Amberville

Chapter 24

There are occasions when the most direct route is made up of more detours than you could have believed in advance. The evening when Eric Bear strolled up toward Sagrada Bastante in the Evening Storm was such an occasion. Massive cloud formations moved rapidly across the sky, but all you could see were the edges of the clouds, cautiously colored by the sun’s lingering rays. Sam and Tom-Tom had taken the gray Volga so as to have time to drive to Amberville and back to the cathedral before the half-moon. Eric was thus faced with the decision to take the bus or walk. He chose to walk. Despite the urgency, he feared the moment when he would get there. Instead of walking up to Eastern Avenue and taking the direct route over to the Star, Eric walked westward through Yok’s rainbow-colored muddle of streets and in this way gave himself time to think.

Without an end to a stuffed animal’s life, he thought, the church would not exist.
Of course it was no more difficult than that.
All the rituals and writings, ceremonies and regulations that made up the world of the church and the world order, gained power from this simple fact: that life, as we knew it, came to an end. And that the life after this one, which for understandable reasons we would only come to know somewhat later, only existed in the form of faith and mild hope.
Long, long ago, thought Eric Bear, before the church—the church as he and his contemporaries knew it—got a hold in Mollisan Town, had animals been exchanged at all then? Had there even been a stuffed animal factory that kept the system going, or was the factory itself something the church was behind?
The thought was dizzying.
Eric stopped himself, remained standing a few moments keeping that thought alive. Then he saw the next connection in front of him, as though in letters of fire above the sidewalk. For even if the church’s entire existence rested on the idea of everything’s perishability, this idea also suited the power of the state extremely well. How else could all these millions of stuffed animals, thirsting for growth but at the same time pleasure-seeking, be kept in check?
The bear stumbled over a leek that was on the sidewalk, but managed to avoid tumbling and went on, in thought as well. In order to institute laws and rules and see to it that they were followed, it was of great help that our lives had a clear beginning and end. It was a matter of understanding stuffed animals’ inner motivations, and with a limited amount of time we were in a hurry to reach our goals. Who would long to have cubs at the age of thirty if life continued until you were more than two hundred years old? Who would get an education before the age of twenty-five, who would fight to be able to succeed the next generation in professional life before the age of forty?
Eric Bear turned right, onto a champagne-colored avenue lined with furniture stores closed for the evening. He had no distinct recollection of ever having set foot here before. It looked more like a street up in Tourquai. Deserted and silent, with no beggars or drunks and not a wrecked car as far as the eye could see.
This made him nervous; he didn’t have time to get lost.
The cycle of life, thought Eric at the same time as he increased his pace somewhat, led to us continually repeating ourselves; we became predictable, such that the authorities could more easily manage us. We were all delivered with the same instincts for the most part. Generations before and after us are going to react in the same way we do; that’s a given. Therefore the mayor could simply decide how education was allotted, fortunes distributed, and natural resources exploited. For despite all the advances in technology and medicine, despite the fact that the material conditions of life had been transformed so dramatically during the last two hundred years, a stuffed animal continued to be ruled by its love, its hate, its empathy and its jealousy, its greed and its laziness, completely uninfluenced by progressing civilization. Our instincts caused us to act as our forefathers did—thanks not least to the fact that in secrecy we all feared the day when the Chauffeurs would knock on our door—and thereby the powers that be could control us much more easily.
The bear continued down the champagne-colored avenue.
We were forced to live as intensely as we dared, he thought further, because our days were numbered. But at the same time we lived cautiously, because the life after this in some way seemed to be related to everything we did today.
At least that was what religion and the church maintained. And the state didn’t deny it.
Eric Bear randomly turned left and the aroma of melted cheese struck him like an open door.
A compromised, predictable, and spiritual existence of frustrated restraint for the good of the afterlife, this was how we consumed our lives.
On the basis of the Death List.
In his imagination Eric saw Penguin Odenrick sitting in the mysterious dimness of his office. How he was hunched over the desk, writing in one of his large notebooks with leather covers. The flames of the candles in the massive candelabra on his desk danced in the draft from the leaky stone walls. In his eagerness a fourteen-year-old Eric Bear had run along the entire colonnade, pulled open the door to the innermost regions of the cathedral where no unauthorized person was allowed, and continued in a more and more breathless run through the dark corridors where only wall-mounted torches lit up the stone-clad floors. Farthest in and farthest off in the massive cathedral building Eric arrived at the archdeacon’s office, and without knocking he opened the door.
Archdeacon Odenrick had as usual been sitting bowed over his writing. Surprised and angry at the interruption he looked up. When he caught sight of Eric Bear, his stern look softened.
“We’re finished now,” said Eric proudly.
“And what did it end up being?” asked the archdeacon.
“Thirteen overcoats, five pairs of pants, three pairs of boots, and a large blanket,” answered Eric.
“That’s wonderful!” said the archdeacon, nodding in approval.
“We went into that deserted lot that’s over by—”
Odenrick interrupted.
“Ah, ah, ah,” said the penguin, “no details. I don’t want to know.”
“But…”
“No. This is a part of the agreement. Keep the secrets to yourselves, the big ones as well as the small ones. That’s the hardest part. The equipment is easy, keeping secrets is hard.”
Eric nodded. When Penguin Odenrick spoke it was as though every word was carefully weighed. It had taken several days before Eric understood that what the archdeacon called “the equipment” was the used clothing.
Getting to listen to the archdeacon’s sermons was generally considered to be a privilege. It was hardly every Sunday that he himself gave the sermon in the cathedral, but when he did the church was always fully occupied. The same careful emphasis, the same seriousness and reflection that he made use of in the pulpit of the church, he used both with his confirmands and now, in his comparatively small office, one-to-one with Eric. The effect was lasting. Eric Bear would never be able to free himself from the feeling of being a chosen one created by these meetings with the archdeacon. Neither would he ever be able to lose the deep respect he felt for Odenrick, a feeling which originated in the bear’s need for affirmation. To be seen by this giant, if only for a few moments, was a triumph.
“No,” said the young bear, “I know.”
“And I’m counting on the fact that you’ve instructed the others.”
“I have,” said Eric, nodding feverishly. “No one’s going to say anything. Even if we have to yank our tongues out to keep from doing so.”
“I hope that won’t become necessary,” answered Odenrick without smiling, and Eric remained uncertain whether he was joking or not.
The bear remained standing a while in the dark room, unwilling to leave, until the archdeacon asked whether there was anything else. Then Eric was forced to admit that that wasn’t the case, and he slinked away. Slowly he returned to the packing rooms through the muffled corridors of the cathedral, and the feeling of pride caused him to smile to himself. When he once again saw his little band of workers—a crocodile and two cats who were both named Smythe—he exaggerated the archdeacon’s praise as much as he dared without risking credibility.
“He’s going to yank out our tongues if we ever breathe a word of this,” Eric Bear concluded.
The crocodile and the cats nodded. They were all fourteen years old, and they all felt equally, marvelously special.


