‘You’re a good cook,’ said Magda, watching as Eeva sliced carrots. Her little knife flickered and made fine, even slices.
‘I should be.’
‘Look, I got these.’ Magda opened her bag and showed Eeva four tangerines.
‘Weren’t they expensive?’
‘Not for what they are.’
‘Not for what they are? How much were they?’
‘I can’t remember. I bought them with some other things.’
‘What other things?’
‘Really, Eeva, what does it matter? I bought some walnuts.’
‘Walnuts!’
‘Look, aren’t they beauties?’
‘Magda, how are we ever going to keep to our budget if you carry on like this?’
‘I sold another article,’ said Magda, stripping off her gloves.
‘Yes, but all the same, we must keep to the budget. Otherwise –’
‘Don’t look so serious, Eeva. We’re not going to end up in the workhouse.’ Magda flushed suddenly. It was obvious that she had remembered the House of Orphans. She remembers, but then she forgets, thought Eeva. But that’s fair enough, it didn’t happen to her.
‘If you spend money on things I can’t afford, then I’m not paying my way,’ she said.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Eeva, they are just a few little treats. It doesn’t mean you aren’t paying your way.’
The carrots were all sliced. Eeva gathered them together on the board. ‘If I’d seen those tangerines I’d only have thought of all the potatoes I could get for the same money.’
‘Yes, but potatoes don’t bring the same joy as tangerines.’
‘No, you’re right, they don’t, joy is not what potatoes bring. All the same, it’s lucky I do most of the marketing. There, those are done. Give the soup a stir, Magda. The barley sticks to the bottom of the pot.’
Magda took the lid off the pot and rich, savoury steam gushed into the room. It was good beef soup which Eeva had made with marrowbone stock, onions, a handful of dried mushrooms, and paprika. When Lauri arrived, she would add the parsley dumplings that lay waiting on a white plate, and the sliced carrot. And then, when the dumplings were plump and feathery and had risen to the surface of the soup, they’d eat.
‘Lauri’s late, isn’t he?’
‘He’ll be here by seven.’ Her words were calm but a nervous pang went through her.
‘It’s past that already.’
Eeva mended her stockings while Magda read through the rough draft of an article she was writing. Magda wrote well, everyone said so. Eeva wished that she could read the German, but even in Magda’s translation, the words were clear and sure as bells. Both of them sat at the table. The lamp hung on its chain above them, giving good light, although the rest of the room swam in shadows. It was a big room, much bigger than anything Eeva would have been able to afford on her own. Magda was paying the larger share of the rent. She made nothing of it, barely referred to it. They were equals, she insisted.
Magda seemed lost in thought tonight, looking up from her scribbled pages into nothing, with her pencil in her hand. Occasionally she made a strong, quick mark in the margin. She’d been working all day on that draft, and being Magda she probably hadn’t stopped to eat. It was getting really late now. Eeva’s nervousness had settled into a steady, burning sensation in her stomach. They couldn’t wait for Lauri any longer.
‘I’ll put in your dumplings,’ she said, getting to her feet.
‘I don’t mind waiting.’
‘If you don’t eat now, you won’t have time before you go out.’
She tipped in the sliced carrot, then carefully lowered the dumplings on a slotted spoon. They disappeared into the soup. Normally cooking made her calm, but tonight her spoon clattered on the metal. Where was Lauri? She counted out the minutes under her breath, timing Magda’s dumplings. Lauri’s share and hers remained on the plate. She would cook them fresh when he came.
‘Here you are, Magda.’
‘Oh! Is it ready?’
‘Just push your papers aside.’
‘Aren’t you eating, Eeva?’
‘I’m not hungry yet. I’ll wait.’
‘Did Sasha give any explanation to Lauri, about his mysterious absence?’ asked Magda.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘I don’t suppose it was anything much. Sasha enjoys speculation, especially when it’s about him.’
Could she tell Magda what Sasha was planning? Should she tell her now? Magda’s face was dark with thought. She hadn’t really emerged from her article. She spooned up her soup, but Eeva could tell she wasn’t tasting it. Cooking good food for Magda was a waste of time. Lauri, though…
‘Yes, he’s an odd fish,’ said Magda at last.
