The End of Sunset Grove

by Minna Lindgren

  ‘Mika, I won’t have this. Please sit down.’ Her commands were so firm that the big boy collapsed obediently in her armchair. She took a seat too, and started telling him about life at Sunset Grove these days. Mika didn’t appear to be listening, but he sat there silently and stared at the wall, which hadn’t forgotten its manners and greeted the guest with a personal message: ‘The Devil was a murderer from the beginning, and abode not in the truth, because there is no truth in him. When he speaketh a lie, he speaketh of his own: for he is a liar, and the father of it. John 8:44.’

  Siiri started from the skeletal robots and smartwalls, went through the food-like substances, AGVs, fitness consoles and seal pups, then moved on to listing the deaths caused by healthcare technology before describing the army of volunteer staff, especially Pertti and Sirkka the Saver of Souls, Tauno’s attempted healing and Margit’s convulsions, and ended with Anna-Liisa’s will, which she was holding in her hand, because she hadn’t decided what to do with it yet. Anna-Liisa had signed it, but Siiri knew her friend didn’t want to turn over all her property to the religious graspers, especially before she died.

  ‘And since you’re Anna-Liisa’s guardian, I thought you should have a look at this document and confirm its invalidity.’

  She handed the will to Mika, who glanced at it indifferently. According to Mika, a guardian’s rights only came into force when the individual in question was incapable of making her own decisions.

  ‘How’s Anna-Liisa doing?’

  ‘She’s . . . fading . . .’ Siiri’s voice started to tremble frustratingly as she told Mika she was afraid the estate-disbursement process had been too much for Anna-Liisa after everything she’d been through in recent years: Onni’s death and his dirty business affairs and squabbling heirs. Anna-Liisa languished in bed, reading gloomy German literature and talking about death in a completely different way than before. Irma didn’t even dare say döden, döden, döden any more.

  ‘Got it. So she’s conscious.’

  ‘Anna-Liisa? Of course. Right in the head, as Irma would say.’

  ‘Then you guys can handle it. You don’t need a guardian.’

  Mika stood and prepared to leave, packed up his poison mister and locked his toolbox. Siiri was panicking and she didn’t know what to say to convince Mika to help them one last time. He had to; they didn’t have anyone else. But he seemed to harbour resentment over his earlier escapades with Anna-Liisa and Siiri. Perhaps they had caused him trouble.

  ‘Mika, wait!’

  The big lunk stopped at the door and looked Siiri beautifully in the eye. Siiri thought she caught a small smile on the hardened face. Maybe they were still friends after all?

  ‘Are you upset with me? Are we the reason you went to prison?’

  ‘No. Old stuff. Almost finished doing my time. See you.’

  Mika went on his way. The door banged behind him, and Siiri was left alone in the hallway amid the echo and a faintly sweet, strange aroma: the smell of rat poison. Didn’t Mika really want to help them? Or had he unintentionally given Siiri an idea for solving their conundrum?

  Chapter 28

  ‘Dead, every last one,’ the burly man in red overalls and neon vest said into his phone outside Sunset Grove. Siiri was just coming from buying her daily serving of liver casserole from the upper Low Price Market and couldn’t believe her ears. She looked around in a panic. There was no ambulance, only a blue van. Perhaps the ambulance had already left; after all, they weren’t meant for transporting the dead, only the living. But the blue van didn’t look like a hearse; it looked more like an unmarked police vehicle.

  ‘No, no signs of life.’

  Siiri felt her heart stop, then drum at a terrific tempo, prestissimo agitato at the least. Why wasn’t there a soul in sight at Sunset Grove, aside from this fellow in coveralls? A brigade of day-care children was marching down Perustie, wearing the same sort of neon vests as the burly bellower, who was perhaps a fireman. The children were en route from the old bank to play in the park. The display-window day-care was a daily source of joy for Siiri; she always paused for a moment to watch the children play, eat or crawl onto their mattresses for their naps. It must have been two o’clock, since the four-year-olds were embarking on their outdoor adventure. Siiri leaned against Sunset Grove’s cold walls, drained, and listened to the rushing in her ears intensify to a dreadful thundering. The electricity wasn’t out, as the lobby smartwall was glowing so brightly she could see it all the way outside.

