Now and then he felt a desperate urge to make her notice that he existed on his own terms, that he was visible, connected to what bound him, to his own stamp, or to existence. But he couldn’t do it. He tried, but the only result was that he stood there, bewildered and anxious, in the background of her journey toward life, afraid to influence her or touch her with his presence, even though he wished to be seen. The few attempts he made were merely pathetic. Like the time she had two school friends visiting, and he heard them playing music in her room, and he heard it was the exact same music, most likely even the exact same record, or CD, that she’d been playing when he asked her a few days ago what she was playing. Afterward the door to her room opened, and Isabella and her friends came out and settled in front of the TV to watch the music channel. But before they got too immersed in this new activity, Singer casually asked, turning to Isabella, what they had just been playing, there was something familiar about the music he even said, and that caused Isabella, in the presence of her friends, to sigh with resignation and tell him: you asked me the same thing the last time I played it, two days ago. It was so and so, singing such and such, she stated firmly, placing emphasis on each syllable of the solo act’s name and the title of the so-called song, while each of her two well-brought-up friends raised a small hand to her mouth, to hide a slightly exasperated sneer that Isabella’s stepfather should be so out of it that he hadn’t even tried to remember the names of what interested them and what made their very young lives move forward and go round. Isabella cast a resigned, and triumphant, glance at her two well-brought-up friends, and at that instant Singer experienced one of his brightest moments as Isabella’s substitute parent and provider. Finally he had a function. Finally he was able to be of service. At that moment Singer was able to smile to himself as he found himself the focus of Isabella’s triumphant resignation as she glanced at her two friends and their well-brought-up gestures, as they raised the palms of their small hands to their mouths.

  Only later did it occur to him how pathetic the situation and his behavior had been. He felt a strong distrust toward himself; were there no limits to what roles and what situations he could see himself taking on, in a deliberate fashion, simply in order to appear to himself, and only to himself, as someone who would go to any lengths to please her? He might obliterate his own being, or distort it, simply so that she would be able to live out her youth in a normal manner, and with him involved; that was what Singer concluded when he later thought about the matter.

  And so this scene became an example of Singer’s convoluted relationship to existence and to himself. Trapped in his own self he stood there permeated with existence, in a bright moment in his life with regard to his fifteen-year-old stepdaughter, who in the presence of her friends, could sigh at how old-fashioned and out of it he was.

  That summer Singer took Isabella on a long road trip through Europe during his brief, and Isabella’s lengthy, summer vacation. The trip took them to Lisbon. First by car ferry to Hirtshals, and from there all through the flat, lush, and green landscape of Denmark, stopping at country inns for meals — unfortunately without indulging in a little drink, since he was driving — and overnight lodgings, where in the evening he did have a little drink while he brooded over the day’s drive. Onward through northern Germany and along the Rhine until they entered France at Strasbourg, and then across France, south of Paris, heading for Bordeaux and the Bay of Biscay. From there they entered Spain, where they stopped at Santiago de Compostela, which is a pilgrimage site because Jesus’s beloved disciple Jacob is buried there, according to the truthful account that Singer didn’t even blink at when he heard it, merely taking note of it, before they drove along the weather-beaten Gallic coast, with its tempting shellfish dishes in the little cafés in the fishing villages, not nearly as expensive as Singer had thought, until they drove into Portugal and reached Lisbon. They stayed a week in Lisbon, and Singer walked around, breathing in the city’s atmosphere along with his stepdaughter. He showed her everything that was worth seeing, cathedrals and cloisters, lighthouses and modern bridges across the Tagus River, and he showed her exactly where the Tagus ended and the Atlantic Ocean began. He explained about world empires that rose and fell. He even showed her little cafés where fado was played, for the tourists. And they rode the trams. Isabella took in everything with an impassive expression, even when he told her about the earthquake in Lisbon and took her to see the cathedral that still stood as it was left after the earthquake struck, a naked ruin, a sunken cathedral, as Singer, rather imprecisely, in a metaphorical sense, expressed it. One day they drove down to the Algarve coast, to satisfy the fifteen-year-old girl’s urge to see the Atlantic Ocean. Truth be told, they’d spent almost every day north of Lisbon in the venerable and fairly quiet resort town of Estoril so Isabella could go swimming, but she still insisted on going down to the Algarve coast, where all the people were, as she said. And there were definitely people, even Norwegians, and Isabella met a girl her own age out in the ocean, and when she came out of the water she looked perplexed.