‘Who?’
‘Sasha, of course.’
Odd fish! But Sasha was much worse than that, and Magda knew it. She’d made it clear that day in the forest that she knew it. So why pretend that it was ‘just Sasha’, a problem that no one needed to solve? Maybe she should talk to Magda – tell her what had happened in the bookshop…
‘D’you want me to stay?’ Magda asked suddenly. ‘I’m only going to a concert. I don’t mind missing it.’
‘No, Magda, you go. I’m fine. Lauri will come soon.’
‘Of course he will.’ Magda smiled affectionately. ‘It’s wonderful soup, Eeva. I don’t know what you put in it. When I make it, soup never tastes as good.’
‘Be quick, or you’ll miss the opening piece.’
In spite of the tangerines and walnuts, how she relished talking to Magda like this. Here was Magda, off to a concert, to sit there upright and alert before the music. She had no hesitation. She believed that the music was played for her, as much as for anyone. Being in the cheapest seats didn’t matter. Besides, she had friends among the musicians and critics, and would often exchange her seat for a better one.
The first time Eeva went to a concert with Magda she was nervous, but there was no need. No one looked at them as if they shouldn’t be there. No uniformed official came up to her, pretending to be deferential so as not to disturb the rest of the audience. ‘Excuse me, miss, would you mind moving? This is someone’s seat.’ Eeva sat at Magda’s side as if she were the equal of all those calm, serious, professional-looking listeners. This was her life now, her own life that she had earned. These walls, the heat of the stove, the soup she’d made, the books she handled all day and the concert Magda was about to go to: these were all Eeva’s life. Sometimes she still couldn’t believe it. She caught herself listening for angry voices. Eeva, Eeva, where’ve you got to? Why hasn’t this floor been swept?
As soon as the door shut on Magda, Eeva’s fear grew. She couldn’t settle to mending again. She washed up, dried the plates carefully, and swept the floor. She polished her boots for tomorrow, taking care to rub polish into every inch of the leather, and buff until it shone. One boot would need re-soling soon. She calculated quickly: yes, she’d be able to afford it next week. But soles wore out so quickly. Wouldn’t you think that by now they’d have discovered a method of soling shoes that made them last longer? All those boots and all those holes. Rows and rows of them in the orphanage, clumsy boots that cut into soft flesh. Their metal heels and toe-caps struck sparks off the pavement.
Now her boots shone. She couldn’t polish them any more. She looked around the room, but there was nothing left to do except her mending.
Or no, there was something. Magda had bought a length of brown velvet, second-hand. It was worn in parts, but the worst parts could be cut out. Their plan was to make curtains, to screen Eeva’s bed and give her some privacy. Magda’s bed was in an alcove, almost like a separate tiny room, and she had long ago made curtains to screen it. Or rather, Magda had had the curtains made, since she could not sew. Eeva had thought this must be an exaggeration, at first. Surely no girl could have grown up without learning to sew? But Magda had said her mother didn’t sew, either. She was a fervent believer
in the education of women. She’d wanted Magda to learn Greek and Hebrew as well as Latin, although in fact Magda had preferred philosophy. Besides, they had a maid for the sewing, one of those Bavarian girls who do the most wonderful embroidery.
‘Yes, I’ll make a start on those curtains,’ said Eeva aloud, as if to convince herself that it was a normal evening. But she didn’t move. She stood in the middle of the room, her hands at her sides, waiting. It was very quiet. Where was Lauri? Sasha’s face swung into her imagination, smiling at her. She heard him say, ‘I’m a man of action,’ and she saw again the glee and malice that played beneath his skin. His face seemed to ripple with that malice, like the skin of a dead rabbit that was busy inside with flies and maggots. Maybe there was more going on. Perhaps Lauri hadn’t told her the full story. Sasha would love it, if he hadn’t told her. I know something you don’t know, you don’t know, you don’t know…
It was nine o’clock now, and Lauri still hadn’t come.