  ‘We haven’t all died, have we?’ Siiri said to the man and realized she was panting distressingly. ‘After all, I’m alive . . . at least I think so.’

  ‘What’s that?’ The man looked at Siiri and put his phone in his pocket. ‘Do you have a key? I need to get inside.’

  How did he plan on carrying out the bodies on his own? And without a stretcher? Siiri felt dizzy and was afraid she was getting confused. Where was Irma? Hadn’t her daughter-in-law come by to pick her up for book club somewhere in the boondocks? That meant Irma might still be alive. What about Anna-Liisa, who spent her days lounging in bed with Thomas Mann?

  ‘Was it the gas? A leak of some sort? Or is it another computer malfunction?’ she asked.

  The man looked at her, perplexed, and jangled the jumble of key-fobs in his large fist. It seemed to Siiri as if he were starting to get upset. She desperately rummaged around in her bag for her own fob, then remembered she kept it on her watchband and drew it out from the sleeve of her overcoat. But her hands were trembling so badly the device wouldn’t obey. The door remained shut.

  ‘Goddammit,’ the man said, pulling out his phone, as if threatening to call in more hearses unless something sensible happened soon. ‘Is that dead, too? These fobs are a real pain in the ass.’

  ‘You’re the one who said it, but mine usually works impeccably. Let me try again.’ Siiri flashed her fob at the reader rather viciously, and wouldn’t you know, the door began to open in their faces. ‘Hocus pocus! See, it works!’

  ‘So that fob wasn’t dead. But these are,’ the man said, shoving the stash into his vest pocket.

  ‘You were talking about the fobs when you were saying they were all dead, is that it? And here I was thinking you meant . . .’

  The man burst out laughing. ‘The residents? I love it! Hilarious!’

  Siiri also laughed gently in relief, because even though they all hoped for a speedy release from their computerized existence, and to be carried by a merciful bout of pneumonia to technology-free zones, the thought of the simultaneous death of all residents of Sunset Grove was unpleasant. Now she wondered how she had ever imagined something so unnatural. A life of monitored care had estranged her from all that was natural; that must be it. When old people died from the embrace of automated seal pups, the clutches of robotic companions and virtual exercise, wasn’t it just as likely that a sudden lethal epidemic could sweep through all of Sunset Grove? She found it funnier and funnier, and also a little embarrassing, and the maintenance man at her side concentrated on studying a floor plan of the building from his tablet.

  After wiping away her tears with a handkerchief, Siiri took the man’s arm and asked him what he was doing at their retirement home, if it wasn’t to cart off bodies.

  ‘Outsiders aren’t allowed in here. You must have some extremely valid reason for your visit, I presume. I’m assuming you’re not a fob resuscitator?’

  The man laughed again. ‘No. I’m here to switch the cables. The server is being updated.’

  ‘The server? The . . . sacred server, is that it? Is there something wrong with it? There wasn’t a single Bible passage this morning, and that’s usually a sign of a technical malfunction.’

  ‘A normal update, but we’re going to switch over to the backup system for the duration.’

  ‘How interesting!’ Siiri said, more eagerly than was necessary.

  ‘I’m not so sure about that. Is that the C wing?’

  The man started walking across the comm
unal area towards the C-wing corridor. Siiri was forced to take a few running steps to keep up with him, and her heart shuddered slightly again.

  ‘Excuse me! Wait a moment! What are you going to do to the server?’

  ‘Nothing; I just take care of these cables. Old one out and a new one in; no big deal,’ the man shouted over his shoulder as he vanished through the heavy door leading to the basement. Siiri listened to his heavy boots recede down the stairs. She felt a tingling curiosity as she thought about all the thrilling things one might find in the basement. It looked as if Irma was right after all: the Holy of Holies was in the catacombs.

  ‘What are we standing around here for? Are we lost?’

  Siiri recognized the voice and guessed the colour of the shoes before she turned around. Yet again, Sirkka the Saver of Souls had materialized out of thin air and was looking at Siiri as if she had escaped from a precision-programmed bed in the dementia unit, where the carcasses had received so much caregiving they couldn’t move.

  ‘CAN YOU TELL ME WHAT DAY IT IS? DO YOU REMEMBER YOUR NAME?’