  “Planes fly here,” she exclaimed to Singer. “It only takes two hours. And here we spent days sitting in the hot car. And they’re all staying here, not in Lisbon.”

  We could describe the drive home as well, but we won’t. Singer drove home with great, suppressed energy, taking a slightly different route, while Isabella mostly stared up at the sky to see if there were any planes. But once they were back home, when they happened to see Inge­mann, Singer noticed that Isabella, with that deliberate expression of hers, had absorbed a lot of impressions after all, because she began telling Inge­mann about Portugal and the Portuguese, and she didn’t put any particular emphasis on the delights of the Algarve coast but instead talked about the earthquake in Lisbon.

  It was early in the fall, it must have been on a Sunday morning, when Inge­mann suddenly showed up. Singer hadn’t seen Inge­mann in a long time, he hadn’t seen him since spring. While Inge­mann and Singer were chatting, mostly about Inge­mann’s new plans, which Singer listened to with great sufferance because they had nothing to do with him, Isabella suddenly appeared and came over to stand between them. She must have heard from her own room and through the music of her CDs that he’d arrived, and she immediately came in, although moving languidly. Now she stood there, quietly, holding in her hands the wide-brimmed straw hat that she’d bought in Portugal, on the Algarve coast. A few minutes later, when the conversation Singer and Inge­mann were having touched on the summer and Singer’s summer vacation and the road trip to Portugal, Isabella interjected a few remarks. About Lisbon. About the earthquake in Lisbon. She tried to describe the cathedral which still stood just as it had after the earthquake, like a sunken cathedral, she told Inge­mann. Inge­mann nodded knowingly and then spoke directly to the precocious teenage girl.

  “So you found it interesting, I see,” said Inge­mann, and Singer noticed that Inge­mann used the word interesting and that Isabella looked as if she liked the fact he’d used that particular word. Strange how he manages to do that, thought Singer, quite impressed. But Inge­mann went on:

  “We do too.” (Meaning find the sunken cathedral in Lisbon interesting; this is the author’s, or for that matter Singer’s, remark.) “We filmed there last year, and we’re thinking of going back to Lisbon this year. Lisbon, you see, is an exciting city for us. The city has atmosphere, both for material things like clothing, and for living things, like people. Start filming in the yellow Lisbon tram up the steep streets to the Alfama heights, and you’ll get the whole thing for free, let me tell you. Oh yes, there’s a future in Lisbon. For us.”

  “Oh,” said Isabella. “Oh, I took that tram. Lots of times.”

  “But look here,” said Inge­mann, pleased, holding out his hand, which, during the entire conversation he’d kept discreetly hidden behind his back, and now he brought into the light a big bottle of whiskey. “This is for you, Singer, a belated birthday present!” he exclaimed heartily, and Singer, flustered, accepted the whiskey bottle that Inge­mann, in an almost miraculous way had managed to hide in the hand he’d held behind his back during their entire conversation. His birthday! Of course he’d had a birthday, it was during the trip to Portugal, in the middle of their vacation, as always. It had been a long time since Singer had cared to mark his birthday, even to himself. This year it had come and gone without his even once recalling that it was his birthday. Not even a random newspaper left on a coffee table had reminded him of the date. And Isabella had forgotten it long ago. Before, when she was younger, he used to dutifully remind her of the occasion a few days in advance so that she, like other children her age, would have time to mark a birthday that was not her own but someone else’s, someone who was close to her. But by now three or four years had passed since he’d reminded her of his birthday, and Isabella herself had forgotten all about it. The only people who ever remembered it, consistently and without fail, were Isabella’s grandparents in Not­odden, and so when they arrived home from Portugal, there was a postcard for Singer in the mailbox, sending him the very best wishes for his birthday on the ——th of ——, 19——. Singer had swiftly stuck the card in his pocket without mentioning to Isabella that he’d received a birthday card from her grandparents, because she’d forgotten about the whole thing, much to Singer’s own satisfaction. Because Singer thought it was a relief not to have to celebrate his birthday. He thought himself lucky that his birthday fell when most people were on vacation, and even better, it was always in the middle of his own vacation, so that he didn’t have to sit in the Deich­man Library, in the presence of his colleagues, with a big, disgusting piece of layer cake in front of him and pretend to appreciate the fact that they were making a fuss over him in that way. When you’ve reached the age of forty-seven, it’s no longer amusing. He had personally sat there, playing the role of a cheerful colleague, and watched especially his middle-aged colleagues in their fifties, lonely, thin-haired men who with a sheepish smile sat there looking down, then away, at their piece of layer cake as their colleagues, with Singer among them, began singing, almost maliciously, the happy birthday song, and he was glad that wasn’t him, thinking that he would have preferred to skip it. He wanted his birthday to disappear, dissolve in water and sink to the bottom. A day like all the others. That’s how he felt about it, wanting to maneuver that day into silence, and outside of time, time lived and gone for good, so that eventually not even a scratch on his skin would remind him of the day when it occurred, or of that time; that’s what gave Singer a great sense of satisfaction. Then he felt that he was once again in sync with himself and could breathe a sigh of relief while, without thinking about it, he endured yet another day in his life without noting that forty-seven years had now passed since his birth. Such is Singer’s life, it proceeded without any need to mark its passage, thought Singer, moving with his own unique rhythm, yet not totally without self-awareness, in spite of everything. To be yanked out of the automechanism of life in order to celebrate his birthday as a boisterous reminder was something that broke with what Singer regarded as his essential nature.

