Lucifer's Tears (24 page)

“I understand that you worked for Iisa’s father as a Bettie Page look-alike escort. Could you tell me about that?”

She stands and dons her coat. “Inspector, I’m tired and have shopping to do. Let’s save that story for another day.”

Much as in my dealings with Filippov, I have the feeling that Linda is sending me a message, but I still don’t know what it is. I decide not to press it and thank her for her time and candor. She thanks me for the drink. We go our separate ways.

I get home at a few minutes before seven. Jari and company should be here soon. The smell of karjalanpaisti drifts through the house. My head hurts. I’d like to lie down in the bedroom and rest for a little while, but the door buzzer rings.

Jari and his family come in, take off their shoes, and I make introductions all around. Jari’s wife, Taina, is a pleasant woman in her mid-forties. Their sons, Hannu and Martti, are seven and nine. They take after Taina, have her white-blond hair, look like the products of the Lebensborn Nazi eugenics program, like the last bastions of the Aryan race. More confluence. They brought toys and movies with them. They break out Legos and go to work building a pirate ship while they watch Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone .

We adults go to the dining-room table. I open a bottle of red wine and pour for all of us except Kate and Mary. I get them Jaffa. Mary loves the stuff. Jari and Taina both speak good English. He asks about my migraines.

Despite the pain medication, I feel like my head is in a vise. Even my teeth hurt. “It’s okay,” I say.

“Have you been using the drugs I prescribed for you?”

I haven’t used the tranquilizers yet. “Yeah, they help.”

“Your blood tests came back clean, and your MRI is next Monday.”

“Good to hear,” I say.

“Kate, what about you?” Taina asks. “How is your pregnancy going?”

“There have been some complications. I have preeclampsia, but I’ve been medicated for it, and the doctors say everything is fine. I’m due in eleven days.”

“Mary, do you have children?” Taina asks.

She says no.

The conversation bores John. He gets up from the table and goes to the spare bedroom. His suitcase is there. He’s taking a couple pops from the kossu bottle I gave him.

“How is prenatal care different here from in the U.S.?” Mary asks.

Kate shrugs. “I don’t know. I’ve never been pregnant in the States, but I feel that I’ve been well treated. I had my first two exams at seven and twelve weeks. A midwife examined me…”

Mary interrupts. “A midwife instead of a doctor?” She sounds disapproving.

“She was quite skilled,” Kate says.

“I’m a midwife,” Taina adds.

I hope Mary’s small gaffe won’t grow into something larger. Kate keeps talking to prevent it from happening. “At week nineteen,” she says, “they did another ultrasound, and we found out we’re expecting a girl. They checked the baby’s brain and organs for abnormalities and measured her neck. Somehow, they can diagnose Down syndrome that way. Then a week later, we went to a private clinic and had a 4-D ultrasound made. We have a DVD of it. Watching her move her little arms and legs is so sweet.”

John comes back from the bedroom. He took big gulps. His eyes speak of satiety. He browses books and CDs in the living room.

Jari looks troubled. “Why the 4-D ultrasound? It’s usually only done if complications are feared. Was it because of the preeclampsia?”

Kate glances at me, looks down at the table. “I had a miscarriage last year. We just wanted to make sure everything was all right this time.”

“Why test for birth defects so late in pregnancy?” Mary asks. “Nothing can be done about it.”

“In Finland,” Jari says, “in case of birth defect, a woman may still abort at week nineteen.”

“I see,” Mary says, again disapproving.

Taina bristles. “My first pregnancy was terminated under just such circumstances.”

Mary sips Jaffa, says nothing.

Kate and I share a fleeting look. This dinner will go wrong.

Taina looks hurt. This is clearly a painful subject for her. “My child, a girl, had a defective heart,” Taina says. “Even if I had carried her to term, she would have had a short and painful life.”

Mary meets Taina’s angry stare with flat eyes, again says nothing. Her silence makes her condemnation more poignant than words.

The room goes quiet. My headache flares. John hee-haws. “What kind of sick joke is this?” He comes to the table brandishing a Christmas card from my parents. “Check it out,” he says. “A troll dressed as Santa Claus.”

