The Winter War

by Philip Teir

  When she got home, Eva thought it would be best to start packing. Her plane left the following morning, with a layover in Frankfurt. Natalia was sitting in front of her computer in the kitchen, and she pointed towards Eva’s room.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor. He seemed a bit scared of me, so I let him wait in your room.’

  Natalia smiled. Eva gave her a surprised look. She had no desire to talk to Malik right now.

  But it wasn’t Malik. It was Russ. He was sitting on her bed, deeply immersed in a book about Dutch paintings, and he began talking without looking up.

  ‘I’ve never understood how they did it,’ he said. ‘I mean, check this out.’

  He held up the book to show Eva. She recognised it at once – a painting by Vermeer.

  ‘It’s like the only instance in human history when evolution unquestionably moved backwards. Do you think Julian Schnabel could paint something like this? Do you think anyone could do it today?’

  Eva was still standing in the doorway.

  ‘Hi,’ she said.

  Russ put the book down. The first and only time they had spent any time together outside of class, he had taken her to a dreary pub near Liverpool Street Station. The place was dark even in the middle of the day, and it seemed to suffer from a lack of oxygen.

  Eva liked Russ. He appeared to have a real sense of integrity, and he didn’t care for Malik. But she found his negative attitude hard to take. During that first pub visit, the only thing he’d talked about was how the London art world was a vicious circle in which nobody cared about anything except status and money. He’d asked her hardly anything about her life.

  Now he was sitting cross-legged on her bed, and Eva noticed that he hadn’t taken off his shoes.

  ‘Do you want something to drink?’ she asked.

  ‘Sure. Thanks. Do you have any beer?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find.’

  Eva went back to the kitchen, where Natalia was still working at her computer.

  ‘Weird guy. Is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘I guess you could say that. But I don’t know him very well.’

  ‘He seems nicer than Malik. He doesn’t look like the type who would hog the shower for two hours every morning.’

  Natalia had been extremely critical of Malik. She claimed that he’d pawed through her things in the bathroom and that he sometimes left his dirty underwear on the floor next to the shower.

  Eva went over to the fridge and took out a beer. She went back to her room and handed it to Russ.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Nothing special. I just happened to be in the neighbourhood.’

  His moustache somehow made him look even more like a schoolboy.

  ‘And you decided to drop by?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  After that, neither of them seemed to have anything more to say, and Eva thought that might actually be good, maybe even pleasant. She had no idea why Russ had turned up at her flat, but since he had, there wasn’t much she could do about it.

  ‘What do you think about our course?’ she finally said.

  Russ was silent for a moment. He seemed to be pondering the question. Then he said, ‘All that stuff about sitting around and discussing each other’s work … I don’t believe in it. That whole “crit” approach. I don’t think it means anything. You know? We should be working, instead of talking. Like those Occupy people. At least they’re doing something that makes sense, something that has an impact in the world. Not making some stupid piece of art that gets displayed in a gallery and then hung on a wall in the home of some pampered upper-middleclass family.’

  Eva sat down next to him on the bed. ‘I’m sure my father loves the Occupy movement. He’s always complaining that young people today no longer believe in change.’

  ‘But that’s the thing – maybe we don’t. I don’t know who those people are, but they do seem to believe in something.’

  ‘At least they believe in the possibility of not paying any rent.’

  Eva immediately regretted this last remark. She regretted sounding so caustic, resorting to the sarcasm that was typical of her whole generation – except Russ, for some reason.

  ‘I’m sick of everybody thinking only of themselves. I want to have a sense of belonging. The art world is so oriented towards the individual. But it hasn’t always been that way.’

  ‘Now you sound like Malik,’ said Eva, and then regretted that remark too.

  ‘Are you kidding? He’s the biggest idiot of them all! There’s nobody in England who cares more about himself. His ego is so huge that you could orbit around it. And the sickest part of all – what’s so ironic – is that he hasn’t had a show of his own work in fifteen years.’

