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anywhere else on the planet.
    He forced his way inside the inferno and stomped a couple of times on the floor. Down in the basement Rigoletto was instantly wrapped up in cotton wool. It wasn’t that simple with the boy upstairs. Carl took the stairs in three bounds and didn’t bother to knock on the door.
    ‘Jesper, for God’s sake! The sound waves have shattered two windows down on Pinjevangen. And you’re the one who’s going to pay for them!’ he shouted as loud as he could.
    The boy had heard the same story before, so he didn’t move a muscle as he hunched over the computer keyboard.
    ‘Hey!’ yelled Carl, right in his ear. ‘Turn it down or I’ll cut the ADSL cable.’
    That got a reaction.
    Downstairs in the kitchen, Morten had already set plates on the table. Someone in the neighbourhood had once labelled him the surrogate mother at number 73, but that wasn’t right. Morten was not a surrogate; he was a real housewife and the best that Carl had ever encountered. He took care of the grocery shopping and laundry, the cooking and cleaning, while opera arias trilled from his sensitive lips. And to cap it all, he even paid rent.
    ‘Did you go to the university today?’ asked Carl, knowing what the answer would be. Morten was thirty-three years old, and he’d spent the past thirteen of those years diligently studying all kinds of subjects other than the ones having any direct bearing on the three degree programmes in which he was officially enrolled. The result was an overwhelming knowledge about everything except the subjects for which he was receiving financial support and which in the future would presumably earn him a living.
    Morten turned his heavy, corpulent back to Carl and stared down the bubbling mass in the pot on the stove. ‘I’ve decided to study political science.’
    He’d mentioned that before; it was just a matter of time before he tried that subject, too. ‘Jesus, Morten, don’t you think you should finish your economics degree first?’ Carl couldn’t help asking.
    Morten tossed some salt into the pot and began stirring. ‘Almost everybody in economics votes for the government parties, and that’s just not me.’
    ‘How the hell do you know that? You never even go to class, Morten.’
    ‘I was there yesterday. I told my fellow students a joke about Karina Jensen.’
    ‘A joke about a politician who started out as an extreme left-winger and ended up joining the Liberal Party? Shouldn’t be hard to make a joke about that.’
    ‘ “She’s an example of how to hide a Neanderthal behind a high-brow,” I said. And nobody laughed.’
    Morten was different. An overgrown adolescent and androgynous virgin whose personal relationships consisted of remarks exchanged with random supermarket customers about what they were buying. A little chat by the freezer section about whether spinach was best with or without cream sauce.
    ‘What does it matter if nobody laughed, Morten? There could be lots of reasons for that. I didn’t laugh either, and I don’t vote for the government parties, in case you’d like to know.’ Carl shook his head. He knew it was no use. But as long as Morten kept on making a good salary at the video store, it really didn’t matter what the hell he studied or didn’t study. ‘Political science, eh? Sounds deadly boring.’
    Morten shrugged as he sliced a couple of carrots and added them to what was cooking in the pot. He didn’t say anything for a moment, which was unusual for him. Carl knew what was coming.
    ‘Vigga phoned,’ said Morten at last with a hint of concern in his voice. In this situation he normally added in English: ‘Don’t shoot me. I’m just the piano player.’ But this time he didn’t say it.
    Carl didn’t reply. If Vigga wanted something from him, she could wait to call until he got home.
    ‘I think she’s freezing over there in that garden cottage,’ Morten ventured as he shoved the spoon around in the pot.
    Carl turned to face