For once, I’m glad for John’s drunken repartee. He bailed us out of a bad moment. “It’s our traditional Father Christmas,” I say. “His name is Joulupukki, which means Christmas billy goat. It comes from a pagan tradition. Once upon a time, Santa wasn’t a benevolent character. He frightened children. He didn’t give gifts-he demanded them.”

I tell a story in the hope that Mary’s implied insult to Taina will be forgotten. I heard it somewhere, and it sounds like complete horseshit to me, but will suffice for this purpose.

“Joulupukki and his flying reindeer originated with the aboriginal people of Lapland. There was a poisonous forest mushroom. Shamans fed the mushroom to reindeer. Their intestinal tracts filtered out the poison, but left hallucinogens. The shamans drank the reindeer urine. They sometimes had out-of-body experiences and flew. They returned to their bodies through the chimney hole of their tent or cottage. And that explains the legend of Santa Claus and his flying reindeer.”

John sits down and smiles, pours himself dregs from the wine bottle. “A great story. I apologize for besmirching your Pyllyjoki. He’s a proud beast.”

Pyllyjoki. He just called Father Christmas “Ass River.” At least he tries to pronounce Finnish.

Kate works with me, trying to guide the conversation in a comfortable direction. “Something smells good,” she says.

“Dinner should be ready.” I get up and escape to the kitchen.

I set the table, open another bottle of red and bring the karjalanpaisti. I ignore what’s being said as I come and go, but hear no shouts and see no blood, so a semblance of dinner-table civility is being maintained. Taina calls the children to eat.

I anticipate Mary’s wishes. To sweeten her up, I ask her if she’d like to say grace. Everyone understands and bows their heads. She’s tactful, keeps it short. We fill our plates.

Jari smiles. “This is Mom’s recipe.”

“Is there another way to make karjalanpaisti?” Kate asks.

“Most people just use pork and beef cubes, potatoes, onions, bay leaves and whole peppercorns,” I say. “But Mom adds lamb chunks, and pieces of liver and kidney. It’s easy. You just mix it up, cover it with water, throw it in the oven and let it cook.”

“She didn’t make it this way when we were kids,” Jari says. “It was too expensive. When Dad started drinking less and she had more household money, she started making fancier food.”

Everyone digs in with relish, except for John and Mary. They pick at it.

I turn to Jari. “Speaking of Mom, I’ve been thinking a lot about her father lately. Do you remember much about Ukki?”

“Yeah, a lot. Why?”

“I found out that, except for his time at the front during the Winter War, he was a detective in Valpo from 1938 until the end of the Continuation War. I’d like to learn more about what he did in Valpo.”

“People used to talk about Ukki being a Winter War hero,” Jari says, “but I never heard him say a word about it. Still, it doesn’t surprise me. Goddamn, he hated Russians. If he’d gotten to decide whether or not to drop hydrogen bombs on Russia, it would no longer exist.”

I think of how much Arvid reminds me of Ukki, except for the bad temper. “I only remember Ukki being calm and kind. Did you ever see him get angry?”

He laughs. “I heard Mummo say one time that she didn’t know Ukki had a temper until their wedding day. He couldn’t get the wrapping off a present quick enough to suit him. He got frustrated, threw it on the floor and jumped up and down on it.”

The image is hard to conjure, makes me laugh, too. “Do you think Mom knows anything about what Ukki did in the war?”

“If Mom knew anything, you would have heard the stories a thousand times by now.”

True. I see that Mary and John haven’t finished their meals, but have set down their knives and forks on their plates. I should know better, but I have to ask. “You two didn’t care for dinner?”

“I’m sorry, Kari,” Mary says. “I wanted to be polite and I tried, but I can’t make myself eat animal organs. I keep thinking about their functions.”

“Me too,” John says. “I did okay with the liver the other night, but I have to draw the line at kidneys. Especially after you told the story about drinking reindeer piss.”

Fair enough. They’re entitled to their likes and dislikes. I clear the table, bring vanilla ice cream with cloudberry jam for dessert. Hannu and Martti are excited. They’re good kids, have sat quiet while the grown-ups spoke in a language they don’t understand.

Jari says, “Kate, did you get the aitiyspakkaus…” he looks at me.

I translate. “Maternity package.”

