The Lavender Ladies
Detective Agency:
THE END OF SUNSET GROVE
Translated by Kristian London
Minna Lindgren
PAN BOOKS
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
DEATH IN SUNSET GROVE
ESCAPE FROM SUNSET GROVE
Chapter 1
Siiri Kettunen woke up and thought she was having a nightmare. She was standing next to her bed, swollen feet jammed stoutly into her slippers and grey hair a fright, staring at the glowing red wall before her. She could tell she was alive, because the familiar fifth-octave A was ringing in her ears.
‘Good morning, Siiri! Your caregivers today are: No staff on duty! For details on the past night, press 1!’
Siiri tried to swipe at the animated digit, which danced and smiled next to a little goblin face. Siiri was communicating with her smartwall. It wasn’t a television or a computer, or even a tablet like Irma’s green flaptop, but a wall loaded with infinite amounts of intelligence. It brought security and meaning to an old person’s life. Her hand was trembling so furiously that initially the 1 didn’t react to her touch. In the end, she supported her swiping hand with her other hand, concentrated hard, and somehow managed to hit the dancing number with her forefinger. Upon being selected, it bowed in gratitude.
‘Time in bed 8 h 25 min. Sleep 7 h 5 min. Total amount of uninterrupted sleep 3 h 47 min. Sleep efficiency 88%. Intermittent snoring 27 min. Number of movements 229, duration 1060 sec. PLMD events 0. Pulse 52. Stress reactions 25%.’
Siiri could make neither head nor tail of the significance of this cheerfully presented information. Was it cause for concern if one moved 229 times over a period of 8 hours and 25 minutes? Was that too little? Or too much? The snoring amused her. She had always grumbled about her husband’s snoring, and now she suffered from the same affliction herself. His had been constant, of course, not intermittent. He had always dropped off quickly, and the rumble started immediately and continued till morning. Siiri sighed deeply as she thought about her dearly departed husband, with whom she had shared a bed for fifty-seven happy years, despite the snoring.
The smartwall roused her from her wistful reverie: ‘For personal updates, press 1!’
The wall flashed so eagerly that apparently it had something important to tell her. Some sort of cartoon character was bouncing around the screen, perhaps a bear cub, or maybe a fish. It hopped there comically, trying to stimulate a drowsy old woman to take an interest in herself.
Siiri concentrated so she would be able to catch the capering number 1. She wanted to know what the smartwall knew about her.
‘Today is your 97th birthday! Congratulations from Awaken Now!’
As if she wouldn’t have known without being reminded. Ninety-seven was nearly one hundred. She and Irma had determined not to turn one hundred; doing so would only cause trouble. A lady from the A wing had received a reminder from the paediatric clinic on her 105th birthday. Evidently all five-year-olds were called in for tests to measure their motor skills and psychological development, and now that she had turned 105, the computer system thought she was a pre-schooler. Apparently it didn’t recognize numbers over one hundred. Siiri thought the lady should have gone in; she certainly would have. The tests were rather fun; you had to draw a triangle and walk in a straight line, which was no simple feat for a 105-year-old. But instead of going in, the lady made a huge fuss, sent off a barrage of complaints, and then died before the complaints arrived at the appropriate authority.
‘Thank you very much,’ Siiri said to the smartwall, which was pushing a virtual bouquet of flame-red roses at her in honour of her birthday.
Siiri jabbed randomly at the smartwall, because she still hadn’t figured out where the controls were located and how to make it do what you wanted. But this was par for the course at Sunset Grove these days: one spent one’s days swiping and prodding surfaces. Intelligence was everywhere, gobs of it, a flick of the wrist and something terrifically smart happened. Siiri’s little one-bedroom flat was jam-packed with electrodes, sensors, chips, transmitters and cameras that tracked her existence. Somewhere in the depths of her mattress lurked that vigilant gadget that monitored her incessantly while she slept and counted every movement for lack of anything better to do. If she took a tumble and didn’t pick herself up in an allotted amount of time, smart-nodes in the floor would alert emergency services, and an ambulance carrying a brigade of medics would rush over to hoist her up. This ensured that old folks didn’t die on the floor. Finns were in unanimous agreement that dying on the floor of one’s home was more tragic than dying in a bed at the public health centre. An emotionally charged debate on the issue had even taken place during one of the plenary sessions in Parliament, which Siiri often watched with Anna-Liisa and Irma.
Living in a smartflat was a gas if one maintained a receptive attitude towards the surprises the machines threw one’s way. A trip to the refrigerator, for instance, was always a grand adventure. One never knew what the appliance would get it in its head to say.
‘Remove. Half. Litre. Carton. Of. Spoiled. Milk. Immediately. Expires. Today.’
Siiri’s fridge was a young woman, rather energetic but a little full of herself. Irma had insisted on an older man’s voice for her own icebox, which had proven funny indeed, as her refrigerator turned out to be the former announcer for public radio, whom they all knew from the foreign exchange rates and maritime weather conditions over the years. Irma had immediately started calling her refrigerator ‘her cavalier’, and she had hopelessly tried to teach it to say ‘cakesies’ instead of ‘cake’.
