The sallow light makes Roslagsgatan glitter. Everything has frozen over in the night. People step along carefully like the transvestites one sees in the parks I sometimes visit in the summer months. Motorcar drivers avoid the tram tracks in the middle of the road. Horses place their hooves hesitantly. I’m standing outside the laundry, smoking and waiting for Sailor-Beda to mend the tear in my overcoat. The hat is still lying in the mud among the shacks of the Mire. I am wearing a black jacket with non-matching trousers. The combination does not have my usual dignity. It’s cold, but when the rays of the sun get through there’s a little warmth. I hope the good weather keeps. A gaunt cat comes and rubs itself against me. Two hundred and fifty kronor of my emergency capital burns a hole in my wallet. The gang of wiry boys from around the block are trying to climb the streetlight outside my house. They usually hang about on my corner, smoking, passing around torn-out photos of Josephine Baker and identifying the makes of passing cars.
