To Cook a Bear

by Mikael Niemi

  “Are they continuing to disrupt church services?”

  “I heard that Stockfleth has moved. The new one is called Fredrik Waldemar Hvoslef, another priest who only does it for the money.”

  Brita Kajsa tentatively took her husband’s hand. From inside the cabin came shrieks from the girls, who were arguing about something.

  “I’m worried,” she said.

  “So am I.”

  “There are evil forces at work,” she said in a low voice. “I fear they are preparing for a battle.”

  “With us?”

  “With the Sami. With the revival movement. With everything we hold sacred.”

  The pastor looked into her serious face. Years had dug deep furrows at the corners of her mouth and the skin around her eyes was loose and gray. And yet in the early morning light she seemed to radiate an inner glow. If the pastor was a suddenly flaring piece of birch bark, then Brita Kajsa was the pine-tar stump, the bit that could smolder for hours during the winter night and save the life of the shivering, curled-up wayfarer.

  “I have to go to Kautokeino,” the pastor decided. “I’ll go as soon as I have time. But first we have to find the evildoer. We have to stop him. Now that he’s had a taste of violence, there’s a big risk he’ll strike again.”

  “May the Lord go with us,” she murmured.

  Louder shrieks and thuds could be heard from the cabin. Brita Kajsa rose, straightened her kirtle, and went inside. As soon as she opened the door, the girls fell silent.

  PART THREE

  The prettiest women

  Caught by your brushstroke

  The treasures you hide

  Deep down in your poke

  In honor of art

  Let us raise a toast

  He who is strongest

  Will sup up the most

  42.

  The autumn rain was teeming down, copious and cold, occasionally turning to snow. I was half lying in the corner of the room while Tjalmo dozed with his back against my thighs. I had arrived in the night while everyone was sleeping, crept in and lain down to sleep in my usual place. Now the pastor was standing staring down at me.

  “Sieki täälä,” he finally managed to say. “So you’re back, Jussi.”

  Not a word about where I had been or what I had done. But I could see he was pleased.

  We sat there quietly, happy to escape the foul weather. This was a day for indoor work. Brita Kajsa gave me an extra ladle of porridge, though I said I didn’t need it, her way of welcoming me back. And the daughters giggled because I was talking strangely, almost like a Norwegian. I gave them my last piece of stockfish and let them chew on it and taste the sea. Meanwhile, the pastor sat picking at his morning meal as he browsed through old gazettes sent up from Stockholm. Aftonbladet was written across the front page of the newspaper. Maybe he was looking for material for Sunday’s sermon.

  Suddenly Tjalmo leaped up. Steps could be heard on the porch, followed by a heavy pounding at the door. Nora opened it, and in the entrance to the kitchen stood a man so drenched, so dripping with rain, it looked as though he had been swimming in the river. Not until he removed his hat did I recognize him. It was Heino, one of the workers at the foundry. Nora showed him into the cabin.

  “Come in and get warm, Heino,” the pastor said calmly. “There’s porridge and a knob of butter.”

  “The pastor must come,” the fellow said, gasping for breath after rushing through the storm.

  “What’s so urgent?”

  “It’s best if—”

  “Tell me!”

  “The pastor knows the fellow. The artist who lives by the foundry. He’s locked himself into the cottage. We’ve knocked on the window, but he won’t open.”

  “I’m coming.”

  Heino nodded with relief. His face looked frozen, his forehead and cheeks shining from the rain. He gazed out into the yard, at the rain beating at the windowpanes. The pastor abandoned his half-eaten bowl of porridge and went to fetch his coat. I shot to my feet and picked up his bag, which I wrapped in a piece of felt to protect it from the worst of the weather. Then off we set.

  After only a few moments we were completely soaked. My leather tunic was greased to withstand rain, but I could still feel the wet seeping in through the seams. The wind was violent, driving the rainfall toward us like water in a river. The flurries of snow obscured our vision and sometimes visibility vanished altogether, like a fog. The pastor tried to obtain more details about what had happened, but the answers he received were vague. Heino just increased his speed until we could scarcely keep up. The water ran down my trouser legs and into my curled-toe shoes and every step made a squelching noise. I did my best to shield the pastor’s bag, my fingers ached, and I was freezing and perspiring at the same time. It reminded me of mountain ordeals in my childhood, when we were on the move with the goahti covering in a sledge pulled by my swearing father, while I did my utmost to keep up in his wake. I rapidly wiped my hand over my face to sweep away the mixture of rain and sweat. Heino glanced back, looking concerned that we were taking too long. Luckily the foundry wasn’t far from the parsonage and we could soon see the large outline of the manor house rising over the meadows.

  We rushed over to the cottage where Nils Gustaf lived. By the wall on the leeward side, out of the rain, huddled a figure; it was the dark-haired girl the pastor had met at one of the sittings for his portrait. At the sight of us, she curtsied. The pastor gave a brief nod and stood on tiptoe to reach the window. He shaded his eyes with his hands and peered through the glass.

  “You take a look as well, Jussi,” he said.

