When autumn came Pertti had to go to school. After this Boman spent days on end in my company and looked frightfully bored, even though I very often neglected my work to spend time with her. I did what I could, but because starting a conversation was suddenly so difficult I decided to read her stories and poetry. Though I went out of my way to entertain her she was not the least bit grateful, but instead made derisory comments about my choice of texts, which eventually made me feel a certain distaste towards writers and poets whom I had previously held in high regard.
‘I’m bored to tears by your stories,’ she grumbled. ‘The suspense stories are ridiculous, because who on earth would feel suspense at a mere story? All the tragedies have the same lofty ending – something offered to the reader like a sugar cube to sweeten the pill. The only function of the baudy stories is to titillate those with one set of morals for the living room and another for the bedroom. And as for the poetry! These old-fashioned poems with their clumsy rhymes creak like a rusty set of cogs and modern poets are just as pretentious as poets throughout the ages. They whine on and on about the same old things: the setting sun and the morning dew, lost innocence, even though no living creature is ever innocent, and wise old men, even though wise old men are merely tired human beings.’
I gradually realised that it was not within my power to make Boman happy. I left her to her own devices and did not notice that she would slip out of the open window when the children were let out of school. Sometimes Boman would show her affection by telling me how sorry she was for Pertti. Strangers did not think Pertti was handsome, they found him rather sickly and they did not understand that the glint in his eyes was a sign of his wild imagination. It was not only at home that Pertti was made to suffer: the boys at school teased him and his teachers thought he was stupid and badly raised.
‘They’re proud of their own excellent upbringing,’ Boman scoffed, ‘and by this they mean that they have all learnt to speak, behave and think in exactly the same way.’
One day Boman informed me that she and Pertti had decided to run away together. In telling me she was in fact breaking her promise. It was a secret. Boman’s eyes smiled at me and she looked happy for the first time in a long while. I understood that it was a secret for Pertti’s sake, thus I was flattered I had been told and took as much comfort from this as I could.
At first however I did not think of myself; I was worried for the young pair of conspirators. I tried to explain that their plan was insane and highly dangerous. Boman was responsible for a boy too young to understand the consequences of his actions.
‘Does anyone understand the consequences of their actions?’ asked Boman nonchalantly. ‘Did you understand what you were doing when you took me in?’
Eventually this conversation ended like every conversation in which Boman and I had differing opinions: Boman finally had her way.
‘This is my gift to him,’ she deigned to point out. ‘Pertti needs an adventure he can remember for the rest of his life. It doesn’t matter if things turn out badly, but when he becomes an adult he will remember the time he grabbed hold of freedom, something that would never have been offered him otherwise. It’ll give him strength.’
I tried to question Boman’s noble arguments. I said that it was she who needed the adventure – she had always rebelled against the security of the bourgeois lifestyle. But these were empty words. I was already packing Pertti a knapsack I had bought in town especially. I made sure to pack warm clothes and enough food for a little boy and a dog. As night drew in I took the knapsack outside and placed it on the step, left the door ajar and bid Boman farewell.
‘Think of me, won’t you,’ I said and did not dare look at her.
I shut myself in my study. When I appeared a few hours later Boman was gone and the knapsack was no longer on the step.
Needless to say, the days that followed were very upsetting for me. I tried to read, I made more of an effort to spend time with my friends, but nothing seemed to amuse me. After they had bombarded me with their wit for a number of hours they began to look askance at me, thinking I was hopelessly demented. I was sad. A few days later I read a small announcement in the newspaper about the disappearance of a little boy called Pertti. This told me very little and it was only much later that I heard about their adventures in more detail.
First off they had gone into town. Although it was only some ten kilometres from our suburb into the centre of town, to Pertti Helsinki was an unknown city. Its streets, restaurants and cinemas excited his imagination. Boman had accompanied me into town on a few occasions, but had never particularly enjoyed it. She had complained of people stepping on her toes, and in general she looked down upon people who flocked together in this manner.
The journey into town had been an adventure in itself. Walking along the street they had to be careful not to talk within other people’s earshot, and at first they had found this secrecy a fun new game. As they arrived in town they stopped outside display windows and cinemas looking in awe at advertisements and foreign pictures. Their glances and gestures convinced one another that everything was incredible, fun and exciting. Boman acquired a taste for straining at the leash and running up to lamp-posts, which she then sniffed with exaggerated enthusiasm. No one walking by could have imagined what a fun game this was.
Once they arrived in the centre of town the adventurers were a little confused. They had reached their destination and there was nowhere to continue their journey. Before they had set out Pertti had tried to explain to Boman that adventures would come along of their own accord; they would meet weird and wonderful people and they would be carried away by the very flow of events. But now most people hurriedly darted past them, and those leaning on lamp-posts or loitering around the streets looked so hostile that the pair dared not approach them. Pertti and Boman tried to play at the railway station. They would walk along with the crowds of people arriving, then with those leaving on a train and try to look hurried and important, but before long they became tired of this and sat down on a bench in the waiting room. Now they had the time to see that these travellers were all grey and weary. Being on the move did not feel fun or exciting any more; they would much rather have been asleep in their own beds thinking of nothing. The little boy and the dog tried to escape their melancholy in the cold park, where they sat eating from their knapsack.