Eric Bear suddenly found himself in a dead-end alley. He had turned off from the champagne-colored alley onto a violet-green street that was now cordoned off by a three-meter-tall iron grating with no openings. The buildings that lined the sidewalk were the same run-down apartment buildings that he had been seeing the last ten minutes. They appeared to be deserted, but in their moldy insides lives were passing that in one way were closely related to his: one day they would all cease.
Eric stopped a few meters in front of the grating and looked around. It wouldn’t be impossible to force it open, but he still didn’t know where he was. Perhaps it would be quicker to turn around and make his way toward the avenue along some other street?
Eric suddenly discovered that the storm was in decline. He was seized with panic. He didn’t have time to carry on like this. When he realized that it must have been his subconscious playing a trick on him and that he hadn’t gotten lost from negligence or carelessness, he started to sweat. Tomorrow morning was much too late. And here he was wandering around the streets in Yok.
He turned around and started to trot. Uncertain whether he was on his way west the last fifteen minutes, he ran all the faster without knowing in what direction. There was no one to ask either; the streets in Yok were empty. He turned to the right toward what he guessed was north, but he was unsure. He’d never been an outdoor enthusiast; he recognized the Milky Way but no more than that. And with a pulse that continued to race faster, he ran on through anonymous blocks of run-down buildings where hardly more than a third of the streetlights were functioning, and it felt as though he were running a race with time itself.