  I put down the bag and did as he requested. The room inside was as I remembered it from peeping into it before. There was the easel, and canvases hanging here and there from hooks to dry. Nils Gustaf’s bed was in the corner. Two betrousered legs were sticking out slightly, as if the man lying there were about to get up. But despite our vigorous knocking, there was no sign of movement.

  The pastor went around to the door and tried the handle. The door wouldn’t budge. He examined the hand-forged Kengis lock.

  “Does he usually lock the door?”

  “Yes, when he goes out.”

  “And at night?”

  “At night as well.”

  “There’s a brandy bottle in there,” the pastor went on. “Maybe he’s just drunk?”

  “I thought so at first. But he’s not moving. Surely he should have woken up eventually?”

  The pastor thought quickly.

  “Go and wake the foundry owner,” he said.

  “He’s left for Matarengi.”

  “So be it.”

  “And the key’s in the lock on the inside. The door can’t be opened from the outside.”

  Bending down, the pastor looked through the keyhole and confirmed that was the case. He banged on the door again, but there was no reaction.

  “If the door can’t be opened without a key, we’ll have to break it down.”

  “But—”

  “Nils Gustaf might have been struck down by illness. I’m afraid it could be serious.”

  The maid was sent to the woodshed and returned immediately with a short-handled ax, which she gave to Heino. He hesitated.

  “I take full responsibility,” the pastor said.

  Heino took aim and hacked at the doorframe. The door itself was too valuable to damage, but the frame soon broke into pieces and enabled us to prize off the striking plate. When the door swung open, a sour smell of turpentine and old wool met us.

  “Stay by the door,” the pastor said. “You too, Jussi.”

  He removed his boots and carefully brushed off the wet bits of hay from the shoe lining that were stuck to the soles of his feet. Paying particular attention to where he placed his bare feet, he edged forward toward the bed. I could see his eyes
taking in the surroundings, as they did when he was looking for his plants. When he reached Nils Gustaf he leaned over him and felt his wrist, standing motionless for a moment as he searched for a pulse. Then he straightened and shook his head.

  “May the Lord have mercy. . . .”

  A shudder went through my body. The people from the house looked at each other as the words sank in.

  “Is Nils Gustaf . . . ?”

  The pastor took a handkerchief out of his pocket and coughed into it, wiped his mouth, and folded it up.

  “I’m afraid so,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “His limbs have already stiffened. Someone must send for Michelsson and Brahe. The rest of us will stay here and keep watch.”

  The maid turned and ran to the manor house, her kirtle flying.

  “Jussi, give me my bag. And I want Heino to stand by the door. Whatever happens, don’t let anyone enter.”

  Through the doorway I handed him his bag, from which the pastor withdrew some paper and a pencil as I took off my curled-toe shoes. When I walked in he indicated that I should follow his footsteps and we padded across to the bed in silence.

  Nils Gustaf was lying on his side facing the wall. His face looked hideous, his lips parted and twisted as if in a protracted scream, his cheeks and chin discolored with livor mortis. He was fully clothed, with plain leather slippers on his feet, and his legs sticking out over the edge of the bed were stiff. His left hand was inserted partly into his mouth, as though he were trying to rip out his tongue, and his right hand was clutching the bedspread. He must have died in agony. The pastor opened his shirt and laid his hand on his chest, to feel if there was any life left there. He cautiously tried to bend one of the artist’s legs. Glancing at Heino, who was following what we were doing, he changed from Finnish to Sami.

  “Cold and rigid,” he said in a low voice. “He must have passed away yesterday.”

  “Mm.”

  The pastor ran his fingers over the soles of the slippers.

  “It started to rain in the evening. A far as I remember it was around six.”

  “That’s right.”

  “His slippers are wet on the underside. And the coat feels damp. Nils Gustaf must have gone outside at some point after it started to rain.”

  “For an evening walk?”

  “In that case he would have put on better shoes,” the pastor said. “And the coat isn’t buttoned properly. Maybe he took a brief turn outside. To empty his bladder. And when he came back . . .”

  “He must have been taken ill suddenly,” I suggested. “He felt bad and lay down on the bed.”

  “Continue, Jussi.”

  “A stroke, maybe? Or his heart?”

  The pastor rubbed his stubbly chin.

  “Why are there two glasses on the table?” he asked.

  “Two?”

  “Write it down, Jussi. It looks as though someone paid him a visit yesterday.”

  “But who was it?”

  “The easel is up. Perhaps someone who wanted his portrait painted?”

  The pastor went over to the easel. A piece of paper was propped against it, covered with charcoal lines. A rough sketch of the upper part of a body could be seen.

  “It looks like a man,” I said.

  Next the pastor examined the empty glasses. He leaned forward and sniffed at them like a dog. On a shelf next to the bed was the stand the artist had put canvases on to dry. The pastor pulled them out one by one and inspected them. He spent a long time on one of the paintings and I couldn’t help squinting over his shoulder.

