Lucifer's Tears

by James Thompson

  “There isn’t even any music.”

  “The customers here prefer it that way,” I say. “We can hold conversations without shouting.”

  He knocks off the rest of his pint of beer. “Whatever. The vodka is good. Let’s have another round.”

  Kate and I exchange a fleeting look. “I’ll get it,” I say.

  “I’ll go with you,” Kate says. “I haven’t said hi to Mike yet.”

  I offer Kate my hand to help her up, and we go to the bar together. She’s graceful, having learned to move in a way that makes her limp almost invisible, but pregnancy has changed her balance, and she lurches a bit when she walks.

  The bartender, Mike Davis, has a Finnish mother and a British father. He grew up in the U.K., but has lived here since his late teens. He’s a big, outgoing guy in his mid-twenties. He’s heavily tattooed, is taller than me and runs a little better than two hundred pounds. Despite his good nature, he doesn’t look like the kind of guy you want to fuck with. “Hi, guys,” he says. “How are things?”

  “Pretty good,” I say. “Long day at the office.”

  An older man has had too much to drink. Mike shuts him off. The man yells, “Minä olen asiakas, minä olen asiakas”—“I’m a customer, I’m a customer”—the standard bitch of drunks when refused service. Mike pretends he’s not there, the standard Finnishbartender method of dealing with such situations.

  “Yeah,” Mike says, “I’m having a long day at the office, too. And you, Kate?” Mike asks. “You feeling well?”

  “Things are great, couldn’t be better,” she says. “My brother and sister just arrived from the States. That’s them sitting at the table with us.”

  “I’ll make sure to take good care of them,” he says.

  Mike gets John’s beer and kossu. The drunk leans on the bar and sulks.

  Kate and I sit back down. The bar is about half full, the murmur of conversation low. The drunk screams, “Vittu saatana perkele jumalauta!” The anthem of angry Finns announcing aggressive intentions. Kate’s eyes open wide. She’s been in Finland long enough to understand the gravity of the situation. Conversation ceases. Everyone stares. Mike puts his hands on the bar, raises up to his full height but keeps his face expressionless.

  “What did he yell?” John asks.

  “It’s untranslatable,” I say, “but something like ‘Cunt devil devil goddamn.’”

  John laughs. Mary winces.

  The drunk yells some more. Mike’s answer is calm. Around the bar, jaws drop. The drunk realizes he’s gone too far, turns and walks out the door without another word.

  The exchange was beyond Kate’s Finnish language abilities, even though they’ve improved over time. “What was that about?” she asks.

  I explain in such a way that Mary and John can understand as well. “Mike’s mother tongue is English, so like yours, his accent is soft when he speaks Finnish. When Russians speak Finnish they also have a soft accent. Most Finns have never heard a person with English as a mother tongue speak Finnish, so the drunk made a natural assumption and called Mike a goddamned fucking Russian. A bad mistake. Mike, not a Russian and displeased to be called one, got pissed off and said, ‘Yeah, I’m a goddamned fucking Russian, and I hope my grandfather killed your grandfather during the Winter War.’ That’s the point when the drunk knew he was in serious trouble and left while he could.”

  “Isn’t Finland somehow related to Russia?” Mary asks.

  Now I wince. “No, it’s not.”

  John sighs, drinks his second kossu in one go. “Mary, Finland is neither part of Russia, nor is it part of Scandinavia proper. It’s classified as a Nordic country and is an entity of its own.”

  “I take it Finns don’t care for Russians,” Mary says.

  “No,” I say, “in general, we don’t.”

  “Why?”

  Kate has told me John is a Ph.D. candidate in history and a graduate teaching assistant. An educated man. He explains. “Finland was a long-standing Swedish possession, but twice during the eighteenth century, Russia invaded. Thousands of Finns were killed or forced into slavery. In 1809, Sweden ceded Finland to the Russian Empire. In 1899, the czar embarked on a policy called the Russification of Finland. Russian was made the official language, Finnish legislative bodies were rendered powerless, its army was incorporated into Russia’s. The czar tried to destroy their culture and Finland resisted.”

  John’s knowledge surprises me. It speaks to me that, historian or not, he spent the time to acquire it.

  I take up the story. “We declared independence in 1917, but had a civil war the following year—Bolshevik Reds backed by Socialist Russia versus anti-Socialist Whites, as they were called, backed by Imperialist Germany. Like your own American Civil War, it was sometimes brother against brother. The Whites won, but the result was tens of thousands dead, poverty and starvation.”

  “You sound passionate about it,” John says.

  “You would be surprised, even after nearly a century, what strong emotions the Civil War still dredges up in us.”

  “What was the Winter War?” Mary asks.

  “Kari,” John asks, “would you allow me to pontificate?”

  “Be my guest.”

  “During the Second World War, Finland fought three separate wars,” he says. “In the Winter War, Finland fought alone and it kicked Russian ass, but in fact lost, because it ceded territory in the peace agreement. The Soviets invaded Finland on November 30, 1939. The Soviets had thousands of tanks, Finland had thirty-two. The USSR attacked with upwards of a million men. Finns slaughtered them, killed five Russians for every Finn and beat them back. Finland signed a peace treaty with the USSR in March, but was at war with them again in 1941.”

  “I’m impressed,” I say.

  He continues. “Finland sided with Germany against the Soviet Union in what is known as the Continuation War. The Finnish hope was that the German invasion of Russia would allow Finland to regain lost areas and to annex some Soviet territory in the realignment after the Germans beat them. When it became clear that Germany would lose, Finland signed another armistice with Moscow. Finland ceded more territory and agreed to drive German troops out of their country. The consequence was the Lapland War.” He asks, “Kari, have I gotten it right?”

  I finish my kossu and chase it with beer. “In every detail. The German scorched-earth policy as they withdrew resulted in the burning down of Kittilä, my hometown, among many others. Again we starved, did without even the most basic necessities. If you can imagine, in this snowy country, citizens wore shoes made out of paper. After the end of the Second World War, even though they had invaded us, among other humiliations, we were forced to pay war reparations to Russia. On a visceral level, we’re still pissed off about it.”

  I didn’t realize the people at the table across from us were listening to us. A woman recites a common Finnish sentiment. “Ryssä on aina ryssä, vaikka voissa paistaisi.” A Russian is always a Russian, even if you fry him in butter.

  Kate looks at her watch. “We should leave for the restaurant soon.”

  I nod agreement. I’m certain that she’s thrilled to see her brother and sister, but John is drunk, and Mary seems a touch strange and dour. The family dynamic and vibe are weird. I’m sure Kate is hoping a change in venue will improve them. I signal Mike for the check and ask him to order a taxi for us.

  11

  OUR TAXI STOPS IN FRONT OF KÄMP, alongside an XJ12 Jaguar and a McLaren F1. When the hotel opened in 1887, it was palatial. Over the years, it suffered structural damage, more from wars than anything else, and finally the ballroom dance floor started caving in. In 1966, the original facade had to be torn down and rebuilt. In deference to the part the hotel played—and continues to play—in our cultural heritage, great efforts were made to conserve as much as possible of the original architecture, and it retains its Old World splendor. During the prewar years, our great composer Jean Sibelius threw parties here that sometimes raged for days. In rece
nt years, among other notables, Vladimir Putin and Jacques Chirac have been guests.

  We exit the taxi. On the sidewalk, in front of the grayish-green marble entrance, the frigid wind is strong and drives snow into our faces. The doorman wears a traditional top hat and red jacket. He offers a slight bow and deferential greeting, in keeping with Kate’s status as general manager.

  “Good evening, Sami,” she says. The hotel has a huge staff, but Kate has learned each and every one of their names. I’m terrible with names and can’t imagine how she did it.

  Inside, we pass down a long run of carpet, through a second set of doors and into a large lobby. Its rotunda, supported by massive marble pillars, is dominated by a magnificent chandelier. John turns in a circle. “Damn, Kate,” he says. “Quite a place you’re running here.”

  The hotel screams wealth. The mosaic floors—also marble—art and elegant furnishings seem more to John’s taste than our local bar. “Thank you,” Kate says. “I’m proud of it.”

  The receptionists, concierge and bellhops also offer Kate smiles and quiet greetings. Again, she calls them all by name, a distinctly un-Finnish habit, and asks how their evenings are going. It’s evident that they like her, and equally so that she’s comfortable here. This pleases me to no end. The hotel is international and the staff speaks fluent English. At least when she’s at work, the cultural isolation Kate suffered living in Kittilä, in large part caused by the language barrier, is gone. Kate is in her element.

  We stroll through a lounge, past the bar—which is dark wood and brass, much like the one in dreary Hilpeä Hauki, which John fails to note—into the dining room, and a gracious maître d’ seats us. On the other side of the room sit Ivan Filippov, the audacious prick, and his so-called assistant, Bettie Page Linda. Maybe I should be surprised, but I’m not. He catches my eye and nods acknowledgment.

  A waiter in a white jacket comes to take our drink orders. “We’re celebrating something special,” Kate says. “A bottle of Tattinger please.”

  “And one of those Finnish vodkas for me,” John says.

  “He’d like a Koskenkorva,” I say.

  The waiter leaves a wine list on the table. John asks where the restroom is and excuses himself. He weaves a bit as he walks away. When he comes back, he weaves no longer. His eyes are sharp and darting. He’s had a little pick-me-up in the men’s room. I wonder if Kate notices.

  The waiter arrives with the champagne and pours. Mary places a hand over her glass.

  “I didn’t know until today that you’re a teetotaler,” Kate says.

  “My husband and I are religious people. Alcohol doesn’t fit in with our beliefs. And after you saw what it did to our father, I’m surprised you touch it either. Especially in your condition.”

  Kate reddens. “Mary, I don’t intend to drink the whole glass. I just thought a toast to celebrate us being together, for the first time in more than five years, would be nice.”

  Mary checks the wine list. “The bottle cost a hundred and five euros. Can you afford it?”

  “I think my family is worth it on this special occasion. And besides, as general manager, I’m expected to eat and drink here occasionally, so that I know our guests are enjoying their dining experiences. The hotel will pay for it.”

  Mary concedes defeat, allows Kate to pour a glass for her. Kate raises her champagne flute and we follow suit. “To our family,” Kate says.

  We clink glasses and drink to the family. John gulps. Kate sips. Mary allows the champagne to brush her lips, but no more. The waiter brings menus and John’s kossu. I glance at Filippov. He and Linda hold hands and exchange intimate looks.

  “John, how do you like being a teacher?” Kate asks.

  His pick-me-up has animated him. He gestures with his hands while he talks. “I love academia,” he says. “I specialize in Renaissance history. Teaching about the sins of the Borgias is a bit of a guilty pleasure, like watching pornography.”

  “You said you were on a one-year renewable doctoral fellowship. I was afraid that it might not be continued because of the world financial crisis and funding cutbacks.”

  He grins. “No. I may be just a Ph.D. candidate, but I’m such a popular teacher that the students would go on strike if the university let me go.”

  The waiter takes our appetizer orders. Mary takes crayfish soup. Kate carpaccio à la Paris Ritz. I order a Stolichnaya and a halfdozen raw oysters.

  Mary raises her eyebrows. “More vodka?”

  I’m getting tired of this. “It complements raw oysters.”

  Kate is getting tired of it, too, and comes to my defense. “Finnish standards concerning drinking are somewhat different than in the States, but Kari doesn’t drink excessively. He’s a good husband.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Mary says.

  She doesn’t look sure.

  John orders osetra caviar, menu price two hundred and eighty euros. Kate stiffens but says nothing. True, she’s free to entertain here, but good relations with her employers dictate a modicum of restraint.

  Mary notices Kate’s reaction. “John, don’t you think you’re being a touch extravagant?”

  He shrugs, giggles, looks at Kate. “It’s all on the house, right, Sis?”

  Kate forces a smile. “Yes, John. Enjoy yourself.”

  He orders vodka, too. “Also traditional with caviar. Isn’t that right, Kari?”

