The Dedalus Book of Finnish Fantasy

by Johanna Sinisalo

  I waited and thought of Boman. I knew she could have fled if she had wanted to. She could have spread out her black wings and risen out of reach, but I also knew that she would not flee. I remembered the glow in her eyes of late, I understood why she had kept quiet about certain matters. She was free, she had grown herself a set of wings, she could fly and be with her friend in a fantasy land, a free land. Yet at the same time she was tied. She was tied to me and she was tied to her pregnancy. Boman lived in a world in which all three of these levels cannot be realised at once: whilst one represented freedom, the others were shackles. Two represented crime, only one making amends. Boman firmly believed in the strength of her own will. She had grown herself a set of wings, she wanted to force the men on the wolf hunt to accept the fact that the animal they were hunting would not be trapped, that it was smarter, more cunning, and freer than the people stalking it. I could imagine Boman, emerging triumphant from this furore, landing one day in the market place, gathering her black wings and walking off calmly along the high street.

  This is what I imagined as I waited. I thought that by her very existence she might force people to accept certain truths: there is a dog with wings, there is a dog which soars above our heads towards freedom, descending once again into our midst, or joining other dogs in their untamed games.

  I did not sleep well at night, but despite this my hearing was far from acute. One morning I opened the door and found Boman lying on the step. She was already cold, there was a wound in her right side. Her black wings lay dishevelled, helpless, beside her.

  Shopping

  Tove Jansson

  The Finland-Swedish writer and artist Tove Jansson (1914–2001) is perhaps best known throughout the world as the mother of the Moomins. Their adventures have been translated into over 30 languages and have been made into numerous film, television and stage adaptations. Jansson was also an acclaimed writer of ‘adult’ literature and her novels, short fiction and memoirs deal in great depth with themes of childhood, family and the problems of human relationships, most particularly in The Summer Book (‘Sommarboken’, 1972; English translation 2003). The present short story is from the collection Resa med lätt bagage (‘Travelling Light’, 1987).

  It was five o’clock in the morning. The cloudy weather showed no signs of abating and the awful stench seemed only to be worsening. Emily took her normal route along Robertsgatan to Blom’s grocers, shards of glass crackling under her shoes, and she decided that one of these days she would have to try and clear the street somewhat. So long as she had time for her endless shopping. At present they had a good many tins of food in the kitchen, but you never know these days, she thought. Surprisingly enough the big mirror still stood outside Blom’s; she stopped for a moment and adjusted her hair. Nobody could say she was actually fat anymore, more like plump – or buxom as Kristian would say. Her overcoat certainly fitted her better. It was green and matched her shopping bags. Emily clambered up a pile of bricks and cement and in through the window. Inside the stench was that of rotten food. Straight away she noticed that they had been here again, the shelves were as good as empty. They hadn’t bothered taking the pickled cabbage; Emily packed all the remaining jars, picked up the last packet of candles, and on her way out a new washing-up brush and some shampoo. They were out of juice, so Kristian would just have to put up with water from the river. She could always have gone down to Lundgren’s to have a look, but it was such a long way. Another time. So as to make the most out of the morning Emily popped into number six, left her shopping bags on the ground floor and went up one flight of stairs to Eriksson’s. It was impossible to go any further than that. It was a good job the Erikssons had left the door unlocked as they had left. Emily knew there was nothing there to be had, she had been here shopping so many times before, but it was nice to sit down and put her feet up on the lovely sofa in the living room. Still, it was far from lovely now, stained and ripped to shreds with a knife; they had done this, the others. No matter, Emily had come here first and she had held such respect for the peaceful beauty of these rooms that she had not taken anything but food. Later, once everything had been soiled and destroyed, she had decided to save one or two items to make their kitchen look nice and surprise Kristian. This time she picked up a rococo wall clock which had stopped at five, her shopping time. No one else was out at five o’clock; it was a good, safe time.