  It was the portrait of the pastor. He was sitting in the garden beside his herbarium studying a tiny plant between his finger and thumb. The light fell obliquely from behind, giving off a glow around the pastor, almost like a halo, until I realized it was pipe smoke, rendered by the artist with astonishing skill. But the thing I found most striking was the unexpected expression on the pastor’s face. In it there was such heartfelt longing, something that was fragile and mournful. Nils Gustaf had laid bare part of the pastor’s soul, and what we saw in his eyes was not the irascible fire-and-brimstone preacher, it was a person filled with doubt.

  “He didn’t have time to finish it,” he muttered.

  He seemed almost embarrassed.

  “What did you talk about during the sittings?”

  He was silent for a moment, lost in thought.

  “About women,” he said then. “Women we’d met.”

  “It’s magnificent,” I said.

  “It’s not finished,” he said again.

  “A picture like this can never be finished,” I said. “It will continue to be painted all your life. And afterward too. Paintings by all those who think they know the pastor. Layer upon layer throughout history.”

  “God forbid.”

  “But this one . . . if I may say . . . Nils Gustaf’s painting will, I believe, always be the best.”

  “It can’t hang in the sacristy,” he said. “It’s not finished.”

  I wanted to disagree, but kept quiet. The other paintings looked more conventional; they were of the foundry owner Sohlberg, Forsström the merchant, and Hackzell the bailiff, and they looked finished, though there might have still been a layer or two of varnish left to put on. The pastor looked around and signaled that I should start writing.

  “Write down that the door was locked from the inside. And all the windows were hasped on the inside.”

  Turning to Heino, he changed from Sami to Finnish.

  “Is there a cellar hatch someone could have got in through?”

  Heino shook his head.

  “Or one into the attic?”

  “Yes, outside, on the gable end.”

  “But I can’t see one in here in the ceiling. Could anyone get into the cottage that way?”

  “No.”

  In a far corner stood the daguerreotype apparatus, screwed onto the tripod and covered by a dark blanket. The trunk with all the fittings and chemicals lay open on the floor. The pastor bent down and we could both see that the receptacles and glass plates had been taken out of their compartments and now lay scattered all over the place. He stooped closer and studiously examined a side compartment, which appeared to be slightly askew. The pastor tentatively pulled at it, and discovered that it could be moved aside. A concealed space opened under the compartment. But when he felt with his fingertips, it was empty.

  “What does Jussi think could have been in here?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “It’s easy to push the compartment open and there’s a little wear here, by the locking device, you see? In other words, it appears to have been opened and shut many times. And the bottom has a slight discoloration on the inside.”

  The pastor pressed his nose against it, drew a deep breath in, and then indicated that I do the same.

  “Metallic,” I said.

  “I agree,” the pastor said. “The green deposit is verdigris from copper, I think. But why is it only on the bottom, and not on the sides higher up?”

  He glanced at me, but whichever way I considered it, I couldn’t work out the reason.

  “Tell me.”

  “Because the coppers were rattling at the bottom and the notes were on top.”

  “Of course!” I exclaimed, impressed by his ingenuity.

  “It was in this secret compartment that Nils Gustaf kept his money. I surmise it was a substantial sum; presumably that was why he was so careful about locking the door to the cottage.”

  “Where’s the money now?” I asked.

  The pastor patted the dead man’s coat pockets but found them empty.

  “He hasn’t put it in his pockets, anyway.”

  “Could he have hidden the money somewhere?”

  “Jussi will have noticed that the secret compartme
nt wasn’t completely closed. The mechanism appeared to have been damaged, making me think it was forced. And Nils Gustaf would hardly have broken his own secret compartment. There remains only one possibility.”

  “The pastor thinks it was . . . a thief?”

  “A thief . . . and maybe worse than that.”

  The pastor put his fingertips together in an attitude he sometimes adopted when he was preaching.

  “I think the money was taken by the person who murdered Nils Gustaf.”

  “Murdered!” I exclaimed.

  Despite the fact that we had switched to speaking Sami again, Heino noticed my alarm. I lowered my voice to a bewildered murmur.

  “But . . . but the door was locked. Locked from the inside. And the key was in the lock on the inside?”

  “Undeniably.”

  “No human being can steal money and commit murder . . . and then make off with all the doors and windows closed from the inside.”

  “Carry on, Jussi.”

  “If a person hasn’t done this . . . it must have been something else . . .”

  With my fingers I made the Sami sign for the devil, whose name I didn’t want to utter. The pastor gazed at me pensively, then turned his eyes to the light from the window and the pupils narrowed to pencil points. I felt a long shudder down my spine. Satan. These were the forces we were dealing with.

  * * *

  —

  The sound of a horse-drawn carriage rolling into the yard announced the arrival of Sheriff Brahe. He strode into the cabin in his customary obstreperous way, closely followed by Constable Michelsson. It was immediately obvious that they begrudged having had to go out in the rain, and their mood was not improved by seeing the pastor and me in the cottage.

  “And what the devil are you doing here?” the sheriff snapped, pushing past us without a greeting. I could tell by the smell of sour brandy and his bloodshot eyes that he was suffering from the effects of the night before. Sopping from the rain and with mud on their shoes, the men traipsed around the cottage and poked at the stiff body.

  “Mother of God, what a stench!” Brahe said, and opened the window. He thrust it wide open and rested against the windowsill, breathing heavily.