  Yet he was genuinely pleased when Inge­mann handed him a big bottle of whiskey as a belated birthday present. Because it was from Inge­mann and not someone else. His connections to Inge­mann ran deep, back to their childhood; April 16 was Inge­mann’s birthday, March 12 was Gunnar’s, and July 17 was Arne’s. So Inge­mann beamed happily when he handed Singer a big bottle of whiskey as a belated birthday present, seeing that Singer was visibly moved by the gesture. He couldn’t hide anything from Inge­mann. Singer was so flustered at being handed the whiskey bottle, as a present, that he didn’t know what to do with himself.

  “Well, I suppose we should open it,” he said in confusion as he began unscrewing the cap, looking around for two glasses and wondering where on earth to find them. “You need to go out and buy us some soda,” he said to Isabella.

  “Hey, don’t do that,” laughed Inge­mann. “Don’t open it now, in the middle of a bright Sunday morning; no, you need to save it for a day when you really need a stiff drink, because let me tell you, there’s nothing like a good whiskey when you really need one, when you’re dead tired and at the same time pleased with yourself. But to think that you, Singer, you of all people, would even consider having a party at ten-thirty on a Sunday morning, I didn’t expect that of you,” said Inge­mann, and again he laughed heartily. Isabella laughed too, because Singer had thought of drinking whiskey at ten-thirty on a Sunday morning.

  “All right, all right, I suppose I’ll have to wait,” said Singer, and he laughed a bit too. “Thanks,” he said. “It was nice of you, Inge­mann, to remember what I’d personally forgotten,” he added. “It’s been years since I remembered the day. But I remember yours, even if I haven’t given you a present, because you no longer host birthday parties, at least none that I’ve been invited to.”

  “No, I’ve given that up,” said Inge­mann. “But I do remember the day, and I go around internally celebrating myself. And I get into such a festive mood that everyone notices and they come rushing with flowers and cake and wine, and frequent pats on the head, kisses, and hugs all day long,” said Inge­mann, beaming.

  Isabella stood there, twisting the straw hat in her hands and laughing at what Inge­mann had said. Inge­mann noticed her standing there laughing, and he turned to her.

  “So, how’s it going, honey?” he said. “What grade are you in now?”

  “Last year of middle school,” replied Isabella (honey).

  “Are you kidding me? I can’t believe it. You’re sure growing up fast,” he said. A moment later he said, “I have a present for you, too.” And he got out three tickets, which he held out in a fascinating little fan formation, clearly showing that there were three.

  “Tickets to a new TV show on the TV-Norge channel, the first in the series. Hottest show of the year. Three tickets. Here, you can take two of your friends with you.”