Why Penguin Odenrick had chosen him in particular remained a mystery through the years. The natural choice ought to have been Teddy. And at first Eric believed that the archdeacon had actually made a mistake. Up to that day Odenrick had joked many times about what a hard time he had telling one twin from the other when he was at their house for dinner with his parents on Hillville Road.
But it was Eric he’d summoned during the first weeks of confirmation instruction, and it was Eric he’d intended. Odenrick had from the start already made it clear that Eric was not allowed to tell about his new assignment, not even to his twin brother. And Eric didn’t question this, because the special position the archdeacon had all of a sudden granted him caused the bear’s young heart to swell with satisfaction and pride, just as the archdeacon had intended.
Those first weeks, however, the secretiveness remained incomprehensible. Once a week, Eric, along with the crocodile and the two cats, had the task of gathering in used clothing that kind citizens had donated to poor animals through the church. Eric and one of the cats folded the clothes while the crocodile and the other cat wrapped them in brown wrapping paper. Outside the churches in Amberville, Lanceheim, and Yok were collection stations to which Eric and his new friends took the bus. It took several hours to make their way around the whole city, but the youngsters were so filled up with the gravity of the moment that the time passed quickly. The remaining confirmands believed that the four received special instruction from the archdeacon when they were actually collecting clothes. There was a packing room in Sagrada Bastante where they could hang out. The cubs were ordered to tell the story about special instruction, even if someone from the church asked where they were going. The first four weeks, there were clothes at one of the collection stations at least; the fifth week it became apparent why the archdeacon demanded such secrecy.
Empty-handed, they returned to Sagrada Bastante, but instead of going to the packing room Eric Bear went to see the archdeacon in his office. The cats and the crocodile waited outside.
“We have to send out at least one small package every month,” said the archdeacon. “That’s the least we can do for the unfortunate in society.”
“But there are no clothes,” Eric explained again. “There’s nothing.”
“But we don’t need much. We actually only need something, whatever. Perhaps you can find that something somewhere else?”
“Somewhere else?” repeated Eric without understanding.
“Wherever,” the archdeacon clarified.
Eric remained uncomprehending, and a few additional questions were required, and answers equally evasive and encouraging, before the bear understood that the archdeacon was actually suggesting that they should steal clothes. Still, when Eric left the room he was afraid he’d misunderstood the matter.
“What should we do?” asked the cats at the same time as Eric closed the archdeacon’s door behind him.
“We’re going to see to it that we make a package of clothes,” replied Eric. “Because nothing is as important as that a package of clothes is sent away from here once a month. That’s exactly what he said. And sometimes, he said, you have to do something a little less good in order that something else, something more good, is able to happen.”
“Huh?”
The crocodile hadn’t understood a word, and he dared to show it.
“Should we steal the clothes?” asked one of the cats who, on the other hand, could follow that kind of circumlocution.
“Yep,” answered Eric. “Neither more nor less.”


With his heart in his throat, Eric Bear ran straight out onto Carrer de la Marquesa, the ash-gray street, and finally he knew where he was. The wind was still blowing briskly; it wasn’t too late. He continued running up toward the intersection to dark-blue Avinguda de Pedralbes, from where it was no more than a few minutes up to Eastern Avenue. If he could keep up the pace, he would be at the Star and the cathedral before the storm died out.
The few animals who were outside in the lukewarm Evening Storm in Yok’s run-down blocks were careful not to turn around or stare at Eric as he ran past. A running animal meant bad news.
On Eastern Avenue, Eric Bear reduced his pace, although his stride remained long. When he saw the cathedral’s hedgehog-like silhouette against the cloud-draped sky, he was still so focused on arriving in time that he forgot to feel nervous.
Yesterday morning, when Hyena Bataille had told him about the clothes that were delivered to the Garbage Dump, Eric Bear understood for the first time that he had neither been the first nor the last confirmand chosen to lead a small league of clothing stealers. And it was then as well that he’d understood that it was the archdeacon himself, and no other, who was behind the Death List. It was that simple. That was why it could go on, year after year, with ever-new groups of children taken in hand by Penguin Odenrick.
The wind was milder as Eric went up the stairs to the cathedral’s massive portal and opened the rather modest door that led into the church. He passed through the great halls, across the inner courtyard, and along the colonnade. He continued through the dark corridors with torches along the walls, and only when he came up to the door that led into the archdeacon’s office did he stop. For a moment he was once again fourteen years old. He knew that he had one full hour, no more.
Then he pulled himself together, quickly knocked, and pushed open the door without waiting for an answer.








TEDDY BEAR, 5

Emma Rabbit was the most beautiful bride I’d ever seen.

