by Philip Teir
She listened carefully. Yes, it really did sound as though he was crying. Several minutes passed. He was moaning, sobbing, mumbling something, and then he fell silent. She stayed where she was in the kitchen, not knowing what to do.
After a few more minutes of silence, she went over to the bedroom door to listen. Not a sound. When she opened the door and looked inside, she saw him lying on the bed, motionless. He was a big man, his back was enormous, and his hair was sticking out all over.
She noticed a faint odour. Had he farted? She took a step forward, and now she saw a dark pool spreading out across the blue sheet. When she got closer she noticed the stench.
‘Malik?’
No answer. He just lay there, on his stomach, heavy as a deer that had been shot, a body that didn’t seem to belong to its owner, just a big, foul-smelling black lump lying on her bed.
She went into the kitchen and rang Russ.
When he didn’t pick up, she really started to worry, wondering whether she could come up with a Plan B. Who should she call? Who would be able to help her with the situation? How was she going to explain this to Natalia?
She rang Russ again, and finally he answered.
‘Hi, it’s me,’ said Eva. ‘I’ve got a problem. A really big problem, actually.’
‘What the fuck!’
‘I opened the window. Do you think he’s dead?’
‘No, he’s still breathing.’
‘What should I do?’
Russ went over to Malik and poked him. He stirred, just a little, and seemed to mutter something.
‘Well, at least he’s still alive. Barely. Fuck.’
‘Do you think he’s overdosed?’
‘Who knows. Maybe he just had too much to drink. My dad used to shit himself sometimes after drinking all night. When I got up to have breakfast I’d find him stretched out on the floor in the front hall. My mum had to clean up after him.’
‘We can’t exactly send him home in a cab in this condition, can we?’
They went into the kitchen to consider the options. A cloying smell of excrement hovered over the whole flat, and Eva was worried her neighbours would be able to smell it out in the stairwell. She knew that the number one priority was to get Malik on his feet.
‘You’ll have to go in there and get him to stand up,’ she said, feeling more angry than scared.
‘You think I can do that? If this wasn’t your flat, I’d just leave him lying there. He must weigh at least fifteen stone.’
Eva was sure that he weighed a lot more than that. ‘But since this is my flat, he can’t stay there. Natalia will be home later tonight.’
They went back to the bedroom and poked at Malik. He responded by turning his head before sinking back on to the pillow and scratching at his filthy trousers.
‘Time to get up!’ Russ yelled, trying to sound authoritative as he tugged at Malik. ‘Fucking hell,’ he added. ‘This really isn’t how I was planning to spend my day.’
Next to Malik, Russ looked like a baby brother, a thin little hipster trying to shake some life into a rhinoceros. At first, Malik waved Russ away, but then he opened his eyes and looked up.
‘You need to have a shower, Malik.’
Russ pulled at him, and Malik seemed to be trying to cooperate. He propped himself up into a sitting position, but the look on his face told them that he was still completely out of it. He was staring at the wall. Eva looked at the two men and could suddenly picture Malik as a child – a pitiful, lonely and confused little boy who woke in the night, having peed his bed. With a great effort he stood up, leaning on Russ.
‘We need to ring his wife. Do you have her number?’
‘She’s probably at the gallery. Should we try there?’ said Eva.
‘Sure. Can you do it?’
Eva nodded. She knew that’s what she had to do.
In the kitchen she noticed that her mobile was vibrating. It was her mother.
‘Hi,’ said Eva. ‘I’m in the middle of something right now. Can I call you later?’
‘Well, okay, um … it’s about your grandmother. She’s had a stroke. I just wanted to know if you could come home.’
twenty-nine
KATRIINA WAS BUSY CLEANING. That seemed to her the most sensible thing to do in this situation. She went through the fridge, throwing out everything that wasn’t fresh; she scrubbed the toilet; she even got down on her hands and knees to wash the area around the rubbish bin.
