The guy at the crematorium said it would take about three hours. A little less if he was lean, a little more if he was fat, as fat burns slower. “Which is why it’s so hard to get rid of,” he added, patting his ample belly. He was a congenial man, of a different congeniality than the people at the mortuary, who were hushed, respectful, reserved, sedate, watchful, and preternaturally composed. The sort of people whose every mannerism and facial expression assured you it was perfectly all right to get emotional, to rend your clothes, pound your fists, sob till your throat was raw. They were all for showing your grief. And if you didn’t, you felt a little embarrassed, as if you hadn’t performed up to par. And if you did, you also felt embarrassed, for making such a fuss. The difference being that in the latter case you felt you’d done the right thing...