  Eva realised that Russ was right, but she didn’t let on that she agreed. Instead, she tried to say something nice.

  ‘Well, at least you have a clear idea of what you want to paint. I still don’t know what I’m going to show when the six weeks are up.’

  Eva looked at him with an expression that might have revealed an unintended tenderness, because Russ leaned forward to kiss her. She felt his moustache brush her lips, and it tickled so much that she pulled away, and without thinking she put out her hands to push him against the wall. She heard a loud thud as his head struck the cement wall, at the very spot where Malik had slammed his fist a week ago.

  ‘Sorry! I didn’t mean to do that. I was just so surprised.’

  Russ put his hand on the back of his head, and his face flushed bright red.

  ‘Does it hurt?’

  He didn’t answer, just gave her a miserable look.

  Eva was just about to say something else – explain her behaviour, anything – when he got up from her bed and picked up his bag.

  ‘So, are you coming to college tomorrow?’ he asked.

  She looked up at him. He was still holding his head.

  ‘I’m afraid not. I’ll be away for a few days. I’m going to Finland. It’s my dad’s birthday.’

  twelve

  NOTHING GAVE KATRIINA SUCH a sense of peace as the intense buzzing of a successful party – the knowledge that she was the one who had gathered all these people in one place, that she was the one who had created the atmosphere upon which the festivities depended. But before the guests arrived Max hadn’t once taken the time to thank her for everything she’d done. Instead, all day he had whined like a child about not wanting any sort of celebration, and he’d started drinking well before noon. The speech that he’d given for Laura was both peculiar and embarrassing. Everybody could see that he was openly flirting with her.

  And now a complete stranger had turned up. No one had any idea who he was.

  Katriina rushed back and forth from the kitchen to the living room, making sure that there were enough coffee cups and glasses, and that all the guests were having a good time. She had on high heels and a print dress that was black and neon-pink, which she’d bought in a hurry at Stockmann’s department store the day before.

  Elisabeth had arrived by train to help Katriina with all the preparations. Max’s older sister was married, had three children, and lived in Närpes. She made her living by selling some sort of natural supplement, and she talked about her cats as if they were people. But she’d raised three sons. One was a doctor in Uppsala, Sweden, and the other two had respectable jobs up north in Österbotten. And she had a good sense of humour. Each time she visited, Elisabeth would stand in the middle of the living room, look around, and say that she’d never seen ‘rich folks living such a shabby existence’. It was a joke, of course, because the flat where Katriina and Max lived was 1,500 square feet. But according to Elisabeth, what mattered was that they had no yard, and the fact that they both worked in professions that were abstract and, frankly, ridiculous. She always teased Max whenever he received media attention. Back in the nineties, after he’d published his sex study, she claimed that their father would
turn in his grave if he knew about it. (‘Who knew that somebody could get famous from talking about the ten ways that complete strangers fuck?’)

  Katriina quickly surveyed the room. The unexpected guest was sitting on the sofa, waiting for Eva. His bony fingers were resting in a rather affected manner on his knees as he looked around. His gaze stopped on a large painting by Heikki Marila that Katriina had acquired at an exhibition at Korjaamo. She had never before bought anything so expensive just because she liked it, but in this case she knew she wouldn’t regret the purchase.

  Katriina had tried phoning Eva, but her mobile was turned off. Helen had checked the Internet and found out that the flight from Frankfurt would be two hours late.

  When Katriina tried to ring again, she suddenly got through.

  ‘Hi, Mum. I’ll be home soon. I’m on the bus at the moment.’

  ‘Good, good. You need to hurry, because there’s someone here to see you.’

  ‘There is?’

  ‘Yes. A young gentleman. He says that he knows you. I think his name is Russ. Dad is talking to him in the living room right now.’

  For a moment there was only silence on the line.

  ‘Russ? Are you talking about a short, dark-haired guy with a moustache?’

  ‘Right. That’s him.’

  ‘But what’s he doing there? How’d he get there?’

