by Tove Jansson
Finally I drew another picture of a hat, lots of hats, pointed to my head and tried to smile. They called over an elderly man who seemed very calm. He looked at me and my drawings and said something that might have been, “Don’t you understand? This gentleman has lost his hat.” At last I had the feeling I’d been understood and wasn’t the least bit surprised when they directed me to the next window, where there was a little room full of hats, gloves, umbrellas, and the like. I took out my drawing and, to make things clearer, shaded in the hat with black. By now all the passengers had gone and they’d begun turning off the lights in the arrivals hall; the luggage trolleys had been rolled away and I realized they wanted to be rid of me. I pointed at a hat up on a shelf and thumped the floor with my stick. They gave me the hat; it wasn’t mine but I was so tired of the whole business I just put it on my head and signed a form. Of course, I wrote on the wrong line and had to do it all over again.
When I finally got out of the building, the road was empty. The formless desolation so characteristic of airport surroundings stretched away on all sides. The night was cold and misty. When I listened I could hear the city far away and had an impression of absolute unreality. But I said to myself, This is absolutely no cause for alarm, this is simply an unfortunate situation that is never likely to happen again. Calm down. Just wait. For a while I thought about going back and asking someone to ring me a taxi. “Taxi” must be more or less the same in all languages, and of course I could always draw a little car. But somehow I didn’t feel like going back into the dark arrivals hall. Perhaps the last plane had taken off and there were no more due to arrive that night; what did I know about their big—well, their flying machines as we called them when I was young! My legs hurt and I was very vexed. The road seemed endless, with long dark spaces between the streetlamps. I remembered that they were short of electricity.
So I waited. I began tormenting myself again with the fact that my memory is getting worse, an annoying insight that often afflicts me whenever I have to wait. And I can’t help noticing that I often repeat myself, say the same things to the same person several times and realize it only afterwards, always with a sense of shame. And words disappear as easily as hats, as easily as faces and names.
As I stood there waiting for a taxi, a terrible realization began to dawn on me. At first I pushed it aside, but it wouldn’t go away, and in the end I was forced to face the disagreeable fact that I’d forgotten the name of my hotel. Completely. I took out my papers and went through them all. Nothing. I spread them out on my suitcase under a streetlamp and got down on my knees so as not to miss the tiniest little scribbled note. I searched my pockets yet again. Nothing. Back home, my methodical son must have given me some sort of confirmation that the hotel had been paid for, but where had I left it—somewhere in the arrivals lounge or back on the plane? No. I’d have to remember. But the harder I cudgeled my brain for the name of the hotel, the emptier it became. And I knew it was impossible to get a hotel room in this city unless you’d booked it far in advance.
Now I was afraid to get a taxi. I began sweating and took off the hat, which was in any case too small and pinched my head. And then, as I stood there in the uncertain light of the streetlamp with this strange hat in my hand, I noticed there was a name in it; the owner had written his name in the hat. I put on my glasses; yes, unquestionably a name and an address. It was a comfort, a foothold. A genuine communication. I tried to shake off my fatigue. When I get tired, everything slips away from me. I want to be attentive, aware, decisive, not slow down and lose my way. And not repeat myself. People notice that immediately; they become polite and embarrassingly sympathetic. I know at once when I’ve been repeating myself. Unfortunately, just the tiniest bit too late . . . But I’ve already said that.
And now here came a taxi, at first far away down the long road, then nearer, headlights dimmed, it drew up and stopped in front of me. What could have been more natural than to show the driver the address in the hat? Without a word he began driving towards the city. I let my thoughts rest. It was a long way; the buildings around us were dark, and if anything the mist had grown thicker. When the car stopped I took out my wallet while he sat still, his taxi meter switched off. “Dollars,” he said finally. I handed them to him, one after another. It was quite impossible to tell when the man had received enough, he just lifted his shoulders and looked straight ahead. Rest assured that by the time I finally got out of the car with my suitcase, I was thoroughly sick and tired of the whole journey. The house in front of me was very old; it looked medieval. The square was totally deserted.
I opened the front door and only then realized how lucky I was; it could so easily have been locked. Stairs and high corridors, numbers on the doors but no names. I changed into my strongest glasses, the ones I use for stamp collecting, and read what was written in the hat. It is so reassuring that there are people in the world who still take the trouble to write out a long address in clear handwriting. Number twelve, it said. I knocked and the door opened immediately.
Somehow I’d expected an older man—I mean, someone who might be expected to forget a hat, but this man was very young, tall, and strongly built with a mass of shiny black hair. Of course, I ought to have learned at least a couple of phrases: good evening, excuse me, I’m so sorry but I don’t speak your language . . . As it was, I just held the hat out to him and said, “Sorry.” He hesitated, perhaps thinking I expected him to put something in the hat, so I quickly turned it crown upwards and said “Sorry” again.
At that he smiled and said in English, “Can I help you?”
My relief was enormous.
“I think this is your hat,” I said. “I’m terribly sorry, I’m afraid I took it by mistake . . . Look, this is your name and address, isn’t it?”
He looked and said, “Remarkable. This hat belongs to my cousin. He was living here six months ago. Where did you find it?”
