The Last of the Vostyachs (6 page)

‘Thanks! Nice work! Fine craftsmanship!' said the professor, turning the object round between his fingers and slipping it into his pocket. But Ivan narrowed his bleary eyes and shook his head. Placing a finger in front of his mouth, he indicated to Aurtova that he should play it. Then the professor remembered what Olga had said about the need for a courteous response. He fished the bone patiently out of his pocket and blew firmly into the little hole. It gave out a piercing whistling sound, like birdsong. The Vostyach smiled and nodded in satisfaction.

‘Olga,' he said.

‘Olga, yes. Olga say me take you hotel!' said Aurtova, less patient now, stuffing the pipe back into his pocket. He set off towards the exit, indicating to the Vostyach that he should follow him. Ivan picked up his sack and settled his drum more comfortably on his shoulder. They walked through the snow to the underground car park, Aurtova leading and Ivan following, looking around warily and sniffing the air, nostrils aquiver.

He sat down on the seat and placed the drum firmly on his knee, then breathed on the window so as to be able to see out. His gaze was met first by the huge bronze statues on the station façade, holding their lighted torches, then the impressive outline of the Sokos Shopping Centre, standing starkly in the square like a black glass monolith.

‘Helsinki,' he said, again flatly, though in fact it turned out to be meant as a question.

‘Yes, Helsinki! Suomi, Finland!' was Aurtova's prompt response, as he leant away from his passenger towards the car door in order to avoid contact with his stinking skins. Now the Vostyach was staring open-mouthed at the green dome of the cathedral, with its gilded stars. The professor was looking at Ivan out of the corner of his eye and trying to breathe out through his nose, so as not to have to take in the sickening stench.

‘
Suuri, ikivanha heimo
!' exclaimed the Vostyach, pointing towards the buildings. They were the only three words of Finnish that he knew. Olga had taught him them.

‘Yes, great and ancient tribe...' repeated an uncomprehending Aurtova.

In the distance, over the sea, there were now glimmers of a hesitant white dawn. But over the city the sky was still dark, tinged greenish-yellow by the lamplight. The headlights of a snowplough came into view along a side street as the vehicle skidded from one side to the other, raising a cloud of dirty snow, which then fell back upon the car, causing Ivan to clutch the seat.

Even though it was early on a Saturday morning, and such few cars as there were, were proceeding with difficulty through the snow, wherever possible Aurtova was taking unfamiliar side roads, hoping to avoid being seen by anyone he knew. In order further to reduce this risk, he had hired a car from the airport. He drew up at the pavement somewhere in Kallio, in front of the unlit window of a run-down bar.

‘Hotel,' said the Vostyach.

‘Yes, hotel,' the professor agreed. Then he paused for thought. He had been surprised by the Vostyach's tone of voice: when asking a question, after initially rising, it then seemed to fall. Then he remembered the interrogative prefix. Unlike in Finnic languages of the Baltic group, in Proto-Uralic the interrogative particle was thought not to exist. Obviously there must be a tone of voice for expressing a question, but no one had ever been able to distinguish it, and it was impossible to reconstruct it. Perhaps that was what the Vostyach was using. Aurtova was intrigued. For all his current criminal intent, for a moment his mind was once more that of a scientist. Right now – albeit not for very long – he was in the presence of the last Vostyach. He wanted to hear the famous velar affricatives and retroflex palatals with his own ears.

‘You speak language of men?' he asked his guest, bringing out Nganasan words at random.

Ivan frowned uncomprehendingly.

‘Ivan Vostyach, Vostyach,' he exclaimed in alarm.

‘Yes, me understand, Vostyach! Speak Vostyach!' Aurtova urged him, somewhat curtly.

‘Speak Vostyach!' Ivan repeated, scarcely more politely.

‘
Vostyach, puhukää, sana, wada, may, rääkidi!
' Now Aurtova came out with a volley of Finno-Ugric words.

‘Vostyach!' repeated Ivan in exasperation.

Then Aurtova lost patience and turned to Russian:

‘In a word, my friend, where are you from? Let's hear a bit about you! Are you really a Vostyach? Or just a dolgan shepherd who wandered into the Tajmyr Peninsula and told Olga a pack of lies? Come on, tell me the truth!'

When he heard his host abandon the friendly sounds of Finnish and move on to the spongy palatalisation typical of Russian, Ivan stiffened. Olga Pavlovna had promised him that there were no Russians in Finland. He put the drum on his knee, braced himself with his feet and thrust his back against the door with all his strength, until the window shattered and he was able to wriggle out.

‘No, wait, me friend! Jarmo friend of Vostyach! Jarmo little Vostyach!' Aurtova began to plead in Finnish, trying to put on an Estonian accent, which sounded more uncouth. Ivan had run to the corner of a block of buildings and was watching Aurtova's movements with suspicion. The professor had picked up the sack from the back seat and was waving it around slowly, as though it were a bait, as he tried to approach the Vostyach.

‘Pardon! I Finnish, no ruski, Suomi, Helsinki! This hotel!' he said quietly, trying not to attract attention. ‘Olga this evening arrive here hotel. Olga Vostyach!'