  Emily began to make her way back home; she wondered whether Kristian could eat pickled cabbage, especially now that his stomach had become so sensitive. Halfway home she put down her heavy shopping bags and looked out across the changed cityscape, the diminished suburb she lived in – there really wasn’t very much of it left. Across the river there was nothing at all. Strange that the leaves in the trees hadn’t come out yet.

  And then she saw them, far away at the other end of Robertsgatan, nothing but two tiny specks, but they were moving, very deliberately: they were coming. Emily started to run.

  Their kitchen was on the ground floor, they used always to eat at the kitchen table and they had just sat down to dinner when it happened. The rest of the flat had been blocked off altogether. Kristian’s leg injury had been entirely unnecessary; as far as Emily could see there had been no reason for him to rush outside and have half a wall come crashing down on top of him like that, it had been nothing but macho curiosity. He knew perfectly well what people were expected to do, there had been warnings on the radio saying: Remain indoors in the event of … and so on. And so there he lay on a mattress Emily had found in the street. She had hung a rug across the blown-out window and had later propped it up with some timbers she had found in the rubbish outside. It was sheer luck that their tool box had always been kept in the kitchen. Anyone could have come in through that window. For extra security she had spent hours piling up camouflage on the outside of the window too. Kristian lay on his mattress listening as Emily barricaded them in and he couldn’t stop thinking that she was enjoying herself – almost enjoying herself. He tried to avoid frightening her. He slept a lot. His leg injury didn’t seem too serious but it ached and he couldn’t put any weight on it. What plagued him far more was the darkness.

  Now he was awake and fumbled for a candle and the matches on the floor beside the mattress. He lit the candle taking great care not to let the match go out. There lay the books from Eriksson’s, unread books from a world that no longer had anything to do with him. He wound up the clock, something he did every morning. It had just gone six o’clock, she would be back at any moment. They didn’t have very many matches left.

  I really wish, he thought, I wish we could talk about what’s happened, give it a name, talk openly and honestly. But I don’t have the heart. And I dare not frighten her. Still, we could at least open that damn window.

  And with that she arrived. She locked the kitchen door, placed her bags on the kitchen table, gave him a smile and showed him the gold-plated clock from Eriksson’s, a truly frightful piece. ‘How’s your leg? Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Very well,’ Kristian replied. ‘Did you get any matches?’

  ‘No. And the juice is finished. They’ve torn up the sofa at Eriksson’s.’

  ‘You’re out of breath,’ said Kristian. ‘You’ve been running. Did you see them?’

  Emily took off her overcoat and replaced the new washing-up brush for the old one on the hook. ‘I’ll have to fetch some washing water from the river,’ she said.

  ‘Emily? Did you see them?’

  ‘Yes. There were only two of them. They were far away at the corner of Edlund. Maybe folk have started going into town now that the shops are empty.’

  ‘The corner of Edlund? But you said it wasn’t there any longer. Nothing left past the petrol station, you said.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but the corner’s still there.’ Emily laid a tray with some crispbread and tomato juice and placed it on the floor next to him. ‘Try and eat something. You’ve become far too thin.’ She picked up the housekeeping book and logged the new
jars on the page marked ‘Vegetables’.

  Kristian soon started talking about the window again: they had to open it, clear it and let in some daylight, he could not carry on in this darkness any more.

  ‘But they’ll come for us!’ shouted Emily. ‘They’ll find us in no time and take all our shopping. Kristian, please try and understand once and for all. You don’t know the things I’ve seen out there. The sofa at Eriksson’s … Piles of smashed porcelain, some of it antique by the way … And anyway it’s very dark outside too.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Yes, it’s getting darker and darker. Only a few weeks ago I could still go out shopping every morning at four o’clock, but now you can hardly see a thing before five.’

  Kristian became very uneasy. ‘Are you sure? It’s really getting darker? But it’s the beginning of June, it can’t be getting darker!’

