He had noticed the moisture on the actress’s lips, sensed the shape of her flesh, smelled the perfume that only partly succeeded in concealing the aroma she naturally secreted. In theory, he would have liked to bed many of the women he met. In practice, sex with a stranger was rather laborious, messy and tiresome. He would have to look people in the eye whom he would prefer not to know if he saw them in line at the market or the corner kiosk.
Besides, Winter liked to keep his body private. It was like an untidy room—it was indecorous to invite strangers to see it. He didn’t really think of his bloated form as his own anymore. It was thus natural that he didn’t want to be seen with it.
He had adjusted to his fatness, of course. It was annoying that at this point he could no longer see his penis. If he tried to pee standing up he had to aim blind and usually wet the floor, and his shoes. A couple of days earlier he had thoughtlessly undressed in front of the mirror and recoiled at the sight of a large, leathery orangutan. In an expensive suit, however, he did look presentable. It gave his roundness a sort of dignity. He was convinced that it was best that he remain dressed in the company of others.
Winter turned once more towards his companions, excused himself, and withdrew to the bathroom. It was spacious but dark. A curved bathtub loomed at the other end of the room, white with copper legs.
Years ago, a young Martti Winter had walked into this same bathroom, and the memory returned to him now.
He’s spent the entire Sunday at Laura White’s house doing writing exercises. He comes into the bathroom deep in thought, pulls down his zipper—then suddenly realizes that he’s not alone, because at the other end of the room, lying in a tub full of water with her eyes closed is the writer, Laura White, naked. Horrified at the sacrilege he’s committed, he tries to quiet the pounding in his chest that’s making the whole room tremble, until the water in the tub splashes on the floor.
Did she really open her eyes and look at the intruder? Did she smile at the boy mischievously and then close her eyes again?
Winter might have seen that happen but he didn’t know anymore, not for sure. He had seen it in dreams hundreds of times and every dream was different.
He walked over to the bathtub, opened his fly, did a little work and let his seed run over the white porcelain. Then he ran water in the tub and watched the black hole at the bottom swallow the evidence.
He washed his hands and face, checked his hair in the mirror, and walked out.
Author Martti Winter isn’t the only author at the gathering, of course. They’re all here this evening, all nine of the old members of the Rabbit Back Literature Society, and one new one.
Do you see that housewifish woman over there? The blonde, chubby woman who looks a little grey and threadbare? Looks deceive: that is Arne C. Ahlqvist, one of Europe’s most celebrated sci-fi and fantasy writers. Remember last summer’s hit movie The Digger? Hollywood based the screenplay on Arne C. Ahlqvist’s novel Excursion to the Sun.
Her real name is Aura Jokinen. She’s something of an odd case among the writers in the Society. Her works are said to be too far from reality to be considered real literature. “Why doesn’t she write about life?” the people of Rabbit Back ask. “Why come up with those strange tales of hers?”
Such questions come from those who haven’t read the interviews she’s given, in which she reveals that all her works are about her own complicated family relationships. In Anna magazine, the author said the following: “My last novel, Luna jacta est, seems to be about cyborgs, but if you scratch the surface you’ll find my daughter’s abortion, which was quite a shock to me and my ex-husband.”
Also on hand are mystery writer Silja Saaristo and young adult author Ingrid Katz, who has kept a low profile for the past couple of years. Manning the punchbowl is a familiar face from television, satirist Elias Kangasniemi, whose TV commentaries once garnered a faithful viewership. Also familiar from television is the award-winning screenwriter Toivo Holm, making lively conversation with all comers.
If you observe the festivities, you will make a surprising discovery. The members of the Rabbit Back Literature Society don’t seem to be talking with each other. They pass close by each other now and then, but never look each other in the eye, never indulge in conversation. One could very easily assume that they don’t know each other at all.
EXCERPT FROM ESKO HARTAVALA’S ARTICLE
“THE LAURA WHITE INCIDENT”,
FINLAND ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY, JUNE 2005
People were starting to wonder at the absence of the hostess.
Martti Winter assured those who asked him that Ms White would be joining them very soon. The night was still young. She had simply lost herself in writing the much-anticipated book that was to appear next fall—which according to the publisher’s press release was to be titled The Return of Emperor Rat.
Ah! the people sighed, casting a look of enchantment up the stairs.
It was said that The Return of Emperor Rat would be Laura White’s last book in the Creatureville series. Winter had asked the authoress about it a few days earlier at a party thrown by the mayor. White had smiled and said, Martti, dear, we should never talk about what we’re writing, or our writing might turn into nothing but talk.
One of the caterers came up to Winter and tugged on his sleeve.
“Ms White has a terrible headache,” she whispered. “Do you know where I might find something she can take for it?”
“I doubt that headache medicine will be much use for one of her migraines,” Winter said. “She should lie down in a dark room. And she shouldn’t be disturbed unless she specifically requests it.”
“But she was sitting in her office and getting ready to come downstairs just moments ago, and she is the hostess of the party, so perhaps I should take her some painkillers…”
Winter broke away and moved clumsily among the crowd, accidentally elbowing and shoving some of the guests—he was attempting out of old habit to slip through gaps that were much too narrow for his present shape.