He finishes the question. “Did you get the maternity package from the government?” For John’s and Mary’s benefit, he explains: “Every mother in Finland has the option of either taking the maternity package from the government or four hundred euros to buy things for the baby herself.”

Kate beams. “I did and it’s wonderful. Such a great tradition. Kari, would you get the box? I want to show it to John and Mary.”

I fetch it from the closet, lay it on the table and open it. John, Mary and Kate stand and rifle through the box. Kate shows off a nice selection of pretty much everything you need to embark on parenthood. A snowsuit and sleeping bag. Hats, mittens and socks. Bodysuits and rompers. Leggings and overalls. A mattress and sheets. Bibs and diapers. A picture book and rattle. Nail scissors. Hairbrush. Toothbrush. Bath thermometer. Cream. If we had to buy all this stuff, it would cost a hell of a lot of money.

“Look,” Kate says. “There’s even condoms and lubricant for Mom and Dad. And the neatest part is that the box itself is designed to be used as a crib.”

“You would keep your infant in a cardboard box?” Mary asks.

“Actually,” Kate says, “Kari and I thought it would be practical while you and John are here, because it doesn’t take up much space. We’ll get a proper crib after you leave.”

“I see. What are you going to name your baby?”

“We usually don’t choose a baby’s name until a few weeks after it’s born,” I say. “There’s no need before the christening.”

“You don’t name your children for weeks?” Mary asks.

“Sometimes.”

She rolls her eyes.

John rifles through the box. “This stuff is cool. They must go to a lot of work to choose different clothes for so many newborns.”

“No,” I say. “Everybody gets the same package. They change the clothing styles every year or three.”

“So every kid in Finland wears the same clothes for their first year?” he asks.

“I don’t think they much care what they wear.”

“That sounds like something Chairman Mao would have thought of,” John says.

Mary nods agreement.

“It was only a few decades ago,” I say, “that this nation was impoverished. This kind of help saved people a lot of hardship.”

Mary sits back down, spoons ice cream, looks thoughtful. “Speaking of poverty and history, do you know that after the war, the United States gave Finland a great deal of aid under the Marshall Plan? I find it odd that Finland accepted U.S. aid but kept such close ties with the Soviet Union, our enemy.”

Kate smacks the table with the flat of her hand. “Now, wait just a minute,” she says.

I know Kate and her temper. Mary embarrassed her in front of my family. She just reached her limit.

I make a last effort at conciliation. “Mary is right in part. Finland was forced to decline Marshall Plan aid to avoid confrontation with the Soviets. The USSR had its own economic aid plan, called Comecon. However, Finland wasn’t included in it. We would have gotten nothing, but the U.S. government sent aid in secret. Clothes. Food. It saved lives. As an example of how desperate we were and how much it helped, after the war, my father and his brother shared a pair of shoes. They had to take turns going to school every day. U.S. aid helped us recover from that kind of poverty.”

My attempt at appeasement fails. Kate looks irked because I veered her away from a burst of anger she deserved to vent. Mary looks vindicated. “Thank you, Kari,” she says.

Jari looks vexed. Taina stares down into her ice cream bowl. Her face goes red. The boys don’t understand but poke each other and giggle. They know something is up. My migraine starts to whisper to me. I can’t think straight, want to bang my head off the table.

Taina overreacts, points her spoon at Mary like a weapon. “You come here and pass judgment on us. You live in a country that has never been invaded by a foreign nation, have never had your people’s blood spilled on your own soil. You make it clear that you think I’m immoral. I take it you’ve never been faced with the decision of whether to terminate your child’s life or bring it into a world of pain and horror, yet you dare judge me.”

Mary remains calm. “The Bible is clear in its message. And if you may recall, our country was subjected to a vicious attack. That day of infamy is called 9/11.”

“Nine-eleven was a single goddamned event,” Taina says. “How dare you compare an event with the prolonged devastation of a nation by war. Three thousand people died in 9/11, and that’s a tragedy, but your country used it as an excuse to colonize Iraq, a sovereign nation, when it was really about oil and money. Your country caused hundreds of thousands of Iraqi deaths out of greed. Your country sent thousands of its own children to their deaths in Iraq for the sake of the almighty dollar.”