‘I’d have more luck with a parrot,’ she had huffed angrily when her painstaking instruction didn’t generate results.
Initially a talking fridge had seemed like nothing more than a day-brightener, the sort that put one in a good mood when one had neither a cat nor a spouse, but the fact of the matter was that it saved old people from food poisoning and diarrhoea: so many of them ate spoiled food as a result of not checking expiry dates. Or they forgot that bit of salmon from last week at the back of the fridge that eventually turned to green slime. Such lapses smelled so foul that one woman’s odour alarm had started blaring, and Siiri and Irma thought they were in the middle of an air raid.
To put her refrigerator’s mind at ease, Siiri started her breakfast with the expiring half-litre of milk. If she tried to put something in the fridge that should have been eaten the day before last, it launched into an unpleasant tirade, and Siiri didn’t know how to soothe it. She was having constant problems with her liver casseroles.
‘You did not follow instructions. You did not follow instructions. You did not follow instructions,’ the fridge might repeat
for hours on end in an unvarying tone, over-stressing the beginning of each word. It was torture, enough to put an end to an old person’s life, drain her of her will to live as she numbly suffered the refrigerator’s sermon in her dining room chair, while the barely spoiled liver casserole she had bought on special offer warmed up in the frying pan.
‘But I’d rather listen to a sermon from my cavalier than these volunteers,’ Irma would have said if she had been participating in the present conversation ‘online’ and ‘in real-time’. Sunset Grove’s sprouting army of volunteer caregivers used such terms when helping residents adjust to their new environment. There were no longer any staff per se. No exercise teachers or activity leaders, no kitchen staff, social workers, directors, caregivers, or even interns in theoretical caregiving or immigrants temporarily employed to further the integration process, only machines and an ambiguous band of volunteer helpers who indoctrinated residents into the pleasures of a machine-centred life.
Although still at its former location in Helsinki’s Munkkiniemi district, Sunset Grove was no longer your average terminal centre for the elderly. The renovation, which had lasted well over a year, had proved much more extensive than anyone could have imagined. The place had been gutted and rebuilt, and the end result sold off to an international conglomerate. Now the retirement home was a pilot project in monitored elder-care, its establishment and operation funded by three ministries. Politicians and businessmen believed that turning the elderly into laboratory animals would save society in the future and serve as the global solution to one of the world’s most pressing problems: old people. Finland would rise out of economic distress when various health and caregiving technologies conquered the world and demonstrated yet again the sort of miracles Finnish engineers were capable of working.
‘This is our last service to society,’ Siiri said to herself, wiping the remnants of her breakfast from the table top with the leg of her old pyjamas. She had forced down one hard-boiled egg and some crispbread, as she no longer felt hungry and ate primarily out of a sense of duty.
While Siiri was so occupied, Irma’s head appeared in gargantuan size on her smartwall, as if Irma had heard her mumbling to herself amid the sensors and devices. Irma’s curly white hair flopped untidily this way and that; she had cakesie crumbs in the corners of her mouth and enormous diamonds in her ears.
‘Dratted contraption!’ Irma shouted, not looking at Siiri but glaring angrily off to the side somewhere. ‘I’m at my wits’ end! Say your name and press enter . . . fiddlesticks! . . .’
There was a peculiar clatter and Irma vanished from Siiri’s wall. The Marriage of Figaro blared in the background. Siiri listened for a moment and decided it was the first act. Count Almaviva had found the pageboy Cherubino under a dress in the chambermaid Susanna’s room. Then Irma reappeared and fixed her penetrating gaze on the centre of the screen, as if she were furious with Siiri.
‘Ir-ma Län-nen-lei-mu. Enter! How does this ridiculous wall work? Open Sesame! Let me out! I can’t get out of my apartment! For God’s sake, will someone help me? Is there a single one of the institutional caretakers formerly known as maintenance men still left in this world? Can anyone hear me?’
Irma had wandered out of view of the camera, but Siiri had no trouble hearing her muttering and the consternation the discovery of Cherubino in the wrong room inspired in Almaviva’s court. The bray of the gossiping music teacher’s tenor rose above the other sounds. Irma grew increasingly panicked, she squealed and swore, sighed and moaned, and intermittently flashed past the camera, hair straggling. Suddenly the music ended. All was still, rather dreadfully silent, until Irma began trilling Alessandro Stradella’s ‘Pietà, Signore’ high and loud.
Siiri threw on her robe and rushed to the rescue.
Chapter 2
Irma was stunned when Siiri materialized in her flat with her own key. Or actually it was no key; it was a small oval fob that magically opened doors and signed off on purchases in the canteen and the MeDoc kiosk downstairs. The fob knew everything about them, more than they did themselves. One no longer needed to even remember one’s social security number, which was undeniably a relief for many residents. One simply had to flash the fob at the blob on the wall at the door to one’s apartment. But of course you had to find the dratted thing first. Many residents hung their fob around their neck, some didn’t know the difference between the fob and their medical alert bracelet, Irma’s was generally misplaced, and Siiri had attached hers to the strap of her wristwatch. Flashing the fob was always a time-consuming process, as the door-blob couldn’t be bothered to obey the first time, and one had to coax it to life by waving the fob around in various trajectories. When successful, a green light lit on the blob and the door opened slowly and impolitely right into the face of the person trying to enter. Doors that opened with a simple push or pull of a handle no longer existed.
