the door opened, Famke was surprised to see not Strand but a hunched-over man of early middle age. He was in his shirtsleeves, a napkin glistening with fish scales around his neck; when he saw her, he whisked it off, revealing an equally discolored shirtfront, then wiped his mouth and tossed the napkin into the shadows beyond the door. With lips still shiny, he smiled and tried to straighten, but he was unable to do so fully.
Famke hesitated, but she remembered the boarded-up windows above; she was in the right place. “Nå. . . I came to see Fru Strand.”
“She is gone,” he said, and made a courtly little bow. “I am Ole Rasmussen, her nephew and the new proprietor. You are a friend?”
“I lived here once,” Famke said. “Just a month ago. With my husband.” She felt it was only polite to ask, “Where has Fru Strand gone?”
“To the other side,” he said delicately; then, when Famke still looked blank, “She is dead.”
Famke received this news with a shock that surprised even herself.
“She fell into the canal,” Rasmussen said helpfully. “She was—er—”
“She was drunk,” Famke said.
“Nej, sadly, she was set upon by thieves. They were never found, but they took even her gold tooth.”
There was no predicting what might happen—accidents, footpads—oh, Albert!
Famke swallowed. “I have come to ask about a letter,” she said, willing her voice to steady itself. “My husband was to have written me here. His name is Albert Castle, and mine is Famke—or Ursula.” She didn’t know which name Albert might use in writing her, or whether he’d try giving her a last name.
Ole Rasmussen opened his door wider, and for the first time Famke saw into the landlord’s lair. It was the dirtiest place she had ever seen—broken-down furniture and newspapers, indeed papers of every sort, everywhere, and a thick pall of dust choking the air itself. Fru Strand had left a filthy mess for her nephew; but then, judging by his shirt, filth appeared to be a family trait.
Rasmussen gestured at the moldering papers that had burst from a pigeonholed desk like stuffing from a sofa. “There may be something,” he said. “Fanden, I think there is. I remember your name, and your husband’s, from one of my aunt’s record books—she kept several, in various places—and perhaps your name was on a letter as well. But I must sort through all of that again before I can say for certain.”
Famke’s heart leapt. “I could help you,” she said.
“Puhha.” Rasmussen blew out, and she smelled the herring on his breath. “I don’t have time to look for a letter today. There’s a window to fix upstairs first, and I have the glass waiting.”
It seemed terribly cruel that Famke should be kept from Albert’s letter—if there was such a letter—by a violence that Albert himself had done to the building. She wondered if Rasmussen might have been more inclined to help if she hadn’t introduced herself as a married woman.
“I could look for myself,” she offered. “And I could sort the papers for you. I am employed as a housekeeper . . . just until my husband returns.”
But her employment was no guarantee to Herr Rasmussen, who looked distressed at the thought of a strange woman excavating the desk before he had his chance. There could be money in those heaps . . . He blinked at her with palpable suspicion.
“Or I can come back,” she said, mustering her dignity. “Perhaps in two weeks?” It would be at least that long before she had another half day.
“Maybe.” He coughed into his already grimy sleeve, then sighed and extricated a handkerchief that had worked its way up to his elbow. He blew his nose. “Or you can leave me your address and the money for postage, and if there is something for you I will send it on.” He tucked the crumpled handkerchief back into his cuff, clearly aware of having offered her a great favor.
Famke realized that whether she accepted this offer or not, she would have to tip the man a Krone for his goodwill. She might as well add the few Øre needed for a local-delivery stamp; though she disliked giving money away, that would be the fastest means of getting Albert’s letter, when it was found. She wrote out her new address and handed it to Ole Rasmussen with the coins. Still, she resolved that she would keep visiting until Rasmussen told her for certain whether a letter for her might lie somewhere in Fru Strand’s pigeonholes.
“Thank you so much,” she said as she turned away, preparing herself for the long walk back with neither more nor less hope than had accompanied her into town.
Famke tried not to think about a letter. She tried not to run for Skatkammer’s post when, at the strokes of ten and three, it arrived each day. She set herself other tasks—memorizing lists of English words as she dusted the collections, practicing the gestures of the Three Graces as she made Herr Skatkammer’s bed. She learned the solemn Saints’ names, Erastus Mortensen and Heber Goodhouse, and found out as much as she could about them. Though they still had brown hairs among the gray, they both looked old to Famke, perhaps even older than Frøken Grubbe, though not so old as Herr Skatkammer. They earned her gratitude for using none of the pomade she had to wash out of the antimacassars when other visitors left; they smelled only of the plain soap she was used to and liked. They wore round spectacles and always had a book in hand—En Sandheds Röst, En Røst fra Landet Zion, Mormons Bog.
Ah, Mormons. Famke had heard of Mormons before; in Dragør there was a man who’d come to proselytize—maybe one of these very two—and she had heard that right by the town well he had preached crazy miracles and said the Garden of Eden was in a place called Missouri. The good Lutherans of the village had chased him away with pitchforks, and for weeks afterward they warned their women that when a Mormon came to town, it was to steal Danish girls and lock them inside a hidden temple. They also reported that the patriarchs married their own daughters. Everyone knew that the Mormon symbol was the beehive, which they claimed signified hard work and sweet rewards, but which others knew meant a tower of pain and poison to outsiders. These two looked harmless enough, but now Famke saw them through the misty veil of legend. They were both wicked and alluring.
She began to listen behind the office door when they were there, and even hung out the windows to get a last look as they left. She learned that Mortensen’s father had been Danish, a good friend of Herr Skatkammer in the days when both were Lutheran. This long-dead friendship explained why Herr Skatkammer indulged the frequent visits—this, and perhaps the same kind of fascinated curiosity that drew Famke to them. Otherwise she could not explain his hospitality, for Herr Skatkammer had to listen to endless pleas for money.
“We have engaged a ship to transport us from England,” Mortensen said one day in his near-perfect Danish. “The Olivia will leave Liverpool in a fortnight. We have over three hundred converts eager to reach Zion, and nearly half of them lack the funds for the journey.”
Goodhouse, whose mother had been a Dane from Jutland, added, “We also need a ship to bring them to England. And once they have arrived in Zion, we would like to establish them in the silk-growing industry—we shall need mulberry trees and worm eggs, spindles and wheels . . .”
Herr Skatkammer merely grunted. He must have pulled the bell that rang for servants, because Frøken Grubbe turned up immediately. She glared at Famke as she opened the office door.
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