He was still hungry, his body leaking energy, so he parked in the bus lane near Hornstull and ran into 7-Eleven to grab a hot dog and a low-alcohol beer. Wolfed the first one down, ordered another, checked the time—almost ten hours had passed since he left the small studio on the corner. This time he entered through the back entrance on Borgar Street, crossed the courtyard, and went into the building on Högalids Street, where she waited for him with the smile he could have drowned in once—and she looked pleased.

“Sit down. Let’s try this on.”

The makeup artist who had helped him so many times rolled out a long and narrow cart whose metal wheels whined angrily, just like always.

“I think . . . well, we’ve never transformed you quite this much before? Or am I forgetting something, Piet?”

“You’re right. It’s never been necessary. Now it is.”

Four trays were jammed onto the shelves of the trolley, prepped and full.

“I should have broken it down into more sections, then I could have made the details even better, but I wanted to simplify it for you.”

She swept a hand over what was about to turn him into someone else.

“One for the right eye, one for the left, one for the nose. And one for the chin and cheeks and neck. Only four pieces. It’s easier to deal with in case they start to peel.”

She began with the closest tray, carefully lifted up the skin-like piece that lay on top of it.

“I prefer working in gelatin, you know that, Piet, but right now—the weather’s just too hot. I have no clue what you’re planning to do, where you’re headed, but I do know you’re usually physically active and gelatin in this heat would just melt off.”

He was aware that knowing the usage of a mask was usually the starting point for her designs. And so she was doing her best to infer the information she needed but would never receive.

He smiled.

“You’re not married to a cop, are you?”

She smiled back.

“No, my husband lives in the fantasy version of what seems to be your real life.”

“Fantasy—how do you mean?”

“He considers himself a playwright. That was how we met. You know, work.”

“Well, in that case—yes. This disguise is going to be subjected to a lot . . . physically.”