‘Yes, just imagine those poor people who earned a livelihood making signs for doors, the ones that tell you whether you’re supposed to push or pull. Do you suppose they’ve all lost their jobs? I must say I find it peculiar. Inventing one contraption after the other that take people’s jobs from them. And what about those poor souls who glued the stickers to the doors?’ Irma said, bustling about the kitchen looking as if she meant to offer Siiri something but couldn’t think what.
Siiri offered a helping hand: ‘Cakesies would be nice. Or did you already finish it with your breakfast?’
Irma whirled towards Siiri in alarm and snapped almost angrily: ‘How did you know I had cakesies for breakfast? Was it announced on some smart-alec wall for the whole world to see? This place is driving me mad. According to the wall, my sleep efficiency was 78 per cent, even though I clearly remember I didn’t sleep a wink.’
Irma couldn’t stand the thought of being under constant surveillance. That was why the antennas and cameras had been set up: someone was sitting somewhere monitoring their every move, even when they were asleep. At this very moment, some bored surveillance officer out there – perhaps some former Push sticker-gluer or stick-exercise class leader who had been let go – was observing their morning rituals. Irma was sure the electronic jungle cost the residents of Sunset Grove a pretty penny; after all, who would be paying for it if not the residents? The government’s funds only covered start-up and construction. The ultimate intent was to launch new elder-care monitoring centres in India and South America with export subsidies from the Ministry of Economic Affairs.
Irma took a breath, and Siiri said with a smile: ‘You have cakesie crumbs in the corner of your mouth.’
‘Hmm, well. Does that offend your sensibilities? I’ll get my serviette; it should be here on the table. Why isn’t my serviette on the table . . . the pink one with my initials appliquéd on it so beautifully? An engagement present, lovely durable linen. I don’t like putting it in the laundry, which is why I keep it here on the table where I eat. Why did you have to start talking about cakesie crumbs now? Oh, I’ll just use my hand, there. Better now? Where were we?’
Siiri couldn’t be bothered to explain to Irma that she and her cakesie crumbs had accidentally appeared on Siiri’s wall. Some sort of ethereal connection had been established between their apartments so they could contact, as the idiom was, each other without getting up from the couch. Presumably one could establish such a connection with any of the residents’ walls if one had the skill and the interest. Irma’s and Siiri’s fobs allowed them to enter each other’s apartments, and Anna-Liisa’s, too, in case an electrode dozed off and one of them happened to die at that very moment. Every resident had been asked to choose two ‘safety buddies’ whose locks were programmed into the fobs. The residents looked after each other in this fashion; it was called ‘communal caretaking’.
But now they were at Irma’s breakfast table, stimulatingly simultaneously and in real time, discussing how awful it looked when so many residents went around with a three-week menu on their shirt-fronts. Couldn’t they see the mess themse
lves? Now that there were no nurses, there was no one around to tell these residents that they might want to wear a bib while they ate or at the very least change their shirt once a week. Irma remembered a cousin who was paralysed on one side of his face, so a steady trickle of food dribbled out of the corner of his mouth onto his shirt. No matter how gargantuan a bib was tied around his neck, a mess was inevitable. It had been very embarrassing, especially at family gatherings, which people had still had the energy to organize back then. Irma spent a moment reminiscing about her amusing cousins, all those spirited girls and boys who loved card games and proposing toasts and inviting the entire family over on Sundays to dine on delicacies.
‘Oh dear, oh dear, I’ve had a lovely life,’ she said, trilling and clapping her hands. Then she looked at Siiri and grew serious. ‘But they’re all dead, my high-spirited cousins.’ She sighed dramatically twice, breath quivering. ‘I have no one left but you, Siiri.’
‘You poor thing.’ Siiri said, gathering that she was cold comfort in comparison to Irma’s countless cousins.
They ate their cakesies and drank their instant coffee in silence. Both of them wished they had a newspaper, but complaining about that no longer felt invigorating. They had been outraged for months when all the newspapers moved to the Internet. They had written to the editor-in-chief of Helsingin Sanomat, the director of the Sanoma Group, all the CEOs, even those in the Netherlands, the head of customer service, the chair of the board of directors, and the corporate social responsibility officer, but had only received one response to their painstaking missives. It read: ‘We’ve streamlined our customer service feedback to Twitter. Remember to use the hashtags @sanoma #feedback #bouquetsandbrickbats #satisfiedclient.’
Irma’s green flaptop contained the daily paper as well as all the archive clouds and special issues one could ever want, but no matter how hard they tried reading the newspaper from the tiny screen, it simply wasn’t fun. The flaptop got sticky when you tried to swipe the pages with cakesie-moistened fingers – not that they were real pages, they were graphics that looked like newspaper pages.
The End of Sunset Grove Page 1
