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said, “And she will do it. She doesn't speak much Danish, but she isn't stupid, Gunnar.”
    “I don't want her here,” he declared finally. “This is my house and I don't want her here.”
    “Fine,” Christina said. “Then I'll call Julie and tell her how you spend your day and suggest that she come and stay with you for a while.”
    Gunnar's eyes widened. Julie was worse than Anna when it came to nagging. Far away in London, she didn't interfere in his life, but if she came here she would sort the house out, she would make him go on walks, eat, stop drinking whiskey, and he would be unable to say no because she could persuade him to do anything, just like Anna could.
    “I'm not scared of Julie; go ahead and call her,” Gunnar said stubbornly.
    Christina pulled her Palm Pilot from her purse and started to look for Julie's home number.
    She had dialed the country code when Gunnar told her to stop.
    “This… this… is blackmail,” he protested, half stuttering.
    “Yes, it is,” Christina admitted. “But you won't get off your high horse, so what do you want me to do?”
    “I just lost my wife,” Gunnar said. “Don't you feel any pity for me? Is your heart made of stone?”
    “Oh please, can the melodrama,” Christina, said waving her hand at him.
    “Ole, talk to your wife, tell her that this is wrong,” Gunnar said.
    Ole shook his head. He was staying out of this.
    “But I don't know these Muslim people. They seem … what if she brings a bomb inside the house? What if she blows up my house like all those suicide bombers in Israel?” he demanded.
    “Then we won't have to worry about you anymore,” Ole said and ran a hand over his bald head.
    “Come on, Gunnar, she's a good girl,” Christina said. “She's in her early twenties and she has already been through horror. She seemed happy when she talked about those bees.”
    “You need to stop getting involved in the lives of your students,” Gunnar said. “Remember that man from Iran?”
    “I'm not getting involved; I'm just finding her a job I think she will like,” she said defensively.
    “You're getting me involved,” Gunnar said in frustration.
    “But she hardly speaks Danish and you speak no Dari. Just talk to her about the bees and you both will be fine,” Christina said. “I am going to make some coffee.” As she walked past her husband, she cleared her throat.
    Ole watched his wife leave the living room.
    “She's already involved with this Afghan girl,” Ole said. “She tries, you know, to keep her distance from the students, but there's this one student she gets attached to and wants to help.”
    “I know,” Gunnar said. “I think about that student of Christina's from Iran and my problems don't seem too bad. Anna died in a hospital bed; no one tortured her or me. But living after her is torture.”
    “I can believe that.”
    “I can't help anyone,” Gunnar said. “Not some Afghan girl, not even myself.”
    “Why don't you try it for a week or so? It will make Christina happy and it may not work out anyway,” Ole suggested.
    Gunnar looked out into the backyard. His and Anna's colonies were there, still hibernating, but not for long. Spring was nearly here. The bees would die or swarm, he thought.
    “For one week only,” he said to Ole, who nodded.
    “If it doesn't work, you handle Christina and no calling Julie,” Gunnar said and started to clean his pipe.
    “Deal,” Ole promised.
    “And if I am going to do this I want roulade, with chocolate cream,” he said loudly.
    “I will get you one tomorrow,” Christina called out from the kitchen and Gunnar could hear her humming as she finished making coffee.

FOUR
ENTRY FROM ANNA'S DIARY
A Year of Keeping Bees
    20 APRIL 1980
    I love to check on the bees. See how they're doing; make sure a rat hasn't found its way in. It's like checking on your children after they've gone to bed.
    In April we do some very quiet checking. It's the look around in the cold, huddled