If there was going to be a funeral, it would take place in Lappfjärd. And that meant that Katriina would have to take care of the practical arrangements. She was good at that sort of thing. She knew what kind of food to order, and she would make sure there was a certain level of sophistication about the memorial service, even though it would be held in Kristinestad and even if there weren’t very many mourners. Elisabeth would be there, along with her boys, and Katriina and Max with their daughters, as well as Amanda and Lukas, Ebba’s brother, a few cousins from Kristinestad, maybe some of Ebba’s former colleagues from the social welfare office and a few surviving veterans who would attend because they’d known Vidar.
Katriina liked seeing Max look so helpless. She liked the fact that he had no idea what to do, that he was so silent, that she still had a certain hold over him. For the past few hours they hadn’t discussed Laura Lampela, but Katriina had amused herself by calculating that she had been twenty-six when Laura was born, which meant that Max had been thirty, which meant that Laura was ten years old when Max was forty, and that was exactly the period of time when they were living in the United States. Katriina went through all these calculations while she was on her knees in the kitchen, scrubbing at the worn surface of the cupboard doors. When she’d finished, she went into the bedroom, still wearing her rubber gloves, and found Max lying on the bed. He had finished packing.
‘Have you talked to your sister?’ she asked.
‘Uh-huh. No news. Mum is sleeping.’
Katriina rubbed her forehead. The wet glove felt cold and unexpectedly pleasant.
‘Max. I’ll help with anything that’s needed. I’ll make the funeral arrangements. But after that, we need to talk.’
‘There’s nothing to talk about.’
‘Don’t you think I know what you’re like? How charming you seem to other people? How charming and loving and wonderful you are to everyone except me?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘I’ll go with you tomorrow,’ Katriina now said.
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘I know, but I want to. I want to see your mother one last time while she’s alive. So of course I’m going. And Helen is too.’
‘What should we do about the hamsters?’
‘You’ll have to deal with that. Early tomorrow. Go out and buy another one that looks the same.’
‘What did you do with the one I stepped on?’
‘I put it in the freezer.’
‘The freezer?’
‘I couldn’t exactly just flush it down the toilet, could I?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ said Max.
So it was decided. At nine in the morning Max took the tram over to Stockmann’s department store. Inside, he walked past the perfume counters and took the escalator up to the sixth floor. The place was deserted except for the sales staff, some Russian tourists who’d arrived in Helsinki early, a few men who were trying on blazers as their wives looked on and athletic-looking assistants eager to interest customers in a pair of trainers. Max proceeded to the pet department, which smelled of sawdust and fish food. And there he found a hamster that looked like Blixten, although maybe slightly smaller in size, but he hoped that wouldn’t matter. Helen and the kids would probably just think the hamster hadn’t had enough to eat while they were away.
By the time Max got home, Katriina had carried their suitcases out to the car. Helen had also arrived. She was sitting in the kitchen having coffee and looking upset. Max hoped it was because o
f her grandmother and not something Katriina had said.
Edvard leapt up and down, barking, as Max sneaked into Eva’s old room and put the new hamster in the cage with Skorpan.
Max and Katriina were silent for most of the drive, while Helen sat on the back seat and listened to an audio book.
‘What are you listening to?’ asked Katriina.
‘The Unknown Soldier.’
Max had talked to Elisabeth, who told him that the situation hadn’t changed. Their mother was still in Intensive Care, and it was unclear when, or if, she would be sent to the hospital in Vaasa. There was a hint of anxiety in Elisabeth’s voice, an uncertainty, and Max suddenly had the feeling that he hadn’t been a very good brother, that there was something he should be doing, something she wanted from him. But how could he know what that was?
Maybe Elisabeth simply needed someone to talk to. Max knew that he should have visited their mother more often over the past few years, but he’d always thought this situation would happen some day far in the future, that he’d have plenty of time with her and they’d be able to establish a closer relationship. He’d always pictured his mother’s demise as something quiet and dignified, something slow and thoughtful. He’d never imagined that it would be so stressful.