  Isabella was thrilled. She took the tickets and clutched them to her chest. This wasn’t the first time that Inge­mann had shown up with tickets that entitled the ticket holder to be in the TV audience for an evening, but previously the tickets had been just for Singer and Isabella. This was the first time Inge­mann gave the tickets solely to Isabella, and three of them, so she could take along two girls her own age. The fact that Inge­mann had offered the tickets in this way came as a relief to Singer. He was now freed from accompanying his stepdaughter when she took her place as an invited, and specially chosen, guest in the TV audience for various TV shows, which had meant that he too was part of the TV audience, occasionally seen by hundreds of thousands of viewers sitting at home in their living rooms, and perhaps they caught sight of a middle-aged man and a little girl seated in the studio with expectant looks on their faces. But for Isabella, the shows had been momentous occasions. Receiving tickets from Inge­mann had meant that she could sit in TV studios, whether it was NRK, TV-2, TV-3, or TV-Norge, as a member of the audience for various shows, which for Isabella marked rare golden moments in her childhood; and so it had been only natural that Singer should accompany her and sit there playing an audience member for these shows, which he never, in his wildest imagination, would ever have chosen to watch if he’d been sitting at home in his own living room. The fact that Isabella, even as a teenager and young lady, should be offered these kinds of tickets by Inge­mann, was no doubt something she appreciated, especially because she was also visible on the TV screen, as an audience member, seen by others, her classmates, who made a point of remarking on this at school, which had increased her status among her friends, and there had been times when Singer had sensed that this was the very thing that might benefit his little stepdaughter. To be a member of a TV audience had doubled, and extended, the enjoyment for her, because these shows were seldom broadcast live. Isabella (and Singer as her companion) were present at the filming, and then the shows were broadcast at a later date, so Isabella was able to sit in front of the TV and watch, excited about catching sight of herself, and Singer, in the studio. Singer himself did not sit in front of the TV on these occasions but he would be nearby, in the same room, sitting in a comfortable chair and reading a book, for example, and now and then he would cheerfully call out: “Are you there?” or “Did you see us?” and Isabella would answer: “I’m watching the show, not trying to see if I’m there.” But when Isabella, or Singer, or even both of them happened to appear in a big close-up, she couldn’t contain herself and shouted: “There we are, there we are!” And then Singer had to rush over, but he was always too late, because audience members appear on the screen only in very brief clips.

  Isabella could continue to be a TV-audience member, though now as a young lady. Inge­mann had come over and given her three tickets, so she could generously invite whomever she liked from her group of friends. Oh, those three tickets meant a spotlight would shine on Isabella in the schoolyard among the other young girls, it was a gilded moment, the tickets glowed. And for Singer they signified a release.

  This doesn’t mean that being a member of the TV audience had been directly irksome for him, it was much too absurd for that. Here was the middle-aged librarian showing up in a TV studio to be in the audience for something that all the other audience members regarded as no less than a big event, while he felt he had to grin and bear it. He was there to gild his stepdaughter’s childhood, and he had little trouble pretending to be an expectant audience member, both before the broadcast and during the broadcast, when he risked having the spotlight turn on him for a close-up. He wasn’t thrilled about having a close-up (at least not at first, until he found out that he could turn it to good purpose, or to his own benefit); otherwise he had few problems with being a TV audience member. Gradually he’d even started to like the idea that people he knew might see him as an audience member — not in a close-up, he couldn’t bear the thought of that, but in a sudden glimpse when the TV cameras scanned the audience. There he sat (with Isabella), in the middle of the studio, anonymously present amid the crowd, and maybe someone who saw it would suddenly give a start as they sat in a chair at home in front of the TV and exclaim: “But, but, goodness, that was Singer, it was! What on earth is he doing there!!?” The same surprise would be evoked, of course, from seeing him in a close-up, yet that seemed to Singer a little much, almost obtrusive in its absurdity, but that small glimpse of him as an audience member among all the others, he liked the thought of that. Yes, he enjoyed the thought of that, and the minor commotion it would cause. Truth be told, he looked forward to going to work at the Deich­man Library the day after Isabella told him that he’d been visible as an audience member briefly during the evening’s popular TV show. Because maybe someone would be waiting for him, for example a colleague, who would say as he, or she, saw Singer arrive, quiet and modest, as always: “Hey Singer, I couldn’t believe my eyes, but I thought I saw you on TV yesterday. In the audience during Casino. Can that be true?” And then Singer could say: “Oh, right, it’s true enough, I didn’t see the show myself, but I was in the studio when it was filmed three weeks ago, we know someone who occasionally gives us tickets to TV shows, it’s fun for my stepdaughter.” And then he would go downstairs to his metaphorical basement to count book spines, catalog titles, air out the ancient volumes, etc., etc., along with other colleagues, and both his coworkers at the counter and his discussion partners down in the basement, who had of course heard the rumors from upstairs about Singer being on TV as an audience member for Casino, would give him wondering looks, as if he were a mystery.