But Archdeacon Odenrick saw her first.
Odenrick stepped into the narthex where Emma and her mother were waiting. He had explained the procedure to us in advance. He wanted to say a few words to the bride and bridegroom before the ceremony itself. Emma and I had chosen the shorter variation.
To me, religion remained a two-edged weapon.
It was a matter of daring to believe in the unbelievable, which in all other contexts was described as stupidity. I’d devoted my life to pure goodness, and I sensed a double standard in the kind of goodness advocated by the church. It focused on good actions, while the soul and the self were allowed doubt and uncertainty. The church in Mollisan Town was a proselytizing church. If for no other reason, the church’s religion was simplified and systematized. Its greatest advantage was that it lessened our fear of death.
Emma and I met Archdeacon Odenrick in one of the meeting rooms at Lakestead House. It was just the three of us.
“And you, Emma?” said Odenrick. “Do you also think that the primary contribution of religion is to lessen the fear of death?”
“I’m not afraid to die,” said Emma.
Archdeacon Odenrick smiled victoriously in my direction.
“I’m not a believer, either,” Emma added.
The archdeacon’s smile disappeared.
We were sitting one flight up. Outside the windows it was already dark. The lighthouse out on the promontory swept its light over us at regular intervals. There was a smell of coffee from the kitchen.
“But you’re in agreement about marrying in the church?” the archdeacon asked with some skepticism in his voice.
“If you’re going to get married, then you should,” said Emma.
“Many times Magnus’s sense of morality coincides with mine,” I said. “In the remaining cases I’m prepared to forgive.”
“To forgive is divine,” replied the archdeacon.
All three of us nodded.
It was going to be a beautiful wedding.
“Emma Rabbit,” said Archdeacon Odenrick as he stood outside in the small narthex only minutes before the ceremony, “you are a very, very beautiful bride.”
“Thank you, Archdeacon,” said Emma.


When the choir began singing I shed tears.
We had come in contact with the Red Bird Singers through Father. Despite the fact that they seldom performed at private events, they had agreed. When the eight, pale-red birds stood on the platform and the distinctive harmony caused the church’s hollow timbers to quiver with hope and melancholy, I knew that it had been worth the trouble.
However much Father had paid, it was worth it.
Before the second verse the door to the narthex was opened and Emma Rabbit and her mother appeared. Emma was a revelation. The guests sitting in the pews were listening to the exquisitely beautiful singing and for the time being didn’t see the bride. The church was almost full. A few hundred stuffed animals. Most of them were friends of Mother and Father. There were seventy-eight animals invited to the dinner afterward.
The Red Bird Singers concluded the introductory hymn and the singers sat down. The procession with Odenrick, Emma, and Emma’s mother began its short but symbolic course along the middle aisle of the church. Mother and Father sat in the first row. They didn’t turn around. Mother was already crying and didn’t want to show it. Father sat next to her, straight-backed.
A murmur went through the church. A collective inhalation that spread in time with Emma’s measured progress.
I’ve already written it.
I’ll write it again.
She was so beautiful.
The bridegroom stood at the altar, waiting. He looked terrified.
The guests didn’t see his sweaty paws or his shaking knees. However, he couldn’t conceal anything from my critical gaze.
The bear was fingering a small etui that he had in his trouser pocket. It was an inappropriate gesture that expressed nervousness and uncertainty. When he assured himself that he hadn’t forgotten the rings, he took out his paw. He nodded toward the congregation, toward Emma and toward Mother, but he didn’t appear relieved.
In the bear’s eye was the expectation and happiness shared by everyone in the church. But for the bear at the altar, that feeling was diluted with anxiety. It wasn’t obvious, a sharp gaze was required to notice it.
I saw it.
It was my twin who was standing up at the altar. He couldn’t conceal anything from me.
He had taken my place.
We had an agreement.
I myself was concealed inside the sacristy, peeking out through a crack in the door. Neither Emma Rabbit, Archdeacon Odenrick, Mother, Father, nor anyone else in the church was aware of what was about to happen.
Emma Rabbit was getting married to the wrong twin.
I didn’t promise anything that I couldn’t keep. Eric promised without caring about it.
I sat hidden behind my door and saw my brother get married to the she I loved with all my deplorable heart.
The tears I shed were not from melancholy or sorrow.
I was weeping for joy.


