by Tove Jansson
So we left him in peace. I don’t know what it was that depressed him. Sometimes I think it was the newspapers, the things happening in the world. Maybe he was homesick or missed someone who was far away. Or maybe he was just reaching the age when you suddenly look around and realise that life didn’t turn out the way you’d expected. I don’t know. And Lucio had so clearly and in every way shown us that he didn’t want to talk about personal matters. When the mood passed, he’d start wearing his wolfskin hat again, an amusing sign that everything was back to normal.
One time I tried to cheer up Lucio by taking him cross-country skiing. We went out together and bought his equipment, and he was incredibly interested. It was a very cold Sunday, and we skied some way across the ice on the southern harbour. Of course, he wasn’t doing so well, but he shuffled along behind me as best he could, straight out to where there was a boat frozen in the ice, which seemed to me a reasonable objective. When we got there, he was blue in the face and could hardly speak. “It’s intoxicating,” he said. “Wonderful to see. A lonely icebreaker that has itself been captured by the ice!” When we finally got home, do you know what he’d done? He had managed to fasten his bindings over his ankles, above the boot, so of course he had sores. Why couldn’t he have asked or said something? But maybe he thought it was supposed to hurt.
You had to keep an eye on him constantly. He was forever making mistakes and getting cheated. Lucio’s mistakes must have been gigantic back when he was courting and marrying women. Despite his reticence in such matters, it sometimes happened that I mentioned my own relationships, and he’d say, finally, very softly, “But she was so young and uncertain.” Always the same thing, young and uncertain, or middle-aged and uneasy, or all the other things women can be. He always had an explanation. I know there’s an explanation for everything, but insight isn’t the same thing as forgiveness. And forgiveness doesn’t have to mean that you forget. But Lucio forgot. He really couldn’t recall the injustice and bitterness that accumulate around a life. We saw evidence of that again and again, first with suspicion but eventually with devoted relief.
Of course, we never intentionally treated him badly.
Giving Lucio presents was fun. He was always so surprised and pleased, and he showed it without your having to disparage your own gift. He never seemed to feel weighed down by gratitude, and it never occurred to him to rush out and get a present or do you some favour in return. When he did do such things, it was by chance, in passing, and he would laugh out loud if you showed you were pleased.
Now, as I try to tell you about Lucio, it’s hard to understand what it was about him that we sometimes found so irritating. Not only before but especially after spending time with him, I always had a strong feeling of expectation that could last for hours. When I then try to recall what he had said, his tone of voice, his silences, his eyes, everything that had given our conversation its special character, all of it evaporated and grew unreal, like a story in a book. It was vaguely annoying. No, it was an odd feeling of helplessness – as if I’d missed or forgotten something important. It’s hard to describe.
I don’t know why he attached himself so exclusively to us, but I’m sure he knew that we loved him. Friendship is such a serious thing that it’s hard to talk about. I’ve tried. But I’m afraid that I’ve only succeeded in explaining a fraction of the excruciating, devoted, and somewhat distant friendship between ourselves and Lucio Giovanni Marandino.
The Squirrel
ON A WINDLESS DAY IN NOVEMBER, shortly after sunrise, she saw a squirrel at the landing place. It sat motionless near the water, hardly visible in the half-light, but she knew it was a living squirrel, and she hadn’t seen anything alive for a very long time. The gulls didn’t count; they were always flying away. They were like the wind across the waves and the grass.
She put her coat on over her nightshirt and sat down at the window. It was cold, and in the square room with its four windows the cold stood still. The squirrel didn’t move. She tried to remember everything she knew about squirrels. They sail from island to island on bits of timber, with the wind at their backs. And then the wind dies, she thought, a bit sadistically. The wind dies, or it turns, and they drift out to sea, and it doesn’t turn out the way they’d imagined, not one bit. Why do squirrels go sailing? Are they curious or just hungry? Are they brave? No. Just plain stupid. She stood up and went for the binoculars. When she moved, the cold crept in under her coat. It was hard to get the binoculars focused properly, so she put them on the windowsill and went on waiting. The squirrel was still sitting on the boat beach doing nothing, just sitting. She stared at it intently. She found a comb in the pocket of her coat and combed her hair slowly while she waited.
