The street they walk along is deserted. What people they see are gray shadows. At year’s end, Reuterholm’s most recent edict was read from the pulpits. A sumptuary law. Only the old remember the last one, half a man’s age ago. Lace, embroidery, silk, colored fabrics, all will be forbidden in order to prevent Swedish currency from leaving the country in the pockets of foreign merchants. Color has been banished from the alleys.
Those who own the least are the easiest to deprive. The colorful fabrics that maids use to bind their hair—their only resort to vanity—have been replaced by unbleached linen, sweat stains the only pattern. The journeyman’s inherited finery remains hanging in the wardrobe, a feast for moths, when his day off comes around. Dandies, who once paraded in garish coats and waistcoats, now only dare to wear them when the light is dim enough to dull their radiance, such bright colors reserved for those who enjoy a position high enough to stare down the city watch. It is as if all the inhabitants of the city have been robbed of what luster they once had and instead been uniformly dressed in gray. Sharp tongues have christened the year 1794 already: they’ve dubbed it the Iron Age.
Few patrons have made it to the Brown Door. Cardell gestures towards a table and benches, and feels a momentary loss of resolve when a stern look from the manager reminds him of debts that need to be settled before being allowed to grow. Nonetheless he brings over two pints of strong beer, albeit shamelessly watered down.
“I do beg your pardon. I should have knocked or at least come back later.”
Winge takes several deep sips and Cardell notices how quickly the drink calms his agitated gaze, driving the stutter out of his speech and straightening his back. No candles are lit. They have to make do with what little light finds its way through the sooty glass.
“Don’t fret about it. But damn it if the two of you don’t look identical in dim light. For a moment I thought…”
He chokes down the words before the sentence is finished. Emil Winge doesn’t seem to notice.
“It’s been many years since I last saw Cecil, but all my life I have heard how much we both favor our mother.”
Winge takes another sip before he goes on.
“Cecil was two years my senior. You knew him well, from what I gather. A policeman I asked sent me to a coffeehouse where I found a certain Blom, who gave me your name in turn.”
“Sure I knew him, in a way. For a time.”
“Did you attend the funeral?”
It is not a cherished memory. A dreary affair with only the minister, himself, and a handful of men from the Chamber of Police as witnesses. Cecil Winge had had to spend some time in the morgue until the gravedigger could get his spade to penetrate the frozen ground. Cardell gives a curt nod before emptying his tankard and waving for another round of the same. They wait in silence while the drink is poured, and only when his next drink is finished does Cardell pose his question.
“What’s your business with me?”
Emil Winge already has his glass at his lips and seems determined to keep it there as long as possible rather than answer. When he puts it down, it is empty.
“I came to Stockholm to take care of Cecil’s affairs. I have been to the ropemaker’s, who kept his last possessions. One of these was noticeably absent: a pocket watch. It was a gift from our father. I was surprised to find it missing. It meant a great deal to Cecil, and it would not be like him to have lost it.”
“I remember it well.”
“Do you know what might have happened to it?”
Cardell takes his time as he weighs his answer.
“Your brother was involved in some strange matters in the evening of his life, and I had the privilege of being at his side. In the end, the only way for him to be successful in his dealings was to pawn the watch.”
Emil Winge thoughtfully chews his lower lip as he considers what he has heard.
“Then I know where I should look. Thank you.”
For a while it seems to Cardell that there are other questions swirling in the air, but Winge leaves them all unspoken. Cardell’s head is spinning after having drunk so quickly in his dehydrated state. Once again he finds himself staring openly at this face that is both familiar and unknown. He shakes himself as if to break the enchantment.
“Sorry for the gawping. It’s hard to grasp that there are two of you. Were.”
He sees from Winge’s wrinkled brow that the topic disturbs him. Winge waves one last time to the publican, drinks, puts coins on the table for the last tankard, and stands up.
“Three, in fact. Our sister came before us both. But as far as any resemblance is concerned, it is strictly confined to appearance. Me and my brother have never had much in common. For those who have made his acquaintance, mine quickly becomes a disappointment.”
He rises in order to leave. Cardell empties his own tankard and wipes the foam away from his mouth.
“I can ask around for the watch, if you like. Where should I find you if I hear anything of interest?”
Emil Winge gives him the names of a street and a landlady, then steps out into the alley, steady on his feet with three tankards inside him, and leaves Cardell to say his farewells to an empty room.
“You certainly don’t drink like your brother, that’s for sure.”
Cardell lingers for a moment with the creeping feeling that something has changed. At once he realizes what it is: his arm stump hasn’t hurt him for the past hour; or if it has, he hasn’t paid it any attention.