One morning in December, Wolle Hare threw open the door to my office and shouted, “Now you can’t hide yourself anymore!”
Then he laughed his snorting sales-laugh that he’d been practicing for many years. It wasn’t particularly contagious. On the other hand, it induced thoughtlessness and made it feel less dramatic to make a decision. Let’s make the deal, the customer who heard Wolle Hare’s laugh would think. Let’s make the deal, life isn’t so terribly serious.
I wasn’t affected by his laugh. For me, life was serious.
“Hide myself?” I repeated.
“We need you,” shouted Wolle Hare, “you and no one else.”
“You have for a long time,” I answered quietly.
I had worked at the advertising agency for almost eighteen months and knew my position. I didn’t need to be flattered by either Wolle or Wolle.
After the first six months I realized how things stood. Everyone in the agency wanted to be in the spotlight. The animals competed in proving themselves smart, smarter than each other. Those who weren’t part of the competition that day sat on an invisible jury and judged the others. It was a matter of being creative or successful. Certain ones strove to be both. Everything could be measured in money.
No points were awarded for administrative tasks. No points to the one who saw to it that the rent was paid on time, that the pension allocations were taken care of, or to the one who had the welcome mats changed when they got dirty. No points to the one who took care that the green plants stayed green.
When I started working at Wolle & Wolle we had stretched our suppliers’ patience, and credit limits, to the breaking point. The authorities awaited an opportunity to sic the sheriff on the gentlemen Wolle and Wolle.
I became the firm’s rescuer in distress.
It didn’t happen overnight. Slowly I won the confidence of our external suppliers. I convinced them. The hedgehog who came with new doormats relied on the fact that from then on he would be paid within twenty days. An eagle at the tax office knew that I was always available to take his questions. The animals who worked at the agency became used to the office-supply storeroom being inventoried and replenished.
After a year of assiduous labor, my exertions produced results. Thanks to my exactitude and my absolute conception of right and wrong, Wolle & Wolle had become a model of business practices in the industry.
Naturally there was no one in the agency who saw what I’d accomplished. For these self-centered designers with colorful clothes and flexible consciences I remained a gray mouse without apparent purpose.
Good.
In contrast to them I had no need of winning their ironic competition. I knew my value.
It was greater than theirs.
Considerably greater.
“Come,” said Wolle Hare, “then I’ll tell you.”
I showed no enthusiasm. In one leap, Wolle was over at my desk, taking me by the arm. He pulled me up out of the chair. Brutally he shoved me out of the office. I felt secure inside my office. My binders and document files controlled my professional life, set its limits and gave it meaning. Out in the office landscape that was the advertising agency itself, a different order prevailed.
A lack of order.
My status made me invisible, but this morning as I was shoved across the floor by Wolle Hare, I received numerous glances. Some wondered who I was. Others wondered enviously why Wolle Hare was devoting attention to me in particular.
I shared that wonder.
Wolle Hare and Wolle Toad had furnished a joint office in a corner room that extended into a conference room overlooking Place Great Hoch. Toad was waiting for us at his desk when we came in. A small group of designers who were called in for especially significant pitches was sitting at the conference table. I knew them all by name.
“Here he is!” the hare cried out triumphantly and pointed at me. “Didn’t I say that he would help out?”
The exhilaration in Wolle Hare’s voice was not met by any reaction. The group at the conference table looked skeptical.
“Who is that?” someone asked.
“No idea,” answered someone else.
“Are you volunteering, Teddy?” asked Wolle Toad.
I didn’t know what this was about. I shrugged my shoulders.
“They want to use you in an ad,” said the toad, making a gesture over toward the creative group at the table, and toward the hare. “It’s about banking services.”
“Me?”
No one in the room could take my question as being coquettish.
The toad nodded.
“It’s about building trustworthiness,” he said in order to explain why the choice had fallen on me.
I was completely unprepared. Before I had time to collect myself, Wolle Hare placed an arm around my neck and led me away from the toad’s desk.
“This is a chance for you, Teddy,” he explained in a low voice. “You can’t be an administrative assistant at an advertising agency your whole life.”
“I’m very comfortable with…”
We had stopped halfway between the creative group at the conference table and the toad at the desk.
“I don’t mean that you have a career as a model ahead of you,” Wolle Hare clarified. “But if you volunteer for this type of thing, it’s not inconceivable that we’ll have you in mind the next time a management job comes up.”
“Is it the head of accounting’s job that you…?”
Our accounting head was an old blue jay who was going to retire at the end of the year. So far I hadn’t heard about a successor.
“There’s no reason to be that specific,” the hare interrupted me. “And this is of course not a punishment we’re talking about, appearing in a commercial for the Savings Banks’ Bank.”
We were standing in front of a large whiteboard. I looked over at the designers, but they didn’t seem to care about us anymore.
“The Savings Banks’ Bank?” I repeated. “But we use Banque Mollisan. I don’t know anyone at the Savings Banks’ Bank.”
“We’ll make an attempt, then,” Wolle said smoothly without having heard my objection.
“I don’t even know if I…”
“So the job is yours, shall we say that?” said Wolle. “Head of accounting, you said? That’s not so bad, is it? Shall we say so?”
“I don’t know if I…”
“Good,” he called out, patting me on the back in confirmation.
The designers looked in our direction. I thought I glimpsed a smile or two. Perhaps it was only because Wolle sounded happy.
“Teddy’s on board,” shouted Wolle Hare.
The hare went over to the others to discuss the consequences of the good news. I remained standing by the whiteboard. No one seemed to notice me. The designers and the hare talked, the toad sat at his desk and wrote. Should I leave? Before I had time to make up my mind, a cat detached himself from the group of designers. I knew who he was. He’d gotten a prize for a campaign for light beer.
“Cool,” he said, shaking my paw. “Not a difficult thing. Just you, in your normal clothes.”
The cat inspected me up and down and nodded in approval.
“We drive in the studio. Backdrop. It’s raining,” he said. “You’re just standing there, like. Straight up and down. But you smile.”
“Smiling in the rain?” I asked.
“A bank for us who are tired of being run over,” the cat said. “That’s what it’s about. That’s the message.”
“Am I the one who’s been run over?” I asked.
The cat shrugged his shoulders.
“You’re the one who’s tired of being run over.”
“But I’m the one who’s been run over?”
“Bear,” said the cat, smiling amiably, “it’s possible that you’re a steamroller. But in the picture you’ll represent the one who’s tired of being run over and chooses Savings Banks’ Bank instead.”
“Banque Mollisan is better,” I said.
“I have no opinions whatsoever about that,” the cat said and went over to the others.