Now, as Max sat in the car, aware that he was heading for Österbotten to see his mother, who was most likely on her deathbed, he realised that it was too late to make amends.
It occurred to him that Edvard Westermarck had been plagued by guilt in a similar situation. When Westermarck heard that his mother had died, he was on his way to Morocco. He received a telegram from Finland, quite unexpectedly, not long after he’d visited his mother and sister. Westermarck wrote in his memoirs that he wished he’d stayed longer in Finland, as his mother and sister had asked him to do. But he’d been in a hurry to leave and go back to England and Morocco. Max thought he would write something about that, something about Westermarck’s relationship to his homeland and what drove him away.
‘Eva will come home if there’s a funeral,’ said Katriina. ‘I promised to ring her later today and tell her what’s going on.’
It had snowed hard the past few days, but now the snow had stopped. It was a beautiful, crisp winter morning, sunny and bitterly cold. The car seemed to fly along the road, and they kept the radio switched on the whole way. Things almost felt normal. Outside, the sky was blue and the flat, snow-covered landscape was completely indifferent to everything happening in their lives. Max’s mobile started vibrating.
‘Who is it?’ asked Katriina as he took out his phone.
‘Just someone from work,’ he told her.
It was a text from Matti, wondering how it was going with the book. He wrote that he’d set up an appointment with Laura, and they were hoping he’d be able to come. Max wondered what he really meant by that: whether he’d be able to come. He was talking about the book, right?
Max replied that he’d be out of town for a couple of days, but he’d get back to Matti soon. And he was making progress on the book. Then he sent a text to Laura to say he was on his way to visit his mother in the hospital, and he’d like to discuss his manuscript when she had time.
It occurred to Max that he didn’t really know Laura at all. When they’d had sex, he was struck by how cold she felt. Her body temperature was so different from Katriina’s. It wasn’t unpleasant, just different. And that was interesting.
‘Max, I’ve been wondering about something,’ Katriina now said. ‘Helen, can you hear me?’
Helen didn’t seem to be listening, because she didn’t answer.
‘If your mother dies, I’d like to sell the summer cottage.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because it’s yours. And if we get divorced, I want to be able to afford to stay in our flat. You’ll have to find another place to live. If we sell Råddon, we’ll have some extra cash, both of us will.’
‘But why would we get divorced?’
Max was trying to breathe slowly. He wanted to stick with the plan he’d made until there was no other sound but the pulsing of his blood. Set one foot in front of the other and wear down his opponent.
But Katriina was utterly calm.
‘I don’t know what you and Laura did. I don’t give a shit. You can have your little flirtation. But the thing is, you don’t really see me any more. When was the last time we had dinner together? When did we last do anything at all together? I’m fiftyfive years old, and it’s still possible for me to have a whole other life for the next twenty or thirty years. That’s what this is about. I’m sick of going around at home, waiting for you to notice me some day.’
Max leaned his head against the cold window. He thought that his normal response would be to protest, to argue. Yet in some perverse way, he wanted to see where Katriina would go with all this.
‘But Råddon has been in my family a long time. It wouldn’t be fair to Elisabeth if we sold it.’
‘Max, for the past thirty years, how much money do you think I’ve spent on food and shampoo and cleaning supplies? On new clothes for the kids, on furniture and rugs? Don’t you realise all of those things cost money? Even though you happen to have a summer cottage in your possession, that doesn’t mean you’re entitled to keep it.’
Max shivered. Marriage laws. He’d always thought there was something incredibly ugly about the transactions that people negotiated, the trifling calculations upon which they insisted. A power play based on money and property.
He turned to look at Katriina.
‘Just listen to us. Listen to how we’re carrying on. Do you really want to have this fight? A divorce? Arguing about a summer cottage? How typically Finland–Swedish is it going to get?’