  ‘How would I know? Is he your boyfriend?’

  ‘No, he’s not my boyfriend.’

  ‘Then who is he?’

  ‘He’s somebody who definitely shouldn’t have flown to Finland without telling me.’

  ‘Well, he says he tried to ring you all week, and you never answered.’

  ‘But I talked to him yesterday! He told you that he’d tried to phone me?’

  ‘That’s what he says. The two of you will just have to work this out. Although I can’t say I care for that moustache.’

  Katriina ended the call and left Max to take care of Eva’s guest. Max sent her a look that said he had better things to do, but she pretended not to notice.

  She went into the kitchen, where she found Helen with her husband, Christian.

  ‘I finally got hold of Eva. She’s on her way.’

  ‘Did she tell you anything about that guy?’ asked Helen.

  ‘She said they’re friends. But he’s not her boyfriend.’

  ‘He looks kind of odd.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  He did look a bit odd, compared to Katriina’s son-in-law. Christian was tall and solidly built. He had the physique of a skilled workman, with sinewy arms but also a certain weight and strength about him. A real man. There was nothing that Christian couldn’t do. When he quit the architecture firm to become a carpenter and furniture upholsterer, they all thought at first that he was crazy. But after five years he had his own company and was a professional consultant for the Museum Department. He now earned more money than he ever had as an architect, and he’d also renovated a beautiful house for his family near Kyrkslätt, right where Esbo turns into countryside.

  Katriina leaned against the worktop. Water was splattered around the sink, and she started wiping it up, but it just kept spilling over the edge. She gave up and tossed the dishrag in the sink.

  ‘Helen, take a look at this,’ she said.

  She yanked out the drawer that never opened smoothly.

  ‘Yes, I know. We’ve seen it, Mum. You’ve showed it to us before.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll ever get a new kitchen?’

  ‘Well, just talking about it won’t make it happen.’

  ‘But Dad refuses to even consider it. Plus, there’s no time. After Christmas I’m going to the Philippines. Wivan is sending me on a mission to recruit nurses.’

  Katriina slammed shut the drawer.

  ‘Christian, what’s your opinion?’

  ‘About what?’

  Christian looked as if he’d been startled awake from a deep sleep. He was the most diplomatic person Katriina had ever met – and there was something rather undiplomatic about that very fact, because it was impossible to be on everyone’s side at all times. Mostly he tried to stay out of the domestic matters of the Paul family.

  ‘What do you think about this kitchen? Shouldn’t we have it completely redone?’

  ‘It is looking a bit worn out.’

  ‘So do you think it’s fixable? Max says that we could just repair whatever’s falling apart.’

  ‘Maybe. But it’s often cheaper to start from scratch, unfortunately. That’s how it is these days. The cost of hiring workmen has gone sky-high. I think you could have some of these cupboards refinished. But if you need new shelves … The question is: what would be less expensive?’

  Max came into the kitchen with the young man who was Eva’s friend. ‘So, have we heard anything from Eva yet?’

  He spoke English, so that Russ would be able to understand. Katriina also replied in English.

  ‘Yes. I just spoke to her. She should be home any minute.’

  ‘You have a lovely home,’ said Russ. Katriina wondered what he really meant by that. Was it sheer flattery on his part, or was he genuinely impressed? It was impossible to tell whether he came from a family with little money, or whether he simply chose to dress in such shabby clothes.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Katriina. ‘But our kitchen is terribly outmoded. Don’t you think we ought to have it refurbished?’

  Max raised one eyebrow and looked at Helen, as if to get her to cooperate in some tactic against her mother, but Katriina saw that Helen refused to acknowledge her father’s unspoken request.

  ‘How about if we had it painted?’ said Max.

  ‘Your dad is so romantic,’ replied Katriina, with what she hoped was a casually ironic tone to her voice.

  A strand of hair had come loose from her ponytail.

  ‘But I am romantic,’ Max insisted and then laughed. It was the kind of laugh that Katriina hated, because it was an attempt to erase anything serious from the situation. At this particular moment she was sick and tired of Max.