“On the plane.”
“Of course. He gets to fly sometimes. He’s a civil servant. Come in, it’s cold this evening. It was kind of you to go to so much trouble so late at night.”
The room was a small one. In the light from the single table lamp I got a general impression of pleasant homely untidiness: books, newspapers, and piles of papers all over the place. It was very cold.
He asked me where I was from and did I know the city . . . Oh, of course, just passing through. But it was unusual for people to break their journey here. Unless they had business here, of course. Would I care for a cup of tea?
I watched him lift the kettle from the stove and take out cups. All his movements were very calm. Occasionally he looked at me and smiled. It was so peaceful to be able to sit with him and drink tea and quietly wait for the name of my hotel to pop up. I was dreadfully tired. After his first polite questions, he said nothing more, but it was a pleasant silence.
In the end I remarked on the fact that he had so many books. And on how it was difficult these days to get your hands on the books you wanted.
“Yes. It is very difficult. People keep track of what’s being published and, when it comes out, somehow they know, they sniff it out. And go and queue for it. I’m very proud of my library.”
“You’re a writer, perhaps?”
“Not really. Just articles, in a way.”
“And what kind of books particularly interest you?”
He smiled again and said, “Everything.”
I said that I myself, on a modest scale, had published a bit on the subject of, how should I put it, the changes that affect us as we get older. I wondered if I could send him a couple of books.
“Please do. They might reach me. The post isn’t always reliable.”
Then it was time for me to go. It was terribly late. My suitcase was waiting by the door. A taxi, of course. But I couldn’t see a telephone. He watched me looking around the room and said, “No, I have no phone. But I can go out and try and find you a taxi. It’s not so difficult, but it may take some time.” He got
up. When he reached the door I called out, “One moment . . . I’m extremely sorry, this is really embarrassing.” In my shame I tried to be funny. “Apropos the changes caused by aging . . . I, if anyone, should be able to explain how a person can forget the name of the hotel where he’s booked a room.”
My host did not seem amused, nor did he attempt to make light of it. He stood and thought for a while, then explained that, since it was impossible to find hotel rooms in the city, it would be best if I spent the night with him. Somehow it seemed unnecessary to raise polite objections. He explained that sometimes as many as half a dozen people spent the night in his apartment. He pulled out a sleeping bag and promised to wake me in good time for my flight. I was to have his bed; I accepted.
There was a knock on the door. Luckily I had not yet started undressing. It was a young woman with dark hair. She glanced at me almost without interest, walked past him to the window, carefully drew aside the curtain and looked out. They began talking together, very rapidly. Even though I couldn’t understand, I grasped that something serious had happened. He started walking back and forth across the room, opening drawers, taking out papers, glancing through them quickly before shoving them into a paper bag. He was clearly in a hurry, but his movements remained as calm as ever. Finally he turned to me and said, “I’m afraid I have to go. But please stay and sleep in peace; my friend will come and wake you in good time for your flight. Don’t forget to send me the books; I’d be very happy to get them.”
I just nodded. I didn’t want to delay him. When they had gone I listened carefully and heard them go down the stairs, heard the front door close. I continued listening. By now they must have crossed the square and made it into the streets beyond. I lay down on the bed but couldn’t fall asleep.
About half an hour later, there was a pounding on the door. Someone shouted God knows what, and I got up and let them in. By now I was so tired I noticed only a number of uniforms filling the room. I had to show my passport and my tickets. They stripped everything they could out of the drawers and cupboards, while a single thought repeated itself in my head: He got away, my friend got away.
In the morning the young woman came and woke me in good time. She had found a taxi and came with me to the airport. She got very angry with the driver—I think because he was demanding dollars. I hadn’t even learned to say thank you, but I believe she understood.
As I say, I often repeat myself, but this story has never been told before. At least, I don’t think so.
Translated by Silvester Mazzarella
THE WOMAN WHO BORROWED MEMORIES
THE STAIRWELL with its stained-glass windows was as dark and cold as it had been fifteen years earlier. Some of the plaster ornamentation had fallen off the ceiling. And like fifteen years ago, Mrs. Lundblad was busy scrubbing the stairs. She looked up at the sound of the door and exclaimed in delight, “Well, I’ll be! If it isn’t Miss Stella! Abroad for so long! And just like the old days—trench coat and no hat!”
Stella ran up the stairs and stopped almost shyly in front of Mrs. Lundblad; they had known each other well, but had never been in the habit of hugging or shaking hands.
“Nothing’s changed here!” said Stella. “Dear Mrs. Lundblad, how’s your family? Charlotta? Edvin?”
Mrs. Lundblad pushed aside her bucket and said that Charlotta was still enjoying Stella’s bicycle, although these days only in the country; they now rented a little summer cottage. And Edvin had a good job with an insurance company.
“And Mr. Lundblad?”
“Passed away six years ago,” said Mrs. Lundblad. “Peacefully; he didn’t suffer much. I see you have flowers with you, miss. I expect they’re for her, upstairs in your old studio. Have you time for a cigarette?” She sat down on the stairs. “I see we both still smoke the same brand. And now you’ve gone and got famous for your paintings! We’ve read all about it in the paper, so congratulations from the whole family. Are your pictures still the same?”
Stella laughed. “Oh no! They’re so big these days, they wouldn’t even fit through the door up there! As big as this!” She stretched out her arms.
A blast of loud dance music suddenly filled the stairwell and was almost instantly switched off again. Stella recognized it: “Evening Blues.” That used to be our tune, she thought, Sebastian’s and mine. So she’s still got my old 78s . . .
“She does that all the time,” said Mrs. Lundblad, tossing her cigarette butt into her pail. “Five years older than you, miss, and still living her life as if it’s a nonstop party; not that anyone ever comes to see her. The place is empty. Not like when you used to live up there! All those artists running up the stairs—it was fun. They’d work all day and come here in the evening and play and sing and you’d make them all spaghetti. Remember, miss? And she’d hang around trying to be like the rest of you?” Mrs. Lundblad lowered her voice. “And then you let her stay there for ages when she couldn’t pay her rent, for heaven’s sake, and then you won that scholarship and went abroad and she just took the whole place. Fifteen years! No, no, don’t say a word. I know what I know. Any idea, miss, what we used to call the studio? The swallows’ nest! But all the swallows flew away. And it’s like that old saying: When the swallows go, it’s because the home’s no longer a happy one. And one swallow doesn’t make a summer. Now, enough’s enough. I’m not saying another word. I’ll just get on with these stairs. Oh, and they’ve put in a new lift at the back. Would you like to try it?”
“Maybe not today. Tell me, Mrs. Lundblad, did I really use to run up all these stairs?”
“Yes, miss, you surely did. But time passes.”
There were lots of unfamiliar names on the doors of the flats.
Well of course I ran. Maybe just because I liked to run. I couldn’t help it.
The studio door had been repainted but the knocker with its little brass lion was the same, a present from Sebastian. Wanda called from inside, “Who is it? Is that you, Stella?”
“Yes it’s me. It’s Stella.”
A moment passed before the door opened.
“Darling, how wonderful,” cried Wanda. “You’re finally here, imagine! It takes a bit of time to open the door, but you know how it is these days: One can’t be too careful . . . Safety chain, police lock, everything . . . But there’s no choice, there’s just no choice—they steal! One has to be careful day and night; they come in vans and take everything and just drive off . . . They clean you out, you know, just leave the place empty! But not here! This door’s locked and bolted. But come in and have a look around! Flowers—how nice of you . . .” She set the flowers aside still wrapped and inspected Stella intently with the same pale, fixed gaze, unchanged in a somewhat heavier face. And the same insistent voice. The walls were still whitewashed, but everything else in the very small room was new and different: an excess of furniture, lamps, ornaments, draperies . . . It was much too warm. Stella took off her coat. The room was shrunken and frightening. As if trees had been cut and a thicket of undergrowth had taken their place.
“But make yourself comfortable,” Wanda said. “What can I get you? Vermouth? Or wine? Like I used to serve in the old days, red wine and spaghetti! Always red wine and spaghetti! So you’ve finally come back. How many years has it been—no, we won’t count them. Anyway, now you’re here. And all those cards I wrote, and you just disappeared; the great artist vanishes into a great silence. That’s life!”
“But I did write to you,” Stella put in. “For a long time. But when I heard nothing from you—”
“Stella, dear, don’t worry about it, don’t even think about it, let’s just forget it. Now you’re here again. What do you think of my little lair? Small and unpretentious, but pleasant, don’t you think? Lots of atmosphere.”
“Very nice. Such nice furniture.” Stella closed her eyes and tried to remember the studio the way it had been—workbench here, easel there, lots of wooden boxes . . . And a bare window overlooking the courtyard.
“Are you maybe
a bit tired?” said Wanda. “You look exhausted. Around the eyes. Now you can rest a little and take it easy after the big wide world.”
Stella said, “I was just trying to remember the studio. We were so happy here. Imagine, seven years of our youth! Wanda, how long do you think we get to be young?”
Wanda answered quite sharply, “You were young for too long. Starry Eyes. Yes, that’s what we called you, Starry Eyes. Nice, isn’t it? So naïve, you believed everything anyone told you. Everything.”
Stella stood up and went to the window. She pulled the drapes aside and looked out over the gray, very ordinary, still-fascinating courtyard with all its windows and remembered: I stood here with Sebastian. We looked out beyond the roofs, out over the harbor, out over the sea, out over the whole world that we were going to own, battle our way through and conquer. This very window! She turned to face Wanda. “You said I believed whatever people told me. But there was so much to believe in, wasn’t there? And it was well worth it, don’t you think?”
Dusk was falling and Wanda switched on the lights behind their silk shades. She said, “You had fun in this room, didn’t you? You had fun for seven years, right up to the last party, my farewell party. Do you remember?”
“Do I remember! Great speeches, we were so profound! It was June, I think, with the sun coming up at two in the morning. And I stood on the table and shouted, ‘Skoal to the sun!’ And there was a Russian sitting under the table singing. Where did he come from?”