Suddenly it ran up the granite slope, very quickly, scampered up towards the cabin and suddenly stopped. She watched the animal, intensely, critically. The squirrel sat upright, its paws hanging. Now and then its body twitched nervously, an unplanned movement, a kind of crawling hop. It scurried behind the corner of the cottage. So she went to the next window, the one to the east, then on to the south. The rock face was empty. But she knew the squirrel was still there. There were no trees and no bushes, so she’d be able to survey the island from shore to shore. She could see everything that came and everything that went. Unhurriedly, she went to the stove to start the fire.
First, two lengths of scrap timber at an angle. Above them, crisscrossed bits of kindling; between them, birch bark; finally, larger pieces of wood that would burn for a long time. When the fire got going, she started to get dressed, slowly and methodically.
She always got dressed as the sun came up, warmly and with foresight. Carefully, she buttoned her shirts and sweaters and her moleskin trousers around her broad waist, and when she’d got her boots on and pulled down her earflaps, she liked to sit down in front of the stove in unapproachable contentment, without moving, without thinking, and let the fire warm her knees. She met each new day the same way. She waited grimly for winter.
Autumn by the sea was not the autumn she had imagined. There were no storms. The island withered quietly. The grass rotted in the rain, the granite grew slippery and was covered with dark algae well above the high-water mark, and November progressed in shades of grey. Nothing had happened until the squirrel came ashore. She went to the mirror over the bureau and looked at herself. Her upper lip had a fine grillwork of small, vertical wrinkles that she hadn’t noticed before. Her face was an indefinable greyish brown, like the ground outside. Squirrels also turn greyish brown in winter, but they don’t lose their colour, they simply acquire a new one. She put coffee on the fire and said, “In any case, they’re not artistic.” The thought amused her.
Now she mustn’t act hastily. The animal needed to get used to the island and above all to the cottage, needed to realise that the cottage was nothing more than an immobile grey object. But a house, a room with four windows, is not immobile. The person moving around inside stands out in sharp and threatening silhouette. How does a squirrel perceive movement in a room? How is anyone supposed to interpret movement in an empty room? The only possibility was to move very slowly, without making a sound. Living an utterly silent life was tempting, especially doing it voluntarily and not just because the island was so quiet.
On the table lay neat stacks of white paper. They always lay that way, with pencils alongside. Pages she’d written on were always turned face down. If words lie face down, they can change during the night. You see them afresh, quickly, maybe with sudden insight. It’s possible.
It was possible that the squirrel would stay overnight. There was a chance it would stay over the winter.
She walked very quietly across the floor to the cupboard in the corner and opened the doors. The sea was motionless today, everything was motionless. She stood still and held the cupboard doors while she thought about what she had come to get. And as usual she had to go back to the stove in order to remember. It was the sugar. And then she remembered that it wasn’t the sug
ar at all any longer, because sugar made her fat. These delayed recollections were depressing. She let go and allowed her thoughts to wander, and sugar led on to dogs, and she thought about what if it had been a dog that had come ashore at the landing place, but she dismissed the thought and turned if off. It was a thought that diminished the importance of the squirrel.
She started sweeping the floor, thoroughly and calmly. She liked sweeping. It was a peaceful day, a day without dialogue. There was nothing to defend or censure, everything was turned off, all the words that could have been other words or merely disowned, words that could easily have led to big changes. Now there was only a warm cottage full of morning light, full of herself, sweeping, and of the friendly noise of coffee starting to simmer. The room with its four windows was its own self-evident justification. It was safe. It was in no way the sort of place where people are closed in or left out. She drank her coffee and thought of nothing at all. She rested.