  She couldn’t help it, but suddenly all the stress of the day flooded over her, and she almost fainted. She knew she should keep quiet. Instead, her voice rose shrilly.

  ‘Then why the hell don’t you ever show it, Max? Why do you show it only to everyone else, in your books, in your articles, to your colleagues, and God knows to how many of the young women you meet? But you never show it to me.’

  Silence descended over the kitchen.

  ‘Mum. Dad. I don’t know if we … Maybe you should talk about this some other time.’

  Helen cast an embarrassed glance at Russ. She looked very uncomfortable and wanted to change the subject.

  ‘It seems cold in the flat. Have you noticed? Don’t you have the heat on?’

  ‘It’s your father who refuses to turn up the thermostat. He thinks we need to save on electricity and just put on warmer clothes,’ said Katriina.

  ‘Or we could warm each other up. That’s romantic, isn’t it?’ Max ventured.

  Katriina sighed and tucked the loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I don’t feel like arguing with you right now. This is your party, and you should celebrate however you like. But if you’re planning on getting drunk, you should at least have sense enough not to give any more speeches.’

  Helen covered her ears. ‘Mum and Dad, I don’t want to listen to this. And I don’t think our guest does either.’

  Now she turned to face Russ. ‘I apologise. My mother and father can’t stand each other, and they think the rest of the world should know about it.’

  Everyone was now looking at Russ, who tried to muster a smile.

  Max was set on defending himself. He said to Russ, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not serious. We’ve been married thirty years. This is just what happens. When you turn sixty, you should be happy just to be able to locate your socks in the morning.’

  Max raised his glass, spilling a little of his drink.

  ‘Oh, well
. Happy birthday, by the way,’ said Russ.

  ‘Thanks.’

  HELSINGIN SANOMAT

  Complete freedom is not an ideal condition

  Professor Max Paul turns sixty today, but he has no intention of stopping working. ‘Work is the most direct path to happiness,’ he says.

  by Laura Lampela

  He begins by quoting Tolstoy.

  ‘I think that Tolstoy said it so well. You should “work for those you love and love your job”,’ says Professor Paul.

  We met at the Kosmos restaurant, which holds a special place in Paul’s heart. This was where he went as a student to celebrate passing his exams.

  ‘We also came here on those occasions when we didn’t pass. We often couldn’t afford to order any food, but they would let us sit here and drink. When my parents came to Helsinki to visit me in the early seventies, we had dinner here after seeing a play at Lilla Teatern,’ he explains.

  He is easily recognisable from his appearances on TV. He has the same slightly anxious look in his eyes and the same quick wit that made him such a popular guest on talk shows in the nineties. A 1993 article in City Guide dubbed him the ‘young intellectual of the decade’, and that made Max Paul the big star among Finnish intellectuals.

  Lately we haven’t seen much of you in the media. What happened?

  ‘It’s partly because these days I’m better at saying no, and partly because the intellectual climate has changed, in my opinion. Plus, philosophy was a hot topic in the nineties, but not so much today. Unfortunately, this has also been felt at the university. Other subjects are now more fashionable, and those students who have real talent – and especially the men – choose fields that offer better job prospects,’ he says.

  But Max Paul has not given up his enthusiasm for sociology.

  ‘On the contrary. Sociology is a very generous discipline. It allows a man to have other lovers. It’s polygamous by nature. I’m very interested in social psychology and the history of ideas. At the moment I’m working on a biography of the “grand old man” of sociology in Finland, Edvard Westermarck.’

  It has been a while since Professor Paul published anything. His break-through book, Under the Metropolis Star, was nominated for a Finlandia Prize. It was a crossdiscipline examination of the post-war generation in which Paul conducted interviews with war veterans and their families to discuss how the Western concept of happiness became shaped in the modern era. The book put him on the map as one of the foremost interpreters of how the war years affected the soul of the Finnish people.