Ice

by Ulla-lena Lundberg

  The postal boat leaves in the evening to meet the night boat from Mariehamn at Mellom. All three of his girls are down at the church dock to wish him a good journey. Lillus is asleep in her carriage and, like so many times before, it is Sanna who clings and kisses and Mona who says brightly, “Now don’t worry! You’re going to do beautifully. But watch out for the traffic. You haven’t been on a city street since May 1946 and cars aren’t like cows. And give our love to the Helléns and tell them we’ll all come to visit next summer.”

  The verger rows him over to the steamboat pier, and when he turns his head in the rowing boat, he sees them smile and wave and then turn and go back to the parsonage, for the evening air is chilly and it’s time for Sanna to go to bed. He holds out hope nevertheless and, sure enough, when half an hour later Post-Anton passes Church Isle, Mona and Sanna are standing up on steeple hill like dark silhouettes against the light sky, waving. He can almost hear them calling, “Have a good trip! Good luck!” Everyone on the boat smiles, because people don’t do this on the Örlands. Here you’re gone when you step into the boat and at home when you step ashore.

  Post-Anton, like all other two- and four-legged creatures on the Örlands, knows what this is about—the pastoral examination, which means that the pastor could obtain the post of incumbent vicar of Örland parish. Cecilia and Hanna, the organist and the verger, have all seen how he sits and reads and reads and writes and writes. For once the entire population of the Örlands is in agreement. It is senseless that such a good priest should have to be grilled by the high priests in Borgå before he can apply for a post he is clearly cut out for. There are not many passengers, and he manages to exchange a few words with Post-Anton before they reach the Mellom islands.

  They speak of the lovely weather and how long it may last and about his travel plans. Anton is familiar with Åbo and Helsingfors, but Borgå is an exotic place where the bishop resides and where the diocese’s well-being is decided for better or for worse. Anton knows there is an ancient cathedral there, like a shell around the bishop’s exalted person, and the pastor tells him about the chapterhouse, which is from the Swedish time. His thoughts are fully transparent, and finally he cannot restrain himself from asking, “How do you think it will go?”

  He laughs as if it were a game of some sort, and I smile as well, and I say, “I’m sure you’ll do fine on your examination!” But I have my own interest in the matter, for I am used to seeing seaways in my mind but think very little about the way things are on land. I saw him stand there waving to his wife and daughter as if he already longed to be home, so I don’t know why I also saw another woman, of a kind he should not meet. For heaven’s sake, I cannot tell the pastor to “Watch out for fallen women” like a fortune teller in a tent. No, God forbid. But there’s someone there who’s a real stone in his path. What can I say?

  “But there will be headaches,” I say. “You must be prepared for that. I don’t have such powers of divination that I can tell you what’s going to happen, but this much I can tell you from experience, that there are things which do not go as planned. There are stones on a person’s path. If you are prepared for that and can avoid them, you’ll be fine.”

  It is painful to see how uneasy he becomes. I should have said nothing. “I am as well prepared as I can be,” he objects. “I have train and bus timetables and I’ve booked lodgings in Borgå. Brought my alarm clock so I’m sure to wake up. What could go wrong? Even if the boat should have engine trouble, I have so much leeway that I should get there with time to spare.”

  “Yes, yes,” I say. “All of that will be just fine. Pay no attention to what I think, but when things get difficult, it’s generally about people. For women, men; for men, women. You know a lot of people in Finland and who knows who you’ll run into?”

  “I’ve arranged things so I won’t see anyone until after the exam,” he says. “But then it will be a real circus. I’m prepared for that.”

  “Good,” I say. “Then everything’s as it should be and everything will be all right.”

  It’s late when we get to Mellom and dark as pitch, but who should be standing on the pier to meet us but the Mellom priest. It’s nice of him, and our priest is really, really happy to see him.

  “Well I’ll be! What are you doing here?” he shouts. “In the middle of the night!”

  “Of course I had to be here to wish you luck!” the Mellom priest says. “It’s not every day the island deanery gets to send one of its own to the Inquisition!”

  That’s the last I hear, but I can see that they stand there chatting and then the pastor asks me if I think he’s got time to run up to the parsonage for a few minutes before the steamboat arrives. “Yes indeed,” I say. “It would be a major miracle if it sticks to the timetable now that they’ve got the fore hold full of animals on their way to the slaughterhouse. You can safely take it easy for an hour. If it does come I’ll send Kalle up to warn you.” He leaves his suitcase in the waiting room but takes his briefcase with him, though it’s equally heavy.

  The priest from the Örlands sits at the Mellom parsonage surrounded by goodwill, drinking tea and eating a cheese sandwich. He has his own sandwiches with him, but the pastor’s wife at Mellom says he should save them. “Oh, the days we’ve spent on those boats in our time!” she exclaims. “And what an awfully long time it takes! And we’re only going between Mellom and Åbo, whereas you’re coming from the Örlands and going all the way to Borgå. You’ll be happy to have those sandwiches tomorrow morning.”

  So there he sits keeping them up in the middle of the night, drinking tea and being grilled in a very friendly way by Fredrik, who is an expert on the pastoral exams, which he passed with the highest marks. He thinks Petter sounds collected and sensible and is convinced that the exam can only go well. Of course he’s nervous, and it’s understandable that he takes his leave relatively soon and says he feels easiest down at the pier where he can hail the boat himself. Now he’s feeling on top of the world and thanks them for their hospitality and good luck wishes.

  When he’s gone, Fredrik stands at the window looking out, although his wife has gone to bed and repeats that it’s late, middle of the night, soon the wee hours. Yes, yes, and finally the steamship arrives, seriously delayed. He can see Petter in his mind’s eye, frozen, shivering, sick of waiting, nervous. And he was so happy that I came down to meet his boat!

  No one can see a ship approach in the darkness, its side lanterns glowing, its bridge lit up, without feeling yearning and sadness and, at the same time, strong, unalloyed excitement and expectation. Change, in short, although even as a child he had learned to be suspicious of the change that was the very breath of life for his inconstant, unstable father. Now he’s on his way, be it to sink or swim, and after the cathedral there will be a whole series of stimulating get-togethers and a visit he’s been looking forward to in particular—to Mona’s home and the Helléns, where he can talk to his heart’s content about all Mona’s wonderful achievements and about Sanna and Lillus.

  As the ship thumps across Delet Bay, he manages to get an hour’s sleep on a sofa in the smoking saloon, but then it’s time for all the landings in the Åbo archipelago. The moment he falls asleep, he hears the change in the engines as the ship nears land, the footsteps of heavily burdened crewmen, shouts between the ship and land, bumps and blows as the ship hits the pier. Then loading and stowing, shouts and orders, new passengers who come in talking loudly and slamming doors. He has to sit upright on the sofa in case it gets crowded. On and on, a long series of repetitions through the far-flung archipelago.

  He can smell Åbo from as far away as Erstan, and when they approach the river, the fumes they encounter are suffocating to a man who has lived undefiled in the fresh sea air of the Örlands. Åbo reeks to high heaven, but at the same time he has to go out on deck and look at the city, which is large and mighty and clamorous. The shipyards work around the clock building ships to pay the war reparations to the Russians. The vessels in the
docks will all go east. Farther up the river in the mechanical workshops, men are welding, grinding, and scraping. Slowly, skilfully, with dignity, the Åland II approaches its berth. Above the trees, he can see the tower of the cathedral where the clock strikes nine as the giddy, sleepless passengers stagger ashore. The calves and other young animals in the open hold look around with eyes that are used to seeing greenery and twitch ears that are accustomed to a gentler kind of noise, not knowing what awaits them as the slaughterhouse truck backs up to the edge of the quay.

  By now the pastor is already moving briskly towards the railway terminal, a trim figure between a suitcase and a briefcase, walking with the bustle of the city in his step. He has already missed one train and needn’t rush to catch the next, but hurries anyway because others do. Much to look at, he stares like the country bumpkin he’s become, puts down his baggage on the floor of the terminal with relief. Buys his ticket, clatters away through a familiar landscape. Nothing has changed, as if he’d left it all astern when, liberated, he sailed away to the Örlands. No one he knows boards the train at stations where he has acquaintances, no one knows that he sits on this particular train, and, incognito, he sweeps past his old school station and what was for many years his home. Free from all of it!

  Then Helsingfors, where he went to university, marked by the war when he left, marked by the war still. But the same restless activity as in Åbo, building and repairing. He will see many people here on his way home. Now he crosses Mannerheim Road to the bus station, finds the Borgå platform, sits down in the sun and waits for the next bus. He takes out his notes and tries to read, but with so much activity around him he finds it hard to concentrate, and his eyes are as curious as a child’s—there’s so much going on, cars and trams, the ice-cream stand that has sprung up after all the years of war. As an adult, he is happy that everything has returned to normal, while his childish eye hunts for everything new— automobile models, clothing, the new design of the street lights. Of course he hasn’t missed traffic and crowds! Of course he loves seeing them again! If only he were free of his exhaustion, his aching unease. That’s why he’s travelling directly to Borgå, so he can rest and read his most important notes one more time and then sleep one long, quiet night. Wake up rested and clear-headed.

  When he arrives in Borgå late that afternoon, still in possession of his suitcase and briefcase, he leaves his things at the small hotel and asks about an inexpensive restaurant. He’s been travelling all night and plans an early evening. The desk clerk gives him a meaningful look and tells him a person has been there asking for him—a woman.

  The pastor is amazed. “I don’t know anyone here. Did she say who she was? Did she leave any kind of message? Are you sure it was me she was looking for?”

  No and no and yes indeed, she asked for him by name.

  “My goodness. Well, since I wasn’t expecting anyone and don’t know who she is, I’ll get something to eat and go for a little walk. I ought to be back in an hour or so.”

  Why this intense unease? Mostly, of course, because he desperately needs to be alone this evening and collect himself for tomorrow. But also because the clerk called her “a person—a woman” in a certain tone of voice, not “lady” or “young lady”. If it had been someone from the cathedral chapter, she would have left a message. But also, and most of all, because he can in fact recall a certain female person from this area. No no no.

  Mona has admonished him to eat a good meal once he gets there, despite the expense, because he’ll need his strength the next day. If she knows her husband, he’ll be way too nervous in the morning to eat anything but bread and butter. Obediently, he orders meatballs served with boiled potatoes and gravy and lingonberry jam. It smells good, but it nauseates him. It’s all the rocking and bouncing taking its toll, he tells himself. He’s also nervous and, he can’t deny it, scared. He picks at the food without the sensual pleasure he had anticipated. Finally he orders a cup of tea and an apple pastry, an unnecessary expense the way he feels. When he’s finished, he goes for a walk, watches the traffic in the river and has a look at the houses and streets of the old city, the cathedral looming overhead. Such pleasure he’s had from that walk in the past, and so little he has now. He must return to the hotel because that’s where he has his things, even though the weather is so nice that he could sleep under a bush or in a boathouse by the river.

  Pastor Kummel enters the hotel the same way the animals on the Åland II were herded into the slaughterhouse trucks on the quay. And sure enough, a female person sits in one of the chairs by the window. She stands up at once. “Petter! Do you remember me? It’s me, Hilda.”

  He extends his hand. “Of course I remember you, Hilda! How are you! And how in the world did you know I would be in Borgå?”

  “Your mother wrote to tell me. It made me so happy in my adversity. You come as if sent by Providence.”