  ‘Thanks for asking. Today is Friday, 19 February, and those celebrating their name days today include Eija, or according to the Swedish calendar Fritjof and the Orthodox calendar Arhi and Arhippa, even though I’ve never heard of anyone named that. My name is Siiri Kettunen, and your name is Sirkka Nieminen; we’ve met on more than one occasion. You have a peculiar tendency to show up in surprising places. Are you starting up a prayer circle or are you planning on healing one of us demon-possessed old people?’

  The carefully rehearsed empathy drained from Sirkka’s face, to be replaced by a magnificent blankness. Her mouth twitched, and her uncertain, quite fearful eyes didn’t know where to focus. Siiri gave the missionary a moment to think of a fitting Bible phrase, but there was no response.

  ‘Is it money you want? Alms and indulgences?’ Siiri asked, attempting a friendly smile. She took a few resolute steps to remove herself from the situation, as the conversation didn’t appear to be going anywhere, but Sirkka blocked her way. For a moment they stood in unpleasantly close proximity to each other. Siiri caught a faint but pungent whiff of sweat and looked at Sirkka’s turquoise artificial fabric tunic. Rayon or what have you, no doubt it didn’t breathe.

  ‘Who went down to the basement? I heard the door slam. Did they tell you to stand here and act as lookout?’ Sirkka asked.

  Siiri found it curious that the basement could agitate the volunteer staff member so badly that she lost all semblance of courtesy. Suddenly the devil got in to Siiri, no doubt Lucifer himself, and she said casually:

  ‘Irma Lännenleimu went down there. You’re right, I’m acting as lookout to make sure no one noticed, but you noticed anyway.’ Sirkka’s fearful eyes went as wide as her large, plastic-framed spectacles and she gaped at Siiri before yanking the basement door open and disappearing behind the steel door herself. The green high heels produced a distinctly different sound in the stairwell from the maintenance man’s clodhoppers. Before long a shrill squeal echoed, and then all was silent. Siiri waited in suspense. For the first time in her life she regretted not having a mobile phone to call Irma and her other friends to let them know there was some fun in store. When she heard nothing from the basement for a moment, she rushed to the end of the corridor and peered into the communal area, but there was no one there. Pity. She was so excited that her stomach felt like an anthill, just like decades ago, when something unusually fun was in the works. It had been so long she’d forgotten how refreshing a little practical joke could be.

  At long last the basement door opened. The maintenance man stepped out, followed by a tear-faced Sirkka Nieminen. The gruff, growling fellow was trying to soothe the increasingly hysterical woman, who was sobbing incomprehensibly. They approached Siiri, and it was only then that her delighted suspense turned to horror. She had lied to Sirkka like a naughty schoolboy. Maybe it hadn’t been so funny after all, fooling the poor woman into going down into a dark basement that was probably teeming with rats.

  ‘You, wait a minute, you there!’ Sirkka shouted as she approached Siiri, who had frozen on the spot and clenched her handbag in bewilderment as if it were a security blanket. ‘What are you up to? Why did you egg me on like that? What are you trying to do here?’

  ‘Actually, no one should be going down into the basement except for maintenance company employees,’ the man in coveralls said.

  ‘I thought there were old people down there who were snooping . . . prying . . . endangering . . . that client, I mean that resident, told me that she was keeping a lookout . . . that there was some spying operation . . . the basement’s where . . . what exactly were you doing down there?’

  ‘Maintenance work,’ the man said, and went on his way. As he passed Siiri he winked and gave her the thumbs up. It was a common gesture these days, depicting some sort of accepting encouragement, was how Siiri interpreted it. The man paused at the bin, reached into his vest pocket and discarded the dead fobs.

  Sirkka didn’t follow him; she remained quaking and confused with Siiri.

  ‘I’ve had enough of old people. I can’t do this any more. I’ve asked Pertti so many times to assign me to the expenses department, but he won’t let me. The pay here is so bad, too.’

  ‘We thought you were volunteers. Are you really working here? What’s your job?’ Siiri asked in surprise.