One tiny thought drifted by: What a fuss for a squirrel. There are millions of them; they’re not especially interesting. One of them, one specimen, has by chance come here. I need to take care. I’m exaggerating everything at the moment; maybe I’ve been alone too long. But it was just a passing thought, a common-sense observation that anyone might have made. She put down her cup. Three gulls were sitting out on the point, all of them facing the same way. Now she was feeling a little sick again. It was too hot in front of the stove, and she felt ill after her morning coffee. She needed her little glass of Madeira; it was the only thing that helped.
This is the way a day begins – build the fire, get dressed, sit in front of the fire. Sweep the floor, coffee, morning Madeira, wind the clock, brush teeth, see to the boat, check sea level. Chop wood, workday Madeira. Then comes the whole day. Only at sunset do the rituals resume: sunset Madeira, lower flag, bring in chamber pot, empty slops, light lamp, supper. Then the whole evening. Every day gets written up before it gets dark, along with the water level, wind direction and temperature. List by the door jamb of what she needed from town – batteries, socks that don’t itch, all sorts of vegetables, mobilat ointment, extra lamp chimney, saw blade, Madeira, shear pins.
She went to the cupboard to get her morning medicine. The Madeira was furthest in, to get the chill from the porch. She liked it cold. A bottle needs to have its appointed place. The cellar stairs under the floor were too steep and difficult, and it seemed cowardly to keep bottles hidden outside the house. There weren’t many bottles left. Sherry didn’t count. It made you sad and wasn’t good for the stomach.
The morning light had grown stronger; there was still no wind. She ought to go in and take the bus to town to get more Madeira. Not yet but soon, before it got too cold. The motor was acting up. She ought to try and fix it, but it wasn’t the spark plug this time. The only two things she understood about the motor were the spark plug and the shear pin. Sometimes she emptied out the petrol and strained it through gauze. She’d stood the motor against the wall of the cottage and slipped a plastic bag over the top. It stood there now. Of course she could row. But the boat was heavy and wanted to head into the wind. It was too far. It was all too bothersome. She turned it off.
She opened the screw top noiselessly, held the bottle between her knees and pressed the top against the flat of her hand while she twisted the bottle, coughed just as the metal band broke, poured herself a glass of Madeira with the bottle at just the right angle – and remembered that this was all unnecessary. Anyway, this was her morning Madeira, which she had a right to because she felt a little ill.
She carried the glass into the main room and put it on the table. The wine had a deep red colour against the light from the window. When the glass was empty, she hid it behind the tea canister. She went to the window and looked for the squirrel. Very quietly, she went from window to window, waiting for it to appear. She was warm from the wine, the fire burned in the stove, she turned and went anti-clockwise instead of clockwise. She was very calm. There was still no wind, and the sea merged with the sky in a grey nothingness, but the granite was black from last night’s rain.
Then she saw the squirrel. It came as a reward because she was calm and had managed to turn everything off. The little animal scampered across the rock in soft, S-shaped curves, right across the island and down to the water. Now it was back at the landing place. It’s going away, she thought. There’s no place to live out here, nothing to eat, no other squirrels, storms come and then it’s too late. Carefully, she got down on her knees and pulled the bread bin out from under the bed. Like ship’s rats, animals know when it’s time to leave. They swim or they sail, but one way or another they get away from what is doomed.
She crawled across the granite, moving as cautiously as she could, breaking off small bits of the hard bread and putting them in crevices in the granite. Now it had seen her and ran all the way down to the water’s edge and sat motionless. She saw it only as a smudge, a silhouette, but its contours expressed alertness and distrust. Now it will leave, now it’s afraid! She broke the bread as quickly as she could, faster and faster, crushing it with her fists and knees and throwing bits across the ground. She scurried into the cottage on all fours and over to the window. The landing place was empty. She waited an hour, going from window to window. The ocean was streaked with squall stripes. It was hard to see if anything out there was moving – something floating, an animal swimming. Only the birds rested on the water, white specks that then flew up and glided out over the point. The breeze marks thickened and she could see nothing at all; her eyes were tired and started to tear. She was sick of the squirrel and of herself. She was behaving like a fool.