He drank some wine for the sake of form, then ate that much more intently. As he did he was dimly aware of meeting teachers, journalists, local politicians, theatre people, members of book clubs and amateur authors who were very excited about him and his literary career.
As always in these situations, he was also approached by those who thought of him as some sort of messiah, who tried desperately to make an impression upon meeting the One True Writer. They quoted aphorisms to him, recited homespun poetry, and performed lines from plays they had in desk drawers at home.
Winter strove to be the humble, grateful, polite author and take his admirers seriously, but he couldn’t stay focused on anyone for more than a moment. Ah, you’re writing a play? Wonderful. I hope you finish it. By the way, do you think that’s sachertorte or just ordinary cake? Are the chocolate-covered almonds all gone?
A couple of times he almost ran into another Society member, but an imperceptible course correction on both sides always saved the situation.
Then he noticed Ingrid Katz.
She kept flashing into view all over the room, and Winter became nervous when he realized that there was no point in trying to escape her. Her top knot kept coming closer, slicing across the room like a shark’s fin.
Winter filled his plate and left the drawing room. He found a quiet place in a back room where he might continue enjoying the party.
Ingrid Katz appeared in the doorway.
“Have you seen the new demigod anywhere?” she asked.
Winter waved his cake spoon and grunted as some icing fell on his expensive necktie.
“Ella Milana? Isn’t she somewhere in the crowd? I just met her a moment ago.”
“What about Laura White? I haven’t seen her once today.”
He touched his temple. “Migraine.”
“Ouch,” Katz said.
Then she walked over to the fireplace and stooped to dig around in her bag. “Does my fellow author happen to hav
e a match?” she asked at last.
“Your fellow author doesn’t smoke anymore,” Winter said.
“Ah. That’s something new. We’ll have to talk about that. But I should find a match so I can burn these books.”
Winter glanced at her. She had a bundle of books in her hand and a meaningful look in her eye. He didn’t feel like interpreting what it might mean, however. He took another bite of cake and smiled a little.
“Children’s book author and librarian Ingrid Katz burning books, again,” he said.
Katz clicked her tongue. “I’ve already burned four this week. You know, some people might take an interest in the whole thing.”
“True,” Winter said, “some people might.”
“But not you.”
“Well, I could, but I don’t feel like it. Everyone has their own interests. Some collect butterflies, you burn library books. Look on the mantel.”
“Why?”
“Matches. Listen, Ingrid, do you know anything about animal psychology?”
“What?”
“Dogs, to be precise.”
She snorted and started piling the books in the fireplace. Soon the fire was blazing happily.
As she left, she said with a pinch of regret, “Martti, if you were any less interested in what was happening around you, you’d be indistinguishable from a leather sofa.”
Winter enjoyed his solitude, quiet and cake, which contained a particularly well-made layer of marzipan. Then he noticed that Ella Milana had appeared in the chair beside him.
“Oh! Evening,” he said.
“Evening yourself,” Ella Milana answered.
Winter smiled encouragingly at the girl and made a note of the lovely curve of her lips. He thought that he might fit them onto the main female character of the novel he was working on, if he ever bothered to finish it.
“Exciting night. For you, anyway, I assume. Congratulations again, both for your story, and for the status it’s brought you.”
“Thanks,” Ella Milana said.
Winter continued eating his cake, supposing that she would return to join the other guests. She was beginning to make him nervous.
“Have you played any interesting games lately, Mr Winter?”
“Uh, I think the young lady is overestimating my athletic condition,” he answered. “Or are you thinking more of something like chess or checkers? Noble games both. Unfortunately I can never remember which piece goes where.”
Ella Milana’s expression told him immediately that she wasn’t referring to any such commonly played game, but rather to The Game.
“Ah, you mean The Game,” he said finally, reluctantly. “Who told you about it?”
He stood up slowly and with some difficulty and set his plate on an antique bureau. The girl looked at him excitedly. He turned with his side to her and wished she would go away. But instead she came closer, her dress rustling, an impudent smile on her face, veiled in strawberry-scented perfume, slightly drunk.
In his comic novel Hidden Agendas Winter had called such an attitude “the tenacity of a small animal”. In the same book, it was said that the only way to fight “the tenacity of a small animal” was by cultivating a well-practised “old barge” approach.
“A woman named Arne Ahlqvist mentioned it,” she said. “She welcomed me into the Society and asked if I was ready to play a couple of rounds of The Game with her, and some other nonsense. Then she saw someone she knew and left before I could ask her to explain. I asked Ingrid Katz about it, but she said that although she could answer me, I ought to ask you if I wanted a proper answer. She said you ‘take a great interest in people and the things people do’ and would be happy to initiate me into the procedures of the Society.”
Winter made an indistinct noise and then started humming to himself. He closed his eyes. Then he smiled as if he’d just remembered an amusing anecdote. He turned, wagged a finger at Ella Milana, and stiffened where he stood. For a moment it looked like he was about to tell some hilarious story.
Then he let his face darken and his finger fall and turned away, as if he’d just remembered something extremely worrisome.