But now Katriina had started crying. She wept as she drove, with the tears running down her cheeks and glistening in the sunlight. She was angry – he could see that – but Max always had a hard time seeing her cry. He wanted to hug her, hold her in his arms until she stopped, as if her despair were based on something that could be repaired if only he held her close enough.
‘Max, I just want …’
‘Katriina, sweetheart, my mother is in the hospital and we need to find a way to make it through the coming weeks. I promise that afterwards everything will be fine again. I promise.’
Now Helen took out her earbuds.
‘What is it, Mum?’ she asked.
‘She’s just feeling sad,’ said Max. ‘We’re all sad.’
His mobile began vibrating in his pocket. He took it out and glanced at the display. It was Laura.
‘Damn it, Max, WHY CAN’T YOU PUT THAT FUCKING THING AWAY?!’
Katriina grabbed his phone, opened the car window and tossed it out.
thirty
UP UNTIL NOW HELEN HAD been immersed in the Väinö Linna novel about the soldiers. She’d finally managed to get into the story. But now she looked up to see her mother throw a phone out of the car window, and then her father clumsily try to fling himself after it, so that Katriina almost lost control of the car. Helen leaned forward to look at her mother’s face in the rear-view mirror. Katriina’s eyes were filled with tears. And Max was shouting that his mobile had cost four hundred euros.
‘What’s going on?’ asked Helen.
They had passed Björneborg an hour ago and were now about halfway to Kristinestad. Katriina tucked her hair behind her ear and took a firm grip on the steering wheel.
‘Your father and I are getting divorced.’
Helen didn’t reply for a moment, as she tried to decide what to say. She thought she ought to express surprise – they probably expected her to be upset – but that didn’t feel right to her. For as long as she could remember, their marriage had been a rocky relationship, and she’d heard divorce mentioned before. In their family it was always talk, talk, talk – a nonstop babble – and so it was only natural that the topic of Max and Katriina getting a divorce should occasionally crop up in the conversation. Helen could just picture them in a
week’s time, clinging to each other once again, just as they always did, because in the long run they could only stand to be unhappy together.
‘Really? You’re getting divorced? Congratulations.’
‘This time it’s for real. I can’t go into all the details, because that’s something between your father and me. But this much I can tell you, since you’ll find out sooner or later: he’s leaving me. He’s found someone else.’
This sounds a little more newsworthy, Helen thought. Her father had found someone else? She couldn’t imagine who that would be. Was she young or old? Helen realised that she didn’t want to know. Not at the moment. She looked out of the car window at the flat landscape, at the barns and fields, and at the low clouds hovering just above the treetops on the horizon, motionless, as if waiting for something, or as if silently following the drama that was unfolding inside the car.
‘Grandma is dying. Can’t you put your marital crisis aside until later?’
‘If we get divorced, we’ll have to sell Råddon.’
‘Sell Råddon?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
For Helen, the summer cottage was a magical place where she’d spent so much of her childhood: near the sea, among the rocks and nettles, inside the house, which always seemed so mute when they moved in for the summer, but which changed and began to breathe once they’d put everything in its proper place. Råddon meant drives to Kristinestad, sugar doughnuts, fresh raspberries and strawberries. But it was also an adventure: being allowed to go out alone to explore the world, to swim and row and take long walks without her parents, to read books late into the night, to squash mosquitoes and leave tiny specks of blood on the wallpaper, to sit outside and breathe in the scent of the green smoke from the coils that were lit to keep mosquitoes away. Pine needles between her toes, dried pine cones under the soles of her feet, the drive from Helsinki, the feeling that she was coming to a foreign place that was nevertheless all her own. The smells of summer, the sunlight, the autumn, rowanberries in August, the stones in the little flowerbed and, if she lifted up the stones, all the ants underneath. And the cottage itself: the linoleum, the potato peeler, an old wood stove, an old tile stove in the small living room, where Max and Katriina always slept. The tiny decorative house that was also a cigarette holder (if you pressed on the chimney, a cigarette would come rolling out).
