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his body, his face. He is still there, just for a night, only for a few hours. So she stays where she is. She makes no noise, tries not to breathe, she holds her breath, desperately trying to catch some sound, some small sign that he is still alive, only asleep. But there’s nothing apart from her breathing, the rise and fall of her ribcage. Only Blum and her dead husband. Only her thoughts, her pain, her rage, her despair, her own heart burning, crying out. Blum and Mark. Mark eradicated, just like that.

six
    Massimo is weeping. His wife stands beside him, and Karl next to them. Blum and the children are standing beside the grave, right at the front, throwing sunflowers into its depths. The yellow petals lie on the coffin, a comforting image but just for a moment. Flowers for Papa. The sight of the flowers hurts; the hurt is even greater than it was at first, now, after three days without him. Three days in which they have been searching desperately for their ordinary lives. Reza was at the helm, organising everything. He was there for Blum, for the children, for Karl. But for him the boat would have capsized. He is strong, he doesn’t shed tears, but his smile has disappeared, the smile that had come to his face years ago when his life at the villa began.
    Reza helped to carry the coffin; he coordinated everything, drew up the death announcement, organised the funeral. Blum didn’t have to worry about anything because Reza was in charge; she could devote herself to the children, to taking their minds off sad subjects, preparing them, explaining step by step what would happen. Trying to tell them that the coffin will simply disappear into the ground. That death is a part of life and takes what it wants, like a wild beast tearing apart a sheep. A car coming out of nowhere. Sunflowers falling. She put it in prettier, less truthful terms, not wanting to frighten the children, wishing to spare them.
    The sun is shining in the cemetery. Reza looks after Karl, supporting the old man. Karl can hardly stand, his legs won’t carry him, he hasn’t been able to eat or sleep. He has aged several years in these three days. Many of the mourners are weeping, the police band plays a funeral march, countless colleagues of Mark’s are present, and Massimo, Mark’s best friend, delivers an address. He remembers the good times, the operations they undertook together. Mark was one of the good cops, says Massimo, a man with a heart, unforgettable, a loss to all who knew him. Massimo sheds more tears.
    One by one they throw earth down into the grave. Then the mourners leave him alone. Mark is deep down in the ground, in his coffin. He is on his own, while they all go to the restaurant and drink to him. They offer Blum help and condolences, they assure her that things will get better. She can hardly look them in the eye; they are as powerless as she is. Helplessly, she sits with a plate of chicken soup; helplessly, she tries to persuade the children to eat. There’s no more that she can do. She can only be there for them, love them, give them all she has. She mustn’t leave them alone with their pain and their fear; the children are all she has left of him. How sad they are, and how strong. They endure what has happened, are adjusting to it. They sit still and wait for the storm to pass. Blum strokes their hair, Uma’s hair, Nela’s hair. And Massimo takes Blum aside, puts his arm round her affectionately.
    ‘Drink this.’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Go on, have a drink.’
    ‘If you insist.’
    ‘I’m so sorry, Blum.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘And you know that I’ll always be there for you.’
    ‘But even you can’t bring him back, can you?’
    ‘No, I can’t do that. Mark was one of the most important people in my life too; I owe him this.’
    ‘You owe him what?’
    ‘Taking care of you for him.’
    ‘No one has to take care of me.’
    ‘Yes, they do, Blum. Ute and I can help you with the children.’
    ‘That won’t be