Mrs Carlsen — a Catholic — knelt to pray. I also knelt, as a mark of respect, feeling awkward and somehow dishonest. The stone slabs were cold, and after a few minutes, I began to experience the discomfort that I used to feel in our local Episcopalian church as a child. Mrs Carlsen seemed so absorbed that I was ashamed to move. I rested one hand on the stone platform and leaned forward so that I could see Carlsen’s face. And then, as I stared at the profile, I felt a strange calm that seemed to spread over my body like the effect of a drug. At the same time, I experienced an absurd sense of joy that brought tears to my eyes. I cannot explain the sensation; I can only record it. I was certain that the place contained some supernatural influence, an influence for good. The sense of peace was so profound that it seemed to me that time had ceased to flow. All discomfort vanished, although I remained kneeling for more than half an hour.
As Mrs Carlsen locked the door of the chapel, I said: “I find it hard to believe that he is dead.”
She said nothing, but I thought she looked at me strangely.