  ‘Job. My job is to talk about the Holy Spirit, that’s my calling, that’s all I have. But I sinned and I must pay the price. I have to start from the bottom, from the old people. It’s called volunteering; it sounds better that way, like we’re practising charitable works. I don’t have any training in working with old people, that’s why I shouldn’t even be doing this. You can’t imagine how hard this is for me.’

  ‘No, there’s no way I can imagine that. But everyone is always talking about how inhumanely hard it is for healthy people to work with the elderly. That’s why there aren’t any staff here, just machines.’

  Sirkka burst into tears. She collapsed against the wall and slid slowly to the ground, letting out a broken, whimpering wail. Siiri looked around but didn’t see a chair. She couldn’t sink to the floor to sit like the Saver of Souls; if she did, at least two Ahabas would be required to hoist her up. She bent down next to the quivering Sirkka and stroked her quaking artificial-fabric shoulder.

  ‘Now, now, that’s enough of that. You’re a sensitive woman. What’s making your life so difficult? Is it that religion of yours?’

  ‘No . . . maybe I’m not strong enough in my faith . . . salvation and mercy, but I can’t lose weight, my fat percentage is too high and . . . weakness, a sign of weakness, Pertti said . . . I’m, I have to work for the movement, as a volunteer, even though my calling . . . all that debt and my former life, that burden, but I never collect enough donations . . . My calling, the road to salvation. That’s it. But I’m, I feel so . . . insufficient, the demands are enormous, the training doesn’t strengthen me . . . I don’t find . . . group sex liberating, even though . . . the exercises, sometimes they feel . . . external, my corporal self and inner soul performing acts like that . . . I don’t know. My imperfection, I have to get stronger, but my path . . . strewn with thorns and . . . And yet in weak moments I feel as if I can’t do this, that . . . the journey to eternal salvation is . . . too hard. Why am I talking to you about this? Some old person I don’t even know. My Lord Jesus Christ, forgive me my weakness! You suddenly felt so . . . but I shouldn’t be talking this way to a client. Will you promise me you won’t tell anyone? God will punish me; you don’t have to.’

  Sirkka’s black hair, usually so glossy, was a fright, and her eye make-up was streaming down her cheeks. Her voice was thick with tears and the hands that were gripping Siiri were shaking more violently than those of a single Sunset Grove resident. Siiri looked the woman in the eye, wiped the black smudges from her cheeks and helped her to her feet. She rummaged around in her bag until she found what she was looking for
and handed the poor woman a lifeline: a comb.

  ‘You shouldn’t agree to anything that doesn’t feel good. Especially sex. You’re a modern woman, how can you subject yourself to that?’

  Sirkka’s breathing gradually started to level off. She combed her hair compulsively and started cleaning her spectacles on the hem of her tunic. Now she spoke very quickly, without looking at Siiri and sounding a bit like a smartwall that was breaking up. ‘Woman is the vessel of man. A jug of clay. Every open vessel whose mouth has not been sealed is unclean. Woman is man’s property, and man will do with it as he sees fit. The desires of the flesh are not those of the Spirit, those of the Spirit not those of the flesh. Woman is the flesh of the man. Woman is a snare, her heart is a trap, her embrace shackles. I’m an unhappy woman and I bore my soul to God. Let your women be pleasing to man, let your women keep silence in the churches.’

  ‘That doesn’t make the least bit of sense. You live in Finland where men and women are equal, and you can make your own decisions,’ Siiri insisted.

  Their roles had undergone a peculiar reversal: Siiri was caring for the volunteer staff member and converting her to her ideology. This was atypical for Siiri; she thought it was important to be respectful and refrain from forcing her own ideas on those who subscribed to different worldviews. But this woman was in great distress, perhaps so great she didn’t realize it herself. The more Sirkka perked up in Siiri’s care, the more vigorously she clung again to doctrines handed down from above.

  ‘You don’t understand. I don’t want to make my own decisions; that’s why it’s safe for me to serve the movement. I obey. I believe, and if I work hard and test myself, my faith will grow stronger and I’ll be rewarded. That’s all I need.’

  She applied a coat of lipstick so dark it was more brown than red and tugged the neckline of her tunic into place. Then she sighed deeply, shot a look of busy agitation Siiri’s way and left, green high heels clacking against the plastic flooring. But before she stepped from the corridor into the common room, she turned round and said in an icy tone: