Lenka’s story was like a puzzle piece falling into place and filling a hole Lumikki had felt as long as she could remember. She had always known, sensed that her family was hiding something. There was something big that no one would talk about but that sometimes filled the rooms of their house so densely it was hard to breathe. Her father’s tenseness. Her mother’s sad, wet eyes. The conversations that cut off abruptly when Lumikki entered a room.
But still, Lumikki had a hard time imagining anything like this about her father. Peter Andersson was such a restrained man, so controlled and beyond reproach. A lot of people had a public face and private face. At home, they could show the sorrow and exhaustion and regret they really felt. With their families, they could laugh and relax. Lumikki had always felt like her father only had a public face. He was always the same, wherever he was. The shell around him was strong and thick.
Could her father have had a torrid liaison in Prague? Was her father even capable of that kind of passion? He’d never said a word about visiting the city. It was strange. You’d have thought he would have given her advice about where to visit and what sights not to miss.
Lenka was talking about a Peter Andersson whom Lumikki didn’t recognize. That didn’t mean anything, though. It was entirely possible that there were sides to her father Lumikki didn’t know. Do we ever really know anyone else? Even the people closest to us?
“When Mother died, I thought I would never learn any more about my father. All I had was a name, Peter Andersson, and the fact that he lived in Finland and spoke Swedish. The name was common enough that it didn’t help at all. Then I saw you.”
“But how did you know?” Lumikki couldn’t help asking. “We’ve never met.”
For the first time, a small smile appeared on Lenka’s lips.
“Before Mother burned everything, I saw a photograph of you. You were eight years old. On the back, it said, ‘Din lillasyster Lumikki.’ Your little sister Lumikki. That picture was burned into my mind, down to the smallest detail. When I saw you, I recognized you immediately. You look so much like your picture. But I wanted to be sure, so I followed you. I hope you aren’t angry.”
Lumikki shook her head. As she did so, she realized she wasn’t entirely sure what she was saying no to.
All she knew was that nothing would ever be the same again.
Her hair was brown like Lumikki’s, but more mousy than warm auburn. And it was long. If she had undone her braided crown, Lenka’s hair probably would have reached the small of her back. Lumikki’s short bob was modeled after Carey Mulligan’s. You couldn’t tell anything from that, though. Brown hair like theirs was probably the most common natural color for women in Central Europe.
Gray eyes. Lenka’s were a little darker than Lumikki’s. Maybe the curve of her upper lip had the same softness, if you looked closely. But the proportions of her face were different. Lenka’s forehead was noticeably higher, and Lumikki’s nose was shorter and smaller.
They were about the same height. Lenka was maybe an inch taller. Standing side by side in front of the café restroom’s mirror, they inspected each other’s faces. Lenka held Lumikki by the shoulder, which made Lumikki uncomfortable. She didn’t like strangers touching her. Even with people she knew, she preferred to protect her personal space. There were only a few people she let get close enough to touch her. Lenka’s grip was strong. Her face was just as white as her fingers. Lumikki had a light tan.
In terms of their outward appearance, they could have been sisters. Or not. No single feature advertised a genetic link. And neither of them looked that much like Lumikki’s father.
Lumikki leaned over the sink and splashed her face and neck with cold water. That refreshed her and got her brain moving better. It also made Lenka let go.
“What do you think?” Lenka asked, looking at Lumikki with an anxious, eager expression. Like a little puppy begging to be scratched behind the ear. Lumikki would have preferred not to say anything. Too much to process for one day. Too many revelations. She hadn’t had time to think about what this would mean. What she would do.
Lumikki couldn’t stand not knowing what she should do next.
“This is . . . an awful lot all at once,” she finally said, wiping her neck with a paper towel. One trickle of water had managed to slip under her shirt collar, and it ran down her spine like a dark premonition.
“I know. I’ve had years to work through this. You just now heard it.”
“Yeah. Dad never said anything. I didn’t know you existed. Dad . . .”
Now Lenka placed her other hand on Lumikki’s shoulder. Apparently, she interpreted the hesitation as a surge of emotion. There was that, sure, but also the fact that, at this stage, Lumikki didn’t want to reveal too much about herself. She had to make sure she knew the truth first.
There was something suspicious and agitated about Lenka and her story. The coincidences felt too big to be true. And yet, the details did seem to line up. Lumikki’s thoughts careened around wildly, and she couldn’t get them to settle.
“Can I ask you one favor? Don’t tell your father about this yet. Our father. I don’t want him to find out about me again through someone else. I want to tell him myself when the time is right,” Lenka said.
Lumikki nodded. It was any easy request to honor. Frankly, she hadn’t even considered that her first order of business might be jumping on the phone and calling her dad to interrogate him about whether he had a secret daughter in Prague. That just wasn’t what they did in their family. What they did was beat around the bush and try to settle things any way other than by talking openly. A family of secrets. Maybe that sounded exciting, like something from a mystery novel, but in reality it was like a huge boulder that weighed on all of them and made it hard to look each other in the eye.
“How did you learn Swedish?” Lumikki asked, switching languages.
Lenka smiled shyly and replied, also in Swedish, “This probably sounds stupid, but when I learned that my father spoke Swedish, I started studying it on my own, using the Internet and books. I watched clips of Swedish kids’ shows on YouTube and tried to repeat the words. They felt strangely familiar in my mouth. Smultron. Fånig. Längtan. Pannkaka. Maybe our parents’ languages are in our genes somehow.”
Lumikki didn’t bother remarking on how that sounded like New Age gibberish, clearly lacking any grounding whatsoever in the science of genetics or human developmental psychology. Lenka could believe whatever she wanted.
A German tourist came into the women’s restroom and gave Lumikki and Lenka a strange look. From outside came the sound of the bells from St. Vitus Cathedral. Two o’clock in the afternoon. Lenka froze.
“Is it two already?” she asked.
Lumikki nodded. Lenka’s gaze started darting around, and her fingers went to the strap of her leather bag again. She looked like a hunted animal. The warmth and even slight relaxation in her bearing vanished in an instant.
“I have to go,” Lenka said. “Let’s meet tomorrow. At twelve.”
“Same place?”
Lenka glanced around.
“No, that’s not a good idea. Do you know Vyšehrad, the fort? You can get there on the metro. Let’s meet there.”
Lumikki didn’t have time to say anything, not to suggest a more convenient meeting place or ask where Lenka was rushing off to, since she’d already dashed out of the restroom, leaving Lumikki frowning at herself in the mirror.
The woman’s fingers drummed on the tabletop. The table felt slick. Just a month earlier, it had been sanded and lacquered, removing all the little scuffs. Her eyes scanned the walls of the room. There they were. The diplomas, the awards, the newspaper clippings, a colorful display of her career highlights. It was enough to make anyone jealous. But for her, it wasn’t enough. Nothing was. She couldn’t let anything be enough. Not in this field. In this field, you had to stay hungry. You always had to want something bigger, better, more startling, more sensational, more moving, more infuriating, more heartw
arming. You needed novelty like you needed oxygen. You had to keep your finger on the pulse of the times. Or stay ahead of the times, if you could, and strike when people least expected it.
You had to be a topic of conversation. On everyone’s lips. Here. Now. Tomorrow.
The woman grabbed a cell phone, opening it, pulling out its SIM card, and swapping in a different one.
She rebooted the phone and selected a number no one could ever know she’d called. A man’s voice answered on the first ring.
“Is he ready?” the man wanted to know.
“Not yet.”
“Remember that he can’t know too much.”
“Of course I remember. I’ve been doing this long enough to understand the rules. He has to know as little as possible. Then his reactions will be authentic. That authenticity is what we need. We need real emotions.”
“And you understand the danger he’ll be in? He might get hurt. He might even die.”
“We have to take that risk. And when all is said and done, martyrdom wouldn’t be the worst scenario. I can think of at least one time a martyr’s death gave a story legs.”
Laughter.
“You shouldn’t say things like that to me. I might take offense.”
“I’m counting on your black sense of humor.”
“There isn’t anything black in me but my humor. So everything is proceeding according to plan?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I have to hang up now. God bless.”
The woman hung up, smiling to herself.
She didn’t need God’s blessings now. But other people might.
People are hungry for heroes. They want to see and hear and read how good always conquers evil. David and Goliath, Jesus and Satan, little hobbits and the mighty Sauron. They want to experience the hero overpowering the invincible, beating the unbeatable, slaying the immortal. They hunger for stories where the impossible becomes possible through the intervention of a fearless hero full of righteousness.
The hero has to be sympathetic and approachable. He has to be simultaneously close to the people and slightly above them. He can’t be overwhelmingly superior. He has to fight and struggle. He has to experience hardship and pain. He has to be nearly destroyed so he can rise up even stronger for the final battle. A hero also has to be vulnerable. He has to have soft spots the opposing force can strike at.
Just as important as the hero, perhaps even more important for the story, is his opponent. Evil. Powerful, enigmatic, cruel—the kind of evil that sends a chill down your spine. That kind of evil draws people’s attention like a magnet. They want to deny the existence of evil, but it also fascinates them.
They devour the evil until they feel sick. Then they want someone to come and take the sickness away. They want a hero.
A successful hero story doesn’t come without collateral damage. People have to die so the ones who get saved seem that much more precious.
Only death can make a legend.
FRIDAY, JUNE 17, EARLY MORNING
There was a hole in the ceiling. It stared at Lumikki like a black, sightless eye. She stared back. She was wide awake.
The yellow light of the streetlamps penetrated the thin drapes on the hostel room windows. A dog barked in a nearby park. It was two o’clock in the morning. The oppressive heat of the day didn’t seem to let up even at night, and Lumikki’s sheets were soaked with sweat. She got up to open the window. She had to pull hard before the swollen frame gave way and the window opened with a rattle. The humid night air poured into the room, accompanied by the steady drone of traffic punctuated with car horns and squealing brakes. Someone accelerated on screeching tires. A group of revelers returning from a bar began to sing. If she could make out anything from their discordant voices, they were probably singing in French.
Lumikki leaned on the windowsill. Even though the air outside was just as warm as inside, the light breeze dried the sweat on her skin. She wanted to take a shower, but that would be pointless because she’d just have to do it again in the morning. And Lumikki didn’t feel like waking up half the hostel. She considered for a moment whether she might be hungry, but quickly rejected the idea of food. All she had were yesterday morning’s pastries, which came in different shapes and looked delicious, but always turned out to be the same dough with slightly variable fillings. Some were sweet and some savory, and all of them left a greasy film on the roof of her mouth.
Either the heat or her nightmare must have woken her up. Maybe both. The clammy sheets twisting against her skin might have triggered the nightmare. It was familiar, but she hadn’t had it in years. After she started school, dreams about bullies had replaced it, nightmares that continued in the daylight, repeating again and again until reality and dream intermingled, leaving her unable to say when she was awake and when she was asleep.
This nightmare was from earlier, though. From the years before she learned fear.
In the dream, Lumikki stood before a large mirror. She was little, about two years old. At first, all she could see in the mirror was herself and the dark room she was standing in. She lifted her arm and her mirror image did the same. She smiled. She grinned. The reflection did the same. Then, in the mirror, she saw another girl appear behind her in the room. The girl was a little older than her, but very similar in appearance. They were even wearing the same white dress.
The girl placed her hands on Lumikki’s shoulder. The hands felt warm and safe. Then the girl leaned in and whispered, “Du är min syster alltid och alltid och alltid.” You will be my sister forever and ever and ever.
Lumikki turned to her.
Why the hell did she always turn, even though she knew that nothing good would come of it? Up to that point in the dream, she felt good. She felt warm. When she turned, everything went cold. No one was standing behind her. She was in the dark room all alone. She turned to look at the mirror again. The girl was there. She stroked Lumikki’s hair and Lumikki felt her gentle touch. Lumikki wanted to push the hand away, but when she tried, her hands met only air.
“Vill du inte leka med mig?” the girl in the mirror asked sadly. Don’t you want to play with me?
Lumikki shook her head violently. She just wanted the girl to go away. The girl wasn’t real, and Lumikki was afraid.
“Jag blir så ledsen,” the girl said. It makes me so sad.
Then she started to cry. Lumikki wanted to look away. She wanted to squeeze her eyes shut. But she couldn’t stop looking. Even though she knew. She knew she didn’t want to see the girl’s tears.
The tears were red. They were huge drops of blood that ran down the girl’s cheeks and dripped from her chin, streaking down her dress. When Lumikki finally tore her eyes away, she looked down and saw that her own dress was no longer white, but streaked with blood.
That’s when she woke up. Always right then.
Lumikki had never understood where the nightmare came from. Had she caught a glimpse of a scary movie by accident when she was little? Had one of the older kids at daycare or on the playground told her a ghost story?
It was obvious why the nightmare had returned now, though. You didn’t have to be a dream analyst to figure that out. The reflection of Lumikki and Lenka. Lenka’s claim that they shared a father. That they were sisters. The parallels screamed so loud she would have had to press her hands to her ears not to hear them. What made Lumikki shudder wasn’t that the nightmare had come back after so many years. It was that the dream might not be just a dream.
That didn’t make any sense, though. If Lenka’s story was true, which Lumikki wasn’t ready to swallow, at least not yet, they’d never met before. So preschool-aged Lumikki couldn’t have had a memory of standing in front of a mirror with her sister.
She didn’t believe in visions. That was nonsensical drivel.
So this had to be just a coincidence. Or maybe she’d overheard something. Maybe a word here and a word there from her parents’ otherwise carefully masked arguments had been enough to construct
a tenuous image that twisted and expanded in her child’s mind into this nightmare. That sounded like the most plausible explanation.
Lumikki sucked in the night air with slow, deep breaths. The nightmare’s grip loosened. Prague at night smelled of hope and broken promises. It smelled of history and dusty streets. It smelled sweet and savory all at once.
Lumikki decided she’d try to sleep with the window open, in spite of the traffic and the sounds of the night. As she turned back toward the bed, fists suddenly began pounding on her door with such force she thought the door might come off its hinges.
Lumikki snatched the sheet from the bed and wrapped it tight around her naked body. Then she grabbed the nearest thing that could serve as a weapon to protect herself. It was a half-empty water bottle. Her defenses left something to be desired. Every muscle tense, she stared at the door. If the intruder got the door open, she would be ready to kick it back in his face. The inward-opening door would work in her favor. The element of surprise even more.
Lumikki stayed perfectly silent. That she knew how to do. She was a master at that.
The fists trying to pound through the door came again, this time even harder.
Lumikki hoped that a well-aimed blow with the water bottle could work too. First the door, then the bottle. That was her detailed plan of attack.
Just then, from outside the door came the sounds of guys laughing and drunkenly trying to sing.
“We like to party, party! We like to party, party! Come on, man! This is no time for sleep!”
Lumikki’s shoulders relaxed. She let her hand holding the bottle fall. She realized before one of them did:
“Oh shit! We got the wrong room. It’s 208, not 206.”
As the merrymakers moved on to bang on the next door and repeat their chant, Lumikki crawled back into bed. Amazingly, the cacophony coming from the traffic and the hall made her eyelids droop shut immediately as a deep, dreamless sleep took her.
As White as Snow (The Snow White Trilogy Book 2) Page 2
