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him would have described Johan Sletten as a man with an inner flame, but he was aware of a small unaccountable flicker deep inside all the same. At his funeral he was remembered as honest, amiable, witty, intelligent, able. His interest in books, the cinema, and music was mentioned but not overplayed. It would never have occurred to anyone to use the word
passion
in connection with Johan. Not even Mai—when, to many people’s surprise, she delivered her husband’s eulogy—gave the impression that their twenty-three-year-long marriage had been in any way passionate. Qualities such as friendship, thoughtfulness, understanding, and trust were named. Especially trust—she repeated the word several times.
    Now that all this is said and done, it might seem as if Johan was the only one who knew he had an inner flame, a quietly resounding
yes.
Whether or not other people knew it was there, it was what he was prepared to fight for. He would fight as long as he could. It was not impossible to survive this. Johan had made a list of all the stories he had read or heard, about men and women, given much the same diagnosis as he, who had survived. He could be one of them. He wanted to be one of them.
    But when he couldn’t fight any longer, if it came to that, then he wanted to die with dignity. Before they found him caked with his own shit. Before he became a burden to Mai. She must understand that it would be his choice, his last plea for help. Yes, he would fight, but if and when he found the battle going against him, he would ask for help.
    Johan faced himself in the mirror. This thing about a dog, he thought, had left its mark on the day. He didn’t even want a dog. When Charley was put to sleep, he’d made up his mind never to have another dog. But a perfectly ordinary conversation between a husband and wife about getting a dog shouldn’t have to be so goddamned existential, a matter of life and death like everything else these days. Mai didn’t want a dog because she thought that Johan was about to make his exit—now there’s drama for you, thought Johan, making a face in the mirror; Mr. Johan Sletten makes his exit—and she didn’t want to take care of a dog on her own. Even the most ridiculous, banal conversation revolved around the fact that Johan was about to make his exit. (Although making one’s exit really suggests leaving a stage, and he was going to do more than that: he was going to kick the bucket, cash in his chips, pass away, shuffle off this mortal coil.) But talk about it . . . she never would. Not that he wanted to. But they hadn’t made plans as they usually did. Mai wouldn’t admit that she believed he was going to die, but she wouldn’t make plans either. She wouldn’t even pretend. That wasn’t her way.
    The business about the dog had set him thinking, and now he wanted to talk to her. He had wandered around his little Swedish cottage garden, cursing the capricious weather (which he took personally, as a sign), thinking that it was time he took control of the situation. A voice, like another, deeper form of breathing inside him, said that it was high time to take control! And at that moment the sun peeked out from behind the clouds and shone down on him, shone with just a fraction of its enormous power on my spindly friend Johan Sletten.
    He turned his face to the sky and let the sun warm him.
    It was high time.
    Johan did not have much of an appetite at dinner. Food, even good food, nauseated him. But he could still, on occasion, enjoy a glass or two of wine, as he did that evening. Sitting with him at the kitchen table under the blue lamp, Mai remarked, a bit absentmindedly, “Your boil’s looking a bit fiery. I’ll clean it for you.” She stood up.
    “Sit down, Mai!”
    Mai looked at him, taken aback. She sat down.
    “Forget about my face! We need to talk.” They both winced at his tone. He took a deep breath. “And there will be no interruptions,” he added. He raised his hand to