27
The room was icy. They sat around the table in their coats and hats, while their breath smoked around them. It was a bare, heavy pine table with dints and knife marks, ingrained with dirt. There was no light apart from a tallow candle on the table. The room smelled of melting tallow. Everywhere was sour and dirty, as if the house had been empty for years.
He and Sasha had come a long way to this bare room. It had taken more than twenty-five minutes, that was for sure. Even quite recently, this area would have been a village with its own life, separate from the city. Probably, when Lauri was a kid, it had been one of those places you strolled out to on summer evenings. He’d probably scuffled barefoot through the warm dust in the lane that ran between the houses. He couldn’t remember. But the expansion of Helsinki had already opened its mouth to swallow up these wooden houses. Soon there wouldn’t be a trace left.
A few candles burned in windows, but most were empty and black. No doubt the land had already been bought by developers, and the houses were waiting to be torn down and replaced by stone apartment buildings. It was lucky that there was a moon, because there were no street lamps out here. The moonlight lay blue on the snowy ground. He and Sasha picked their way across disused vegetable plots. They ducked under lines where washing once hung. A piece of cloth had been left on one – just a rag – and it hung stiff with ice. The ground was frozen hard, and no one had swept the snow from the lanes and paths.
The house was at the far end of the village. It was a good house, with a small verandah. No light showed in the windows, but Sasha seemed sure it was the right place. An old sign still hung, to show that the house had belonged to a leather-worker. Why hadn’t he taken his sign with him? Perhaps he had died, Lauri thought.
The front door was open, but they walked into darkness. The air had a cold, close, musty smell.
‘Are you sure this is right, Sasha?’
‘They’ll be upstairs.’
They felt their way along the wall towards the staircase. Suddenly a door above opened, and light appeared on the landing. It wasn’t much, but compared to the blank darkness it was enough. There was the staircase. The rail had been taken away, and Lauri tested each stair before putting his weight on it, in case the wood was rotten. Sasha followed, stepping confidently. No doubt he’d been here before.
And now they were in the upstairs room. Why was the stove not lit? It was a good stove, with logs stacked beside it. Lauri noticed that the edges of the logs were freshly cut. They must have been brought here recently, perhaps even tonight. So why not burn them? Maybe these people didn’t want smoke rising from the chimney. They didn’t want anyone to feel the stove and know from its warmth that people had been there recently. But why come all the way out here anyway? There were plenty of comrades’ rooms where they could hold a meeting and be welcome, and warm too.
It didn’t feel right. None of it felt right. He didn’t know any of these men. Three of them were Russians, the ‘comrades from Petersburg’ that Sasha was on about, presumably. There was a Swede, pale, with a nose so thin it looked as if someone had ironed it. He nodded at Sasha and Lauri, examined them for a moment, then walked out of the room and did not return. Lauri listened to his tread going down the wooden stairs, but couldn’t tell if the front door opened or not. Maybe there was another room downstairs, with people sitting round another table, waiting. He didn’t like the thought of that.
One of the Russians stood aloof by the cold stove, swinging his arms, chapping them against his body as if to warm it.
Sasha and Lauri sat down in the places left for them. Sasha seemed to have separated himself from Lauri somehow. He didn’t introduce him. He seemed to slide into the group of Russians, and to belong to them. As if he’d simply brought Lauri along, and now had no further connection with him. Well, why shouldn’t he be with the Russians, Lauri reasoned with himself. They were Sasha’s people.
These chairs were uncomfortable. Too low for the table, that was it. No, the problem was that the chairs were of different heights, and Lauri found himself sitting low down. The chairs didn’t belong to the table, and must have been brought here, like the logs. So perhaps this place was often used for meetings, then? No, probably not. There must still be a few old people clinging on in their houses until the building work began in the spring. Old people noticed everything, just as kids did.
His thoughts seemed to be flying everywhere, unable to settle. Get a grip, he told himself. What does it matter who lives here or who used to live here? But he could not shake off an uneasy awareness of the empty houses, the vegetable plots where nothing would be grown again, the fruit trees that were waiting to be chopped down.