Assuming a role and expressing an idea in a certain question has nothing to do with evil or good. I wasn’t na?ve. A photo model who depicted a bad character was not a bad animal. Investigating your dark sides was necessary if the object was to live a good life.
I don’t intend to go into that.
The point is: placing yourself in front of a camera in order to swear that the Savings Banks’ Bank was the city’s best bank had nothing to do with evil or good.
On the other hand, the consequences were impossible to accept.
Suppose someone who saw the advertisement actually believed the message. And changed to the Savings Banks’ Bank.
Making an ad, said Wolle Hare and Wolle Toad, was a job. We did our job. Those who saw the ad had to take responsibility for their own lives. To influence was neither to betray nor mislead. There were no hidden intentions. Recommending one bank before another was not a crime.
The argumentation was impeccable.
But I knew that the Savings Banks’ Bank wasn’t the best. I knew that anyone who changed banks due to the ad would not get better banking services. It was not about the photography. It was about taking responsibility for the chain of consequences that every action unleashes.
Eric helped out in my place.
We had an agreement.
Eric had no misgivings regarding advertising photography. He was the evil one. I was the good. It was a few months before the wedding with Emma Rabbit. Or a few months after. It was the start of something or a natural continuation. Eric and I got the job as head of accounting. Possibly we became head of marketing, or some other kind of manager. I have a hard time committing titles to memory.
Together we made a successful career at Wolle & Wolle.
The advertising world suited my twin brother perfectly. He surprised the trend-sensitive designers with his self-promoting attitude and his unexpected leaps of thought. He had nothing to lose. I don’t know exactly what he said or did. For obvious reasons we were never at the agency at the same time. But I’m sure that it wasn’t a matter of anything remarkable.
I was, without a doubt, the one between us who had the intellectual capacity.
Eric turned his shortcomings into advantages.
He never expressed a definite opinion about anything.
Things went fast. I was at the office one day a week. Two or three days a week. The rest of the time Eric was there. He is an extroverted animal. Seeks contact. I’m not like that at all. He found out things I’d never heard discussed. He ended up in the management group. I did, too. It became our platform.
We became good friends with Wolle Hare.
It was incomprehensible.
The hare was an animal who was certifiably hard to get close to. Nevertheless, Eric picked open his defenses as though Wolle were a cheap bicycle lock. After a few months, Eric was his closest ally.
These are not profundities we’re talking about.
The hare was convinced that the agency would go under if it didn’t expand. Eric knew nothing about business. Nevertheless he expressed his opinions. I could hear when they were talking on the phone. My ignorant twin was using words like “synergies” and “fusions.” One day he would enthusiastically promote the idea of opening a casino. The next day it might just as well be a real estate holding company.
It was pure madness.
I witnessed a careening carriage en route to the precipice. Personally I dutifully sorted the papers that came my way. I watered the flowers. I refilled the coffee in the coffee machine.
I waited for our bluff to be exposed.
Eric’s behavior became less and less acceptable. When Wolle Hare called us into the office one day after less than a year as head of accounting, I thought it was all over.
It was Eric who was at the office that day.
He wasn’t even surprised at being named assistant managing director. It was a natural development of his collaboration with Wolle Hare, said Eric.
A natural development.


