Kennet set the stack of towels on the corner of the bed. Marta had put an orange scarf over the lampshade, which made all the room’s corners and edges soft and dreamy. A portable gramophone on a chair played the Andrews Sisters. A cigarette burned in an ashtray by the open window. Marta was dressed in what looked like men’s pajamas, with another scarf tied around her pin-curled hair and knotted in the center of her forehead. She was tacking a large map to the wall between the windows, and paused to smile at him over her shoulder.

“You can have a look around,” she said. “We’ll be seeing much of each other, and nothing like a peek in someone’s room to get to know them.”

Kennet kept his hands politely behind his back as he peeked. Marta had pulled a second chair close to the bed, and on it was a small Bakelite radio, an even smaller clock, magazines, and a mysterious black leather box with rounded corners.

“What’s this?” he asked.

Marta tucked her cigarette in the corner of her mouth, came over and fiddled with the box. It popped open like a surprise, revealing itself to be a camera.

“My prize possession.”

“Holy smokes,” Kennet said.

“It’s a VPK Series Three. Bought it used. Still, I had to give up ice cream, film magazines and going to the pictures for a month to save enough.” She raised the camera to her eye and pointed the lens at Kennet. “May I?”

He nodded, yet stepped back involuntarily, as if the machine were poised to take his soul.

“Don’t be shy,” she said. “Lean against the wall with your shoulder. Right there. And put your hands in your pockets. Now don’t look at me, gaze over toward the window, like you’re thinking deep thoughts. That’s how singers and movie stars do it. Lovely. You look just like Bing Crosby. Hold still…”

A whirring click.

“Now look at me.”

Another click and the camera came down, Marta smiling broadly behind it. “There now. When you’re famous, I’ll be able to tell everyone I took your picture.”

The cigarette was still clamped between her lips and sporting an inch of ash. She wasn’t a pretty woman, but Kennet was already half besotted with her accent and her brisk speech.

“Cripes, I’m about to spill on the rug and your Mum will have a fit.” Marta handed him the camera and got to the ashtray just in time. Then she picked up a small box of thumbtacks and rifled through their colored tops as she went back to her map.

“What are you doing?” Kennet asked.

“Marking the places I’ve lived.” She crunched one tack into Finland. “I was born here, but the Russians took over when I was still a baby. So my Pa moved us to Sweden.” She pushed another tack into the map.