One of the men around the table took out a cigarette furtively, as if afraid that others would want one if they saw the packet. He smoked through his gloved fist, not letting the cigarette touch his mouth. Rich blue smoke trickled through his glove and into the room.
‘This is the man I told you about,’ said Sasha in Russian at last, indicating Lauri. One by one, faces turned to him, but he couldn’t see them clearly. The candle was guttering, and their eyes were in the shadow of their hats. Their mouths were hidden by drawn-up collars. It irritated him not to know their names, but he wasn’t going to ask. It seemed to him that people should tell one another their names.
‘Isn’t there another candle?’
Silently, one of the men rose, felt in his coat pocket and brought out several wax candles. He lit one from the dying candle, and crushed its hard wax stub into the puddle of tallow.
But why not light good candles in the first place, if you’d got them? It was all crazy, perverse. Wood that didn’t warm you, candles that didn’t light you.
That man with the candles: his coat was magnificent. You could see it fully when he stood. Fine thick wool, the sort that keeps out damp as well as cold. Fur cuffs and collar. Fox fur, like the hat he was wearing.
‘Aleksandr Kirillovich, as we were saying,’ said the smallest of the Russians in a sharp, irritable voice, ‘this man is not known to us.’
‘His credentials are impeccable,’ answered Sasha smoothly, ‘impecc-able. I’ve already told him about Bobrikov.’
‘What about Bobrikov?’ asked the man in the fox-fur hat. Quality fur, expensive, Lauri could tell that right away. The fur glistened in the candlelight. The man looked as if he belonged in a different world. By nature he would never be found in a house like this.
‘That the Swede’s pulled out,’ said Sasha. ‘He knows all about it, don’t you, Lauri?’
Lauri nodded. He felt like a bull Sasha had brought to market for them to look over before they decided to buy it. But he wasn’t going to lumber up and down at their bidding. All this was going too fast for him. Everything was was pushing him back towards Bobrikov. Bobrikov, Bobrikov, Bobrikov. About-to-die Bobrikov. Allowed-to-live-a-little-longer Bobrikov. There was no getting away from him.
‘We’ll find another Swede,’ said the man in the fox-fur hat. ‘There’s always another Swede.�
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There was a grunt of laughter. Lauri knew that laughter. It defined things, said who you were and who you weren’t, made you part of the group. But this time, Lauri didn’t laugh. Whatever these men were part of, he did not belong to it.
What was he thinking of? He was always too quick to judge people. Sasha was his friend.
‘And is your friend still willing, when we find the next Swede?’
Suddenly Lauri was sick of it. He spoke Russian, didn’t he? Maybe not so well, maybe he sounded like what he was, but he could make himself understood.
‘I might be willing,’ he said, ‘if I knew what “willing” meant.’ His fists were on the table, and they were all looking at him. If only their eyes weren’t in shadow. Eyes and mouths tell you what you need to know.
‘Willing to do what’s necessary,’ said the man in the fox-fur hat.
‘Necessary,’ Lauri repeated. Every word struck him suddenly not as a thing made out of air, but as something that might be a weapon. ‘But who says what’s necessary?’
‘The decision has already been taken.’
‘Yes, but you see, I don’t know about that.’
‘The decision has been taken in the proper manner and after due discussion,’ said the man in the fox-fur hat, a shade of the master in his voice. ‘It’s time to move on.’
‘Move on…’ Lauri repeated slowly. His fists were tense. He was angry, yes, that was it. But he mustn’t show it. He might tell himself he was among friends, but his body knew the truth. It was wary, watching, waiting, ready to defend itself. His body knew more than he’d let himself know in his head, he thought, looking at his bunched fists. He had got to look out for himself here. There was Sasha, looking away, detached, as if Lauri was none of his business.
‘But don’t you agree?’ said the small Russian, leaning into the candlelight. To Lauri’s surprise he had switched to Finnish. Good, fluent Finnish, better even than Sasha’s. ‘Don’t you agree,’ he went on in his quick, emphatic voice, ‘about the necessity? Surely we’ve established the value of removing this one individual?’
House of Orphans Page 28