His next manoeuvre would have been to walk away shaking his head, sad-faced, but Ella Milana appeared in front of him.
“My dear Mr Winter, everything you’ve written, I’ve read. I read Hidden Agendas twice, so I recognize the ‘old barge’ trick very well when I see it. What was it Douglas Dogson said about how to fend off ‘the tenacity of a small animal’?”
“I haven’t the faintest,” Winter said. “I don’t read my own books or think about them after I’ve written them. I’ve never learned to quote books by heart, not even my own.”
“Is that so?”
“Besides, I don’t understand people who read a book for pleasure and then ruminate on the book’s ideas. Paper was invented so we wouldn’t have to keep all those thoughts in our heads.”
“Be that as it may, the Douglas Dogson strategy isn’t going to work on me. I know your books better than you do.”
Winter shrugged. “I didn’t think it would work. I’ve never tried it in real life. It worked in the book. Listen, could we talk about this some other time? There’s so much going on, and it’s almost time for you to go and meet Laura White. It seems to me that Ms White would want to tell you herself what The Game is. She’s the one who thought it up. It’s not exactly simple. In fact we have a rule book for it. You’ll no doubt have your own copy soon.”
Ella Milana’s eyes widened. “A rule book? What kind of rule book?”
Winter took pleasure in her impatience and started to feel more warmly towards her.
He’d noticed before that people in their twenties, whenever they were with someone middle-aged, seemed to feel it necessary to find some way to point out the difference in age every five minutes or so. If they didn’t mention it outright, they managed it by means of a polite distance. Unlike others her age, however, Ella Milana seemed to think that they were both originally from the same planet and century.
Winter decided to like her.
“This kind,” he said.
He showed her his worn copy. He’d been carrying it with him for thirty years—out of mere habit these days.
“Can I look at it?” the girl breathed, groping for the book.
The palm-sized volume was covered in brown leather. The spine had small, gilded lettering that read RABBIT BACK LITERATURE SOCIETY: GAME RULES. NOT FOR NON-MEMBERS!
“Remember, you can’t show it to anyone or talk about The Game to non-members,” Winter said. “You’ll understand why once you’ve read the rules. The Game is a way for the Society to exchange useful information which would otherwise be difficult to obtain. There’s nothing wrong in it, but some of it might be a bit bewildering to ordinary people.”
Ella Milana looked past him, squinted and walked over to the fireplace.
“Has someone been burning books?” she asked. “It looks like there were books in here.”
This upset Winter. He didn’t want to have that bothersome conversation.
“Ask Ingrid Katz. From what I can tell, she’s keen to talk about it.”
The woman from catering appeared in the doorway, cleared her throat, shifted her weight from one foot to the other, and announced that the hostess was finally about to make an appearance.
Winter walked through the doorway into the drawing-room without waiting for Ella Milana.
The orchestra had started to play again. Conversation stopped. Expectation quickened into silence. All eyes were directed towards the top of the stairs.
Laura White was standing there.
She looked down at the expectant faces, and they looked back.
Look, there she is—Laura White herself. Beloved author, fascinating woman. Her reputation ripples around the world, and there she stands, flesh and blood, looking at all of us with curiosity.
We can see her face, her eyebrows, her lips. Her delicate chin. Her hair. We see her hands and feet
and slim figure in a white dress. We see the marks of age, the small flaws in her beauty. But above all we see her specialness, shining through her whole being.
Soon she will be among us. Perhaps she’ll have coffee and cake and talk with us. We’ll try to say something meaningful, something that will make her notice us and think we’re interesting.
We’ll probably not succeed in standing out from the crowd, but that’s all right. The main thing is that we’ve experienced this night. As one of the teeming mass of people in the room, we’ve been allowed to touch the famous author. What does it matter if she doesn’t remember our name a moment later? Perhaps some part of us will remain in her mind. Perhaps we’ll find a piece of ourselves in her next book, and perhaps, through her, receive a piece of immortality in return!
EXCERPT FROM ESKO HARTAVALA’S ARTICLE
“THE LAURA WHITE INCIDENT”,
FINLAND ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY, JUNE 2005
Martti Winter saw the new member of the Society slip through the crowd and stop at the foot of the stairs. Everyone else stood motionless. The room was thick with veneration. You could hardly breathe.
All children devoured the Creatureville books. Adults read them, too. There was a new Creatureville cartoon that was shown on television all over the world. Laura White’s creation had long fed the spiritual soil of Rabbit Back and her books and merchandise had spread around the globe.
There she stood.
Everyone knew she had a serious migraine. It was said that there had been times when such attacks had nearly killed her. Everyone was relieved to see the hostess of the evening there at the top of the stairs.
Laura White was the only woman dressed in white. It was one of the unwritten rules, as was the ban on bringing any mythological figurines into her house. Any ladies who had mistakenly come in white had been informed of this rule and had their slip of etiquette corrected with a colourful shawl or other accessory.
Laura White’s dress left her slender arms and legs bare. She smiled, but it was clear that she still had a headache. The pain dimmed her eyes and doubled her over slightly.
She wasn’t going to let it spoil the evening. Her audience sighed with relief.
The Rabbit Back Literature Society Page 6