The park was empty and they could have talked freely without fear of anyone overhearing them, but they had nothing to say to one another. Such a thing had never happened to them before. Boman silently examined Pertti’s thin face, blue with the cold, and for the first time in her life she felt guilty of a terrible deed. Boman had steeled her wits against the human sense of guilt, something she had often referred to as cheap, useless emotional rubbish. Now she felt responsible for not dashing Pertti’s expectations from the outset, for not drawing the grey curtain of reality over his future.
In silence the adventurers returned to the streets, loitered aimlessly by a hot dog stand and witnessed a number of street fights. They then began to look for a place to spend the night and before long they found an open stairwell. They climbed up to the top of the stairs and lay down to sleep huddling next to one another. The darkness was impenetrable and in its protection Pertti plucked up the courage to speak to Boman.
‘I shouldn’t have dragged you along with me. You have a good master and a safe home.’
‘A safe home can seem like a prison to someone who wants to help his friend discover a new world.’
Boman’s voice was gentle but defiant. It made Pertti speechless and Boman felt a few warm tears drop on her muzzle. After he had calmed down, Pertti said:
‘There is no new world. We saw that this evening.’
‘If it doesn’t exist, we’ll have to create it,’ said Boman without a shadow of hesitation in her voice.
In only a few sentences they had said all that needed to be said. There they fell asleep and awoke in the morning under a glaring light to find someone
trying to wake them up, bellowing angrily. It was the caretaker.
‘Up you get, boy, and be gone with you. Quick smart! And take that dog with you, unless you want me to call the police.’
The fright woke Pertti and Boman in a flash. Pertti grabbed the knapsack and the adventurers flew down the stairs. The chortling of the caretaker boomed around them and followed them out into the street as they instinctively ran away from the town centre and out towards the sea and the park land along the shore. Once in the park they stopped and took a bewildered look around. They were welcome here. The trees were decorated in a wonderful display of colours to celebrate their arrival: red, yellow and orange leaves lay scattered along the path forming a soft carpet beneath their feet. A fresh sea breeze caught Pertti’s hair and caressed Boman’s shining coat.
All of a sudden both the little boy and the dog were once again filled with the joy which had died out the day before; they could enjoy the luxury of their freedom. They frolicked about the park laughing, at times holding ceremonious silences. They irritated the seagulls by mimicking their cawing and tried to tame the already tame squirrels as, startled by Boman, they darted up into great tall trees. Then they would laugh at the arrogant little sparrows. In the harbour, grey, asthmatic boats wheezed their own importance, dainty yachts, stripped naked, swayed back and forth around the pavillions and lonely island fortifications sulked out at sea.
‘What an angry man,’ said Pertti referring to the caretaker.
‘Let’s forget about him,’ said Boman. ‘Let this be our revenge. We’ll forget all about the angry caretaker and the old world.’
‘Yes, let’s,’ Pertti agreed.
On they frolicked through parks and docks and over bridges. They gradually left the town behind them and found that walking around here was far easier. The sea played with them, momentarily disappearing behind hills and capes, then suddenly swelling back beside them, accompanying them on their journey, the waves beating in time with their steps, leading them over bridges across the bay. Further out to sea they could make out small, friendly looking islands, also decked out in resplendent autumn colours.
‘That’s where I’d like to go, to those islands,’ said Pertti.
‘I’ve been waiting all this time for you to start wishing to go there.’
They winked at one another and left the road to follow the shore. They soon discovered a cove containing lots of little boats, but only in one of them were the oars unlocked. They decided to take that one.
‘I really ought to warn you,’ said Boman. ‘This is a crime and you’ll be held responsible for it. I’m a dog, I can’t be accused of anything.’
‘I’m sure an owner who has left his oars unlocked can’t be mean. He’ll understand that someone else might need his boat.’
Thus began their journey through the archipelago. They decided not to go ashore on the first island, as they did not want to barge their way in; instead they waited for an invitation, a sign. Before long one of the islands revealed a friendly cove, and the wind gently blew their boat towards it. They hauled the boat safely on to the shore, sheltered under a group of spruce trees, and set off along the paths on the island. The firm, dry land supported their steps, the forest was almost silent. The most skilled summer songbirds had already flown south, and in the silence the solitary chirping of the remaining grey singers resounded with desolate calm.
There were many summer houses on the island, but not one of them contained any inhabitants. The owners were in town, but their houses were glad to welcome the small travellers. In each of the houses there was an opening just big enough for a dog, a simple latch, steps and a door opening silently. So the houses welcomed them with open arms, laid out soft carpets in front of them, offered them armchairs and sofas, bathrooms and balconies. Pertti and Boman welcomed the houses’ hospitality and in return they created a history for every one of them. They conjured up noble masters living in the houses, each with a sprightly dog of his own; they imagined strong bonds between the different households, bringing them together and keeping them apart. They charted every inch of the island, its knolls, its spruce groves and bays, and gave each of these places an ambiguous name. And all this time their senses were aroused by the smell of salt and they were caressed by the icy hand of the wind coming in across the sea.