  ‘Relax, dear, it’s just overcast all the time, we haven’t had any sunshine since … Not once.’

  He sat up and gripped her by the arm. ‘Do you mean … like twilight or …?’

  ‘No, I mean it’s just overcast! Clouds, do you understand, clouds! Why do you have to make me so nervous?’

  Far off in the town that siren started up again, it howled endlessly at long intervals, almost like a helpless wailing that always had Emily beside herself. Kristian had tried to calm her down by suggesting that perhaps there was a generator at the fire station that had somehow gone haywire but it didn’t help, she just sobbed. And that is what she did this time too, she jumped up and blindly began organising her tins on the kitchen shelf. One of them fell, rolled along the floor and knocked over the candle. The flame went out.

  ‘Look what you’ve done,’ he said. ‘How many matches do you think we’ve got left? What are we supposed to do when we run out, sit in the dark and wait for the end? We’ve got to open that window!’

  ‘Oh you and your window!’ shouted Emily. ‘Why can’t you just let me be happy, you like it when I’m happy, don’t you? Aren’t things just fine the way they are? I found a bar of soap yesterday, do you understand what that means? Soap!’ She suddenly pulled herself together and continued: ‘I try to make our home cosy. I go out and do the shopping. I find nice little surprises … Why do you frighten me, why do you have to be so gloomy about everything?’

  ‘What do you … how do you think I feel, lying here like a cadaver and not being able to take responsibility for you? It’s infernal.’

  Emily replied: ‘Are you proud? Are you? Did it ever occur to you that in my whole life I’ve never been able to take care of matters and make decisions about things that are important? Just let me be, don’t take that away from me. The only thing you need do to help me is never to let me become frightened.’ She found the matches and lit the candle, then she added: ‘The only thing I care about is that they don’t come here and take our food. Nothing else.’

  One day Kristian forgot to wind up the clock. At first he did not dare mention it and told Emily only later that evening. She was standing at the sink; she froze and didn’t say a word.

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s inexcusable. I don’t have anything else to take care of and then I go and do something like this. Emily? Say something.’

  ‘They’ve all stopped,’ she said in a very low voice. ‘Every single clock. Now I’ll never know when it’s time to go for the shopping.’

  Again he said: ‘It’s inexcusable.’

  After this they no longer discussed the matter. But the incident with the clock changed something, established an uncertainty, a timidity between them. It wasn’t very often Emily went out with all her shopping bags; what need was there, after all? The grocers’ shops were all empty and sitting at Eriksson’s only made her wistful. In any case, on her last visit she had rescued a large Spanish silk shawl that she had found draped across the piano – it would bring a little colour to the barricaded window. On her way home Emily saw a dog. She beckoned to it but it ran away.

  As she stepped into the kitchen she said: ‘I saw a dog.’

  Kristian became visibly excited. ‘Where was it? What did it look like?’

  ‘A brown and white setter. In the park. I called out to it but it was frightened and ran off. The rats are never afraid like that.’

  ‘Where did it run?’

  ‘Oh, it just ran away. Strange that nobody’s eaten it. I daren’t even think what the poor dog has had to eat. It certainly didn’t look very thin.’

  Kristian lay down on his mattress once again. ‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘Sometimes you surprise me. Women surprise me.’

  Emily and Kristian continued like this for some time. Kristian’s leg was slowly healing, sometimes he could even sit up at the kitchen table. He would sit counting out matches into piles, so and so many for such and such a time. Every time Emily had gone out to fetch water he would ask her if she had seen the others. One morning she had seen them.

  ‘Were they men or women?’

  ‘I don’t know. They were too far away across the park.’

  ‘You didn’t see whether they were young or old?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wonder …’ said Kristian. ‘I wonder if they’ve also noticed how it’s getting darker all the time. What must they be thinking? Do they try to talk to one another, make plans? Or are they simply scared? Why haven’t they gone like everyone else? Do they think they’re completely alone, that there’s not a single person left, not one …?’

