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On the bar stools along the windows young people in roll-necked sweaters sat reading foreign newspapers or staring out into the rain, holding large white coffee cups between their hands, presumably wondering if they had chosen the right subject at university, the right designer sofa, the right partner, the right football club or the right European town.
Thus in six hours’ time she would say, ‘Good afternoon,’ and two hours later, ‘Good evening.’ Then she would go home to her two-room apartment in Torshov and wish there were someone to whom she could say, ‘Good night.’