In this way the little boy and the dog created their new world, but all the time they knew that danger was not far away. Every now and then they would take a cautious look out across the open sea between the island and the mainland and as evening drew in they saw a motor boat heading towards the island. They quickly hid themselves near the boat concealed in amongst the spruces, and before long they could hear the sound of strange footsteps thumping the ground. Soon afterwards they heard angry shouts and cursing, people rushing past them. Cold and hungry, Pertti and Boman huddled against one another and waited for night to fall. Protected by the darkness they pushed the boat out to sea and headed off towards new islands.
All in all Pertti and Boman lived this precarious life for a few weeks: at times they were welcome guests, for whom houses opened their doors and offered the wonderful treats in their pantries and cellars, at others they were fugitives, spending days on end hidden in the forest or amongst the rushes. They learnt that there were two realities on the islands; one was of their own creation and the other was a strange and brutal reality, something in which they wanted no part. They spoke only of their own reality, of banquets and high dramas played out in the great rooms of these houses and on the shores, decked out in festive splendour.
Over time they became too tired to try and forget about the cold, the hunger and the fear attacking them from the old world, and one night Pertti no longer had the energy to row the boat to the safety of another island, but lay down instead at the bottom of the boat and fell asleep next to Boman. The sea rocked them first gently, then with ever greater waves, and they dreamt of sailing along far off shores on a ship with enormous sails. When they awoke the following morning all they could see was blue, the cold blue of the sea and the sky. The waves had died down to a soft swell, lazily rocking back and forth out towards the horizon. High above them were sparse clouds, which the wind had combed into thin trails across the sky. Both boy and dog were exhausted. It had been a long time since their last meal and their hunger had gradually turned to weariness.
‘There is another shore on this sea, isn’t there?’ Pertti whispered softly into Boman’s ear. ‘Do you think we’ll ever reach it?’
‘The shore will find us soon enough. We simply have to wait,’ Boman replied just as softly.
They fell asleep once again. A patrol boat spotted a small boat, which looked empty, drifting out to sea. It was only once they came closer that the patrol men noticed a little boy and a black mongrel sleeping next to each other at the bottom of the boat.
Boman had been on her travels for about three weeks. One day there came a knock at my door; outside was a policeman in uniform holding Boman on a leash. He told me that they had seen from her collar that Boman belonged to me. Some little rascal had stolen the dog and taken her with him. I thanked the policeman, he saluted me and went on his way. Only then did I dare take a closer look at Boman. The end of her muzzle was dry and she looked generally ill and feverish. I stroked her gently, but did not want to show her quite how happy I was to see her again. I placed her on my bed and she fell asleep in an instant; she slept there for a long time, semiconscious, her legs twitching. I guessed she was dreaming about continuing her flight at Pertti’s side. Boman recovered from her fever a few days later with the help of the penicillin prescribed by the vet. After eating the first square meal since her return, she told me she was going out. I did not try to stop her.
This time she was not away for long. She returned with a small letter in her mouth, left for her at an agreed hiding place by Pertti. I was allowed to read the letter, which read simply in heavy, childish lettering: “They’re sending me to a borstal. Pertti.” The letter also conta
ined the name of the borstal and a clumsy, hand-drawn map showing where it was situated.
Once I had read the letter, Boman and I looked at each other in silence.
‘It’s a long journey,’ she said.
‘It’s too long,’ I said, as I could see what she was thinking.
We did not speak about Pertti for a long time after this. Boman tried as best she could to adapt once again to her role as my dog, but as I listened to her witty banter I would often turn and look out of the window, and I would feel like crying. It was as if we were playing out a tragedy, in which the function of the lines is merely to hide the characters’ pain. Boman had lost the happy, mischievous gleam in her eyes, she no longer smirked like a naughty young rogue. Sometimes she would ask me to read her poems about the sea, the wind and friendship. As she listened she would often remain silent for entire evenings at a time.
‘I think your taste is falling to ruin,’ I said, trying to sound jovial. ‘You never used to like literature with such pathos.’
Boman did not reply.
On our walks she would plod compliantly by my side, she no longer ran around under the trees sniffing at the moss and the tussocks. On one occasion we stopped by the shore and watched the seagulls’ noisy capers.
‘Seagulls can fly very fast,’ said Boman.
‘And they are beautiful,’ I added.
I had hoped that Boman was gradually beginning to see beyond herself, so I was not overjoyed when she said:
‘I wonder whether it’s difficult to grow oneself wings.’
‘It’s impossible.’
Boman sneered and glanced over at me.
That same evening I was reminded of the fact that Boman was almost a fully grown dog. As we had left the house I had caught a glimpse of some dogs running loose near our garden. I did not pay any particular attention to this, because Boman had said something and my attention had been drawn elsewhere. As we arrived back at the house I realised that she had done this on purpose. It was dark and in the garden I could see several pairs of eyes shining motionlessly. I sensed that they were staring at us and quickened my step. Boman reluctantly followed me, but followed nonetheless.
The Dedalus Book of Finnish Fantasy Page 9