  ‘Kristian, dear, I don’t know. I try not to think about them.’

  ‘But we have to think about them!’ he exclaimed. ‘Maybe it’s just them and us left. We could meet them.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘Yes I do, and I mean it. We could talk to them, work out what can be done – together. Share things.’

  ‘Not our food!’ Emily cried.

  ‘Keep your tins,’ Kristian scoffed. ‘We could share what has happened, what you never want to talk about. What happened, why it happened, how we can carry on, if there’s anything to carry on for.’

  ‘I’ve got to empty out the dish-water,’ she replied.

  ‘No you don’t, you’ll listen to what I have to say. It’s important.’ And with that Kristian continued talking, trying to express the ideas that had formed in his head over the last days and weeks cooped up in the darkness; he offered Emily his respect for her sense of judgement asking only for the trust and loyalty he felt his wife should show in return. He was in fact trying to tell her how much he loved her, though she did not understand this and left without a word so she would not have to listen.

  Once Emily had left, Kristian was gripped by an all-consuming rage. He made his way over to the window and tore down her Spanish shawl, dislodged first one timber, then another; he attacked the window in a fury of frustration until his leg finally gave way and he collapsed to his knees. Through a small opening on one side of the window daylight finally shone into the room.

  Emily had returned, she stood on the threshold and screamed: ‘You’ve ripped my Spanish shawl!’

  ‘Yes, I’ve ripped your shawl. The world is fast disappearing and someone has ripped little Emily’s shawl. How terrible! Bring me the axe, quickly!’

  Kristian lunged at the barricade. Time and again he fell to the floor and dropped the axe, then tried again.

  ‘Let me,’ Emily whispered.

  ‘No. You have nothing whatsoever to do with this.’

  With that she went forward and steadied him so that he could carry on. Once the window was finally free she began to clear up the mess Kristian had made. He waited, but his wife said nothing. Their kitchen looked strange in the grey light shining in: a room exposed, unorganised in its shabbiness and teeming with useless paraphernalia.

  Emily said: ‘They’re on their way.’ Without looking at him she continued: ‘Your leg seems fine. You’re so difficult nowadays that I can hardly put up with you. Come on, we’re going out.’ She threw open the kitch
en door.

  ‘Do you trust me?’ asked Kristian. ‘Do you believe me?’

  ‘Don’t make a spectacle of yourself,’ she replied. ‘Of course I trust you. Take your coat, it’s a bit chilly.’ She helped him put on the coat and took his arm.

  Outside it was becoming darker as evening drew in. The others had moved closer. Very slowly Emily and Kristian began to walk towards them.

  Congress

  Erno Paasilinna

  Erno Paasilinna (1935–2000) was nicknamed the official dissident of Finnish literature in the second half of the 20th century. He was an aphorist, essayist and satirist who refused to fit into any given mould or to submit to the expectations of others. He became a fervent defender of freedom of speech and opposed bureaucracy, totalitarian societies and the herd mentality. His writing is always sharp and hard-hitting, and he has been called the only true satirist in Finnish literature. Erno Paasilinna won the Finlandia Prize in 1984 for his collection of essays Yksinäisyys ja uhma (‘Loneliness and Defiance’). The short story ‘Congress’ was first published in a collection of essays and satirical texts entitled Alamaisen kyyneleet (‘Tears of an Underdog’, 1970).

  Doctor Smith said he believed that an attack from outer space would not be imminent for a long time yet. He stated that current observations did not support the claim that any preparations for such an attack had as yet been laid. Technologically speaking they are more advanced than we are, but this does not give grounds for any kind of panic. He described as inane the general assumption that an encounter with visitors from outer space would in some way automatically lead to war. Rather, he claimed that humans have proved a far greater threat to themselves. He asked members of the congress to ensure that steps were taken in all countries towards peace not war. He said he did not wish to sound sarcastic, but pointed out that those who prepare themselves for a war generally always end up fighting one.