  He’s correct. “Yep.”

  I check out Filippov. Bettie Page Linda nuzzles his neck. He sees me see him, gets up and comes toward our table. Just what I fucking need. He introduces himself. I don’t want to, but in the interest of politeness in front of Kate’s family, I make introductions all around.

  “Inspector Vaara heads the investigation of my wife’s murder,” Filippov says in English, “and he has all of my confidence. May I assume Rein Saar is in custody and that his prosecution is imminent?”

  “He’s in custody,” I say. “Make no assumptions about his guilt or innocence.”

  “I get the idea,” Filippov says, “that you entertain some wild notion that I’m implicated in my wife’s death. It’s most hurtful.”

  He’s fucking with me, playing games just to gauge my reaction. What’s more, I’m sure he knows that I know he’s having a good time at it. I say, “Your business associate, Linda, seems to be doing a good job of helping you through your time of grief.”

  Filippov switches to Finnish. “She and I are close, and yes, she is most sympathetic. Inspector, you might be more sympathetic yourself. You have a lovely wife. I see that you have a child soon to arrive. Can you imagine how it feels to have your wife beaten to death in the bed of another man? Perhaps if you could, you would be less judgmental.”

  I bristle. I’m not sure if he called up the image of my wife and child murdered as a taunt or a threat. Alcohol knocked my headache back to a dull roar, but now it thrums, almost seems to sing to me, Kill this bastard.

  “I like you, Inspector,” he says. “Do you know why?”

  “Please enlighten.”

  “I sense something about you. There’s a Russian saying. Comrade Wolf knows who to eat and isn’t about to listen to anyone. In this world, there are sheep and wolves. Only a very few people are wolves. Wolves are predators and don’t bow to pressure. They see situations through to the end of the line, no matter the cost. You and I are wolves, and so you remind me of me. Because of it, I have no choice but to like you.”

  I get the impression that, with his flagrant disregard for his dead wife and cryptic talk, he’s sending me a message, but I have no idea what it is or why he’s doing it. He goes back to his table.

  The tension between us was evident. The others look at me, waiting for an explanation. “Just some police business,” I say.

  Filippov makes a pretense of amends, sends a round of four vodkas to our table. I won’t drink that bastard’s booze and dump them in the champagne bucket. John’s expression of longing says he mourns their loss. Our appetizers arrive. I eat oys
ters and listen as Kate, John and Mary retell family anecdotes, relive some humorous childhood memories. The mood lightens. They decide they’re hungry enough for entrées, and we look at the menus again.

  “Why does this first-class restaurant sell liver and onions?” John asks. “It strikes me as a bit low-rent.”

  “Because it’s a Finnish classic,” I say. “It’s also one of my favorite foods.”

  His tone patronizes. “Oh.”

  We order dinner. Entrecôte for me. Duck confit for Kate. Seasalted whitefish with leaf spinach and beurre blanc sauce for Mary. For John, roasted fillet of roe deer, of course the most expensive main course on the menu. And to go with it, a Château Gruaud-Larose 1966, Saint-Julien 2ème Grand Cru, Bordeaux, France. Price tag: three hundred and thirty euros.

  I see Kate grimace. She’s angry now and starts to object. I don’t want her evening ruined. To exclude the others, I tell her in Finnish that I’ll pay for it myself, and ask John if I can share it, so he won’t drink the whole thing by himself. Kate accepts my gesture and lets it go. I see Filippov and Linda walk out, arm in arm.

  Dinner arrives. We dig in.

  Mary says, “Kari, since you’re married to Kate, why do you want to live in Finland?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “America is the greatest country on earth. I can’t imagine why anyone would want to live anywhere else.”

  The woman mystifies me. “By what standard do you measure countries to determine which is the greatest on earth?”

  “In America, you can be anything you want. Have anything you want. Why live under socialism?”

  I can’t bring myself to engage in such an uninformed conversation. I turn to Kate. The look on my face says, Help me. She grins and shrugs.

  “Finland isn’t a socialist country,” I say. “It’s a social democracy, like most European countries.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to live in a capitalist country, where you can become wealthy?”