It was time for her workday Madeira. Brushing her teeth would have to wait. So would chopping firewood and checking the sea level, all of it. She needed to watch out she didn’t get too obsessive. She got her glass, filled it quickly and carelessly, and when it was empty she put it on the table and stood still and listened. The silence had changed. There was a light wind, a steady easterly breeze. The room had lost its morning light, the glow of expectation and potential. The daylight was now grey, and the new day was already used, a little soiled by mistaken thoughts and makeshift undertakings. Everything to do with the squirrel seemed unpleasant and embarrassing. She turned it off.
She stood in the middle of the room and felt the warmth of the workday Madeira and thought, This lasts only a little while. It will pass, quickly, I have to use it or renew it. All the pots and pans in a row over the stove, all the books side by side on their shelves, and on the wall her nautical instruments – those alien, decorative objects that perhaps you needed when you lived on a winter sea. But there were never any storms. If there were, she could write to someone: We’re up to Beaufort eight. I’m working. The salmon floats are banging against the wall outside, and the windows are covered with foam from the waves … No. Blinded by salt water. Fogged with … struck blind. Spume from the breakers dashes across … Dear Mister K. The storm has reached Beaufort eight …
There were no storms. It just blew, nastily, stubbornly, or else there was a shiny, swollen sea that licked and nibbled at the shore. If the wind did rise, she’d have to see to the boat. When you’ve seen to the boat, you can have a Madeira that doesn’t count.
Now the squirrel came back. A light rustling, a clattering along the cottage wall, paws scraping on the windowpane, and she saw the animal’s alert little face, stupid little twitchings around its nose, eyes like glass marbles. Only for an instant, very close, and then the window was empty again. She started to laugh. Well, so you’re still here, you little devil …
Now she needed wind, any wind at all, as long as it blew from the mainland and the large islands. She tapped the barometer and tried to see if it was falling. Her glasses weren’t in any of the usual places, they never were, but as usual it seemed to read ‘Change’. She had to hear the weather, the weather report, and then she remembered that the batteries for the radio were dead. It didn’t matter, in fact not a bit,
the squirrel had stayed. She went to the list by the door jamb and wrote, ‘Squirrel food’. What did they eat? Oatmeal? Macaroni? Beans? She could cook some oatmeal. They’d adapt to each other. But she wasn’t going to tame it, absolutely not too tame. She would never try to get it to eat from her hand, come into the cottage, come when she called. The squirrel was not to be a pet, a responsibility, a conscience; it needed to stay wild. They would live their separate lives and just observe one another, in mutual recognition and tolerance. They would respect each other but otherwise continue doing their own thing in complete freedom and independence.
She didn’t care about a dog any more. Dogs are dangerous, they react to everything immediately, they’re distinctly sympathetic animals. A squirrel was better.
They made ready to winter on the island. They grew accustomed to one another and developed common habits. After her morning coffee, she put bread out on the granite slope and then sat at her window and watched the squirrel eat. She had figured out that the animal couldn’t see her through the windowpane and that it was probably not especially intelligent, but she still moved slowly and had grown used to sitting still for long periods, for hours, while she observed the squirrel’s movements without thinking about much of anything. Sometimes she talked to the squirrel but never if it was within earshot. She wrote about it, speculations and observations, and drew parallels between the two of them. Sometimes she wrote insulting things about the squirrel, shameless accusations that she later regretted and scratched out.
The weather was unsettled and grew steadily colder. Every day, right after measuring the water level, she walked up the rock slope to the great pile of driftwood and timber scraps to chop wood. She’d select a few planks or the end of a log, then saw and chop them into firewood, diligently and rather skilfully. As she worked, she felt as strong and sure as she did sitting in front of the fire at sunrise, fully dressed, immovable as a monument, without thought. When the firewood had been chopped, she carried it down to the cottage and arranged it under the stove, carefully, each chunk, each bit of timber – triangular, square, broad, narrow, rectangles and semicircles – all tight and pretty, a jigsaw puzzle, a perfect mosaic. She had gathered the great pile of winter firewood herself.