  “Has something happened?” he asks sympathetically, while thinking of his mother. It’s kind of her to stay in touch with her former housemaids. And typical of her to spread far and wide the news of her children’s plans and intentions. Including, apparently, times and places. Mama! You think you’re an adult and live your own life, but in the background, always and eternally, is Mama.

  Hilda bursts into actual tears. “My husband is dead and I don’t know what to do. I must talk to you.”

  “Hilda, dear Hilda, this comes so suddenly. Didn’t Mama tell you that I have a big examination at the cathedral chapter early tomorrow morning? It’s very important, and I need to spend the evening preparing.”

  She weeps. “When a person’s in distress, she has the right to speak to a priest.”

  She has clearly boxed him in, and clearly he has to do as she asks. But it is not what the desk clerk expected as he stands there following every word and gesture. The pastor has registered as Pastor Petter Kummel, and this woman appears to want comfort from this man of the church. If only he knew how complicated it was. If he had the slightest idea, the clock on the wall would stop and the ivy wither. Petter points to the chair she sat in. “Shall we sit down? Tell me what’s happened.”

  She rolls her eyes towards the desk clerk. “Please, Petter, in private. You must have a room?”

  Petter is in despair, and it’s good if the staring desk clerk sees it. This is nothing he has arranged. But, as a priest and a human being, what is he to do? Petter turns to the clerk apologetically. “I understand perfectly well that there is a rule against entertaining guests in the rooms. But this lady is a former servant in my parents’ home, and as a priest I cannot turn her away in her need. Could you permit us to talk in my room?”

  “Well, all right, then,” the man says. “As an exception, this once.” He hands Petter the key.

  “Thank you,” he says. “Please, follow me,” he says to her and walks ahead down the corridor, unlocks the door and holds it open. One chair, which is for her, and the bed, where he is forced to sit. As inappropriate as it could possibly be under the circumstances, for Hilda and a bed figured in a nighttime episode that gives him considerable anguish.

  The same pressure in the bladder then as now. Hilda slept in the kitchen, and it was through the kitchen he had to pass in order to get to the outhouse. He was sixteen years old, obsessed with the stories told him by the men in the hospital ward where he was taken for his tuberculosis. He thought constantly about women and sex, masturbated, begged God for forgiveness and the strength to resist. Never thought of the women in the house in that way, was only afraid of disturbing them when, quiet as a mouse, he closed the kitchen door before tiptoeing up the stairs to the boys’ bedroom.

  She, awake, “Is that you Petter?”

  “Sorry, Hilda, did I wake you? I didn’t mean to.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Come and sit here.”

  “I think I’d better get back to bed. It’s the middle of the night. I apologize again.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’re a big boy and can do as you like. Come over here
and sit down like I’m telling you.”

  And he, obedient, sits down. She: “Like that. Only a little closer.” She laughs quietly, deep in her throat, and presses up against him. He leans away, tries to stand up, she pulls him down. “Now, now. Don’t you know what to do? Such a big boy.”

  It’s as if he’d been clubbed. No will of his own. Only half conscious. Knows only that he must be quiet so he doesn’t wake up the whole house. She throws off the covers, and there it is, the smell those awful, obscene men talked about, the smell of sex that makes it stand up straight! She reaches her hand down to the crotch of his pyjamas. “Yes, you are a man.” Contented sigh. She takes his hand and puts it on her body. Her nightgown has ridden up. “What do you think of this?”

  It is hairy and wet. Warm, alive. She takes one of his fingers and puts it into what he realizes is her vagina. “Do you want to try? So you’re not so shy next time?” She sighs again and wriggles a bit and moans. “Don’t make me beg. Come on.”

  She is amazingly strong, or maybe she needs no strength, his body is willing and lets itself be pulled onto her and presses eagerly when she leads it to the right place. Suddenly and irreversibly engaged in what the encyclopedia describes as coitus, when the male organ is introduced into the woman’s vagina. Conception occurs when, on ejaculation, sperm cells swim to the fertile egg in the woman’s uterus. Oh dear God.