I won’t fatigue the reader by describing the astonishment that subsequently struck me, time and time again through the years. My time at the advertising agency lessened. Eric’s increased correspondingly.
His successes increased as well. I stopped seeing them as ours together. I followed his career from a distance. A distance that Lakestead House provided me. Eric was not reticent about what he was occupied with. On the contrary. He told me everything. As if he were atoning for guilt.
The job dealt with communication and manipulation. He was cunning where any type of marketing was concerned. The explanation was simple. He wasn’t afraid to lie. To assert that one dish soap was more economical than the others. One car safer than the others. One type of insurance more comprehensive than another.
Even if that wasn’t the case.
He treated the personnel the same way. He promoted or slandered them on the basis of his own shortsighted purposes. He didn’t reflect on whether his judgments were objective or not. When I pointed this out, he didn’t understand what I was talking about.
Eric achieved one success after another. At the beginning it was about Wolle & Wolle. Later this continued up and through all of the city’s power elites. Sooner or later, I was certain, someone would expose him.
I didn’t look forward to that day for myself; Schadenfreude is for the envious. On the other hand, I did look forward to that day for the sake of justice. It was a matter of balance. Eric’s life had capsized long ago, and the waves that struck against the pier below Lakestead House during the Evening Storm always struck again.
But the years passed, and nothing happened.
I became less and less interested in Eric’s professional life. I lost track of how many boards he sat on and how many commissions he was elected to.
Sometimes I felt ashamed that he used my name.
Sometimes I wished that he would leave me in peace with his stories.


I was unspeakably na?ve.
This is not soul-searching. This is about pride. Na?veté is something I cultivate; to me, na?veté represents a pure conscience, good intentions, and the genuine trust in the outside world which is the basis for having the strength to carry on the struggle against cynicism.
I was unspeakably na?ve. I believed I could take over when Eric had sworn the marital vows that I myself wasn’t able to swear.
The wedding reception became a taste of what was to come.
I sat in a café across from the reception venue and watched how the stuffed animals Emma and I had invited passed by on the sidewalk. I watched them through the illuminated windows, how they toasted the bride and groom. I could hear music carrying faintly out onto the street. Music I myself had chosen. Along with my mother I’d planned the napkin folding and what sort of flat-bread would be served with the appetizers. I knew what was going on without being there.
I presumed that the bride and groom were very happy.
I was happy.
I didn’t understand what was about to happen.
When I slipped up the stairwell on Uxbridge Street the next morning, ready to change places with Eric, a surprise was waiting.
As we’d decided, I stood and waited out on the stairway. The rain had just ceased and the Forenoon Weather had begun. I wasn’t thinking anything in particular. My senses were wide open. It didn’t bother me that Eric had woken up with my Emma that same morning. Eric and I were each other’s opposites. We were one and the same. I stood in the stairwell and waited. My heart was wide open and my mind was pure.
I would replace Eric and reinstate order.
The door opened, and there stood my twin brother.
“You are a very fortunate bear,” he said and smiled.
“I know,” I said.
“And if you need my help again, you only have to call,” he said.
“Thanks,” I replied.
“See you,” he said.
I nodded.
I slipped into the apartment and left Eric on the stairway.
The apartment was larger than I’d thought. Lots of rooms and corridors. Closets and corners. Finally I found Emma Rabbit in the bathroom where she was brushing her fur. She was humming one of the songs the orchestra had played last evening.
“As if November were too late,” she said as I stepped in.
“No,” I answered, then changed my mind. “Yes?”
I didn’t know what she was talking about.
“But Alexi is going to see what a green bicycle can mean,” she said.
“Sure,” I answered.
I didn’t know who she was talking about.
“Despite the fact that you realize that it’s going to hurt?” she asked.
I nodded.
I didn’t know why it should hurt.
“Darling,” I said, “excuse me a moment.”
I ran out of the bathroom. I ran out into the hall. I ran out into the stairway and down onto the street where I ran as fast as I could in the direction I assumed Eric had gone.
I caught up with him before Wright’s Lane.
“It didn’t work,” I panted. “You have to go back. We have to plan better.”
But it wasn’t a matter of planning.


