wasn’t even conscious of how much of his mind was devoted to, no, obsessed with her well-being. He feels a funny little smile on his face. He is, finally, a free man.
    Then Kobayashi writes, Heya ga uzuiteiru. The room is throbbing.
    Throbbing with what? Uzuku is normally used for something negative—throbbing wounds or aching. But how can that be? He is not physically injured, he suffers no bodily pain. Figuratively, too, he suffers no aches or pains. In fact, Jiro has just regained a huge swath of his mind. A free man is what he just called himself. He is rid of shame and guilt, as much as a human can be. After many months, he’s done everything possible to save his wife, and with that comes the knowledge that he can do nothing more. What you’ve done is brave and admirable, she murmurs to Jiro. So you can’t be throbbing with pain, either physically or emotionally, can you? And the next sentence supports that: He picks up his violin and begins to play.
    Hanne can’t remember the last time he played his violin of his own free will. In the past year, he’s been so depleted that he barely makes it to symphony rehearsals. So this playing of the violin must signal the re-entrance of