Every day that Eric spent in my stead with my wife, they created common memories. Every memory created references, solidarity, and a communion into which I had no entry.
For another eleven months I continued to arrange meetings with Eric on the stairwell outside the apartment. Full of hope, I went in to Emma Rabbit and tried to take over the life that was going on without me. In the best cases I managed for two hours. In the worst cases, for less than a minute.
My will remained unbroken. My love for Emma conquered my good sense. During these months I constantly laid out new strategies. I left no idea untested. However absurd it might appear.
It became clear to me that I was forced to copy my brother’s life down to the smallest detail so as to be able to take his place.
I subjected my twin to intensive interviews that I prepared for several days. I carried out regular interrogations where I demanded complete openness. I observed Emma during all hours of the day. I sat at Nick’s Café and stared at their doorway, ready to get up and follow her at any moment. I tried to live and breathe their life without them noticing it. Walk along the streets where they walked, visit the department stores or restaurants that they visited. The idea was simple. If I got the same stimuli as Eric, my reactions ought to be rather like his.
During this year of painful desperation I continued working at Wolle & Wolle. Work was my salvation, a place of clear demands and monotonous routines in a chaotic life of pain and degradation. I commuted back and forth from Lakestead House. I was en route to the office or to Emma and Eric’s apartment. Then I was on my way back again. Lakestead was strict where time was concerned. I was always in a hurry. I was always short on time.
I had a hard time keeping certain days under control. I stood outside Wolle & Wolle, wondering if Eric was there. I stood outside Uxbridge Street, wondering if Eric was there. I stood outside Lakestead House, wondering why I was there. I stood outside Hillville Road, wondering if Father was there. I stood alongside myself, wondering if Eric was there.
The pain of failure receded. I knew what to expect from my encounters with Emma. My hopes overcame my clear-sightedness. My hopes invited self-deception. I was balancing on the brink of the dishonorable.
Finally a day arrived when reality overcame fantasy.
It’s so simple to write.
Finally reality conquered fantasy.
But these fantasies had been my lifeblood. The castles in the air I’d erected every time I ran after Eric in desperation and induced him to turn around. When reality caught up with me, it took the dreams out of my life, and what was left was almost nothing.
I retreated. I left it to Eric to uphold my life. I don’t think anyone noticed.
I retreated.


There are occasions—for some, several times during a normal day, and for others a few times during a lifetime—when you feel impatient with your situation in life.
A kind of existential vacuum.
A thought loop that arises when the majority of physical and emotional needs are met. You feel boredom, despite the fact that you ought to be happy. You lack connection, a sense of belonging, and ask yourself if life really is no more than this.
I never experience such a vacuum.
I wake up in the morning when it’s time to get up, approximately when the Morning Rain starts to fall. I’m not a morning person, but I force myself to get up and do my morning toilet. After that I carry out a simple exercise program, then I go down to breakfast. After having carefully read the newspaper, I go back up to my room. Take care of my things. I have time for a walk in the garden before lunch.
In the afternoons I sometimes still go into the city. Especially on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I go to Nick’s, have a coffee, and look over at the doorway to 32 Uxbridge Street.
If Emma Rabbit comes, I follow her. Not always, but it does happen.
Eric comes to see me at Lakestead House. More often than he needs to. I don’t want to forbid him. He does it for his own sake.
I can’t tell him that Emma Rabbit has lied to us. That she’s not fatherless at all, but rather that she has a father who’s a dove.
There are situations where what is good isn’t obvious.
Not to tell is to withhold. To withhold is to betray. To tell is to tear down something that has been built up for a long time. If Eric knew that his Emma had long been keeping a secret from him, it would crush him.
Why has she chosen to keep her father secret? I don’t know. Is the reason perhaps reasonable? Perhaps there’s a simple explanation? In order to set yourself in judgment over another animal, you have to close your eyes to the whole truth.
I never close my eyes.
I know that my life isn’t Eric’s. That his life isn’t mine. We have become two individuals for certain reasons. There are reasons in the background. The truth, which for me is a part of goodness, means nothing to him. Emma Rabbit means everything to him. She has become who she is through a long series of events which, thanks to their definite sequence, have defined her character. She has her reasons to conceal her father. I don’t know them, I can’t set myself in judgment over them.
I keep silent.
Not a word passes my lips.
This is how I might think, in the afternoons as I walk along the coast.
This is how I was thinking today, as I was walking along the coast.
I spoke every third or fourth idea out loud to myself. When the black clouds drew in over the mainland in the afternoon, I got raindrops on my tongue. Then, as usual, the gates of heaven opened. I hurried back home. For those who wish, rusks and tea are served in the afternoon. I myself waited until dinner, which I ate early.
In the evenings, I reflected.
At night, I slept.