Hearing Olga's name, Ivan calmed down. He turned back towards the car and snatched his sack out of Aurtova's hands.

‘Hotel?' the professor suggested in a friendly tone.

‘Hotel,' repeated Ivan.

‘Good,' answered Aurtova with relief.

They went up the dark staircase of a council house. On the second-floor landing, Aurtova knocked three times and gestured to Ivan to stand back. The door was opened grudgingly and a threatening face became visible in the semi-darkness.

‘The rest of the money!' said the face's owner, putting out a rough, red hand.

Aurtova felt in his pockets. He handed the man a wad of notes held together with an elastic band, and the envelope with the Silja Line ticket.

‘The agreement is as follows. You keep him here until this evening, then put him on the 18.15 boat. And remember, make sure he's good and drunk,' hissed the professor through the crack in the door, receiving a grunt by way of answer. The door then closed again, to reopen a few seconds later to reveal a large, thickset man with a flat face peppered with reddish freckles. His nose looked as if the nostrils had been brutally dug out of it with the use of a drill, his eyes were two narrow clefts in the leathery skin. He was wearing a leather jacket which was too small for him, from which his huge hands protruded like lifeless lumps. He looked Ivan over sharply, casting a sneering grimace in the professor's direction. Aurtova took a step backwards, giving the man's gnarled hands a nervous look as they clenched and unclenched.

He thought back with disgust to the previous night's humiliation, when he had had to go into that bar to pick up a prostitute in order to be able to speak with the Laplander. Tatiana disgusted him, but she was the only one available. Aurtova had followed her into a room at the back of the bar, though he felt not the slightest desire to lay a finger on that obese reindeer. All he wanted was for her to take him to the Laplander. Aurtova did not know him, indeed he had never even seen him. All he knew about the owner of the ‘Unusi Teatteri' was that he was a Laplander and that he had some girls working for him in rooms behind the bar. But Tatiana misread the situation. Thinking that Aurtova was nervous, she pulled out her breasts, pouring champagne over them and laughing. It was only after they had gone into the room, which smelt of unwashed socks, and Aurtova refused to take his clothes off, that the Laplander arrived. Tatiana had pressed a button on the telephone, then put her clothes on again, cursing. Seated on the edge of the bed, she was waiting, chain-smoking, swearing furiously. The Laplander too was furious, because Tatiana had wasted a whole hour. Then he had punched Aurtova and paid Tatiana as though she were Miss Finland herself. Only afterwards had he heard him out.

Now Ivan and the two men went down the stairs in silence, then into the street and along to the bar. Day had now broken, but the street-lamps were still alight. A strong wind was raising eddies of snow. The Laplander turned the key and pushed open the bar door.

‘Hotel,' said Ivan.

‘Yes, hotel,' agreed Aurtova, pushing the Vostyach through the door with a reassuring smile. The place smelt of smoke and stale liquor, and the animal stench that came from Ivan mingled with them, forming a heady brew. In the bruised half-light the wood of the counter and the grimy glass of the windows and mirrors winked back at one another half-heartedly. The soles of their shoes squeaked on the tiles of the beer-drenched floor. Ivan was hanging back, moving forward cautiously into that unknown cave. Aurtova pulled him firmly into the room, as though hoping to cut off his last line of escape. ‘Vostyach now rest, this evening Olga!
Hyvää? Hästi?
' he said to him, uttering each syllable with particular care and putting his face threateningly near to Ivan's. The Laplander had opened a door concealed in the wall at the end of the room and was showing Ivan into a lit corridor. Walking backwards between the tables, still covered with dirty glasses and overflowing ashtrays, Aurtova waved goodbye to the Vostyach and went out into the street, then set off hastily towards the car, relieved to be free of his charge but a little disappointed still not to have heard the lateral affricative with labiovelar overlay.

Margareeta didn't even wait for Hurmo to stop urinating. She dragged him brutally through the snow, where he left a yellow trail. This was the third time she had walked round the block and rung her husband's doorbell, to no avail. Yet his car was parked in front of the house, and Jarmo never went anywhere without his car, not even to the university which was two steps away. Perhaps he had spent the night with one of his cheap prostitutes or was sleeping it off on a friend's sofa. Was it or was it not Saturday morning? Or perhaps he had seen Margareeta from the window and, guessing her intentions, was pretending not to be at home so that he would not have to take the dog. Before the evening was out, either that dog would be reunited with its master, or it would be found the next morning outside the main door, rock-solid as the statue of Haavis Amanda. The weather forecast had proved correct. By the time dawn broke, a bank of cloud was already darkening the sky towards the east. The wind was sending increasingly dense swirls of snow rustling against the window panes. Margareeta decided that it would be wiser to take refuge in some café and eat a nice slice of cake, waiting for the blizzard to die down. She would go back later, hoping to catch Jarmo by surprise; she wouldn't ring the bell, but have herself let in by a neighbour. The Kluuvi Shopping Centre was still empty at that hour. The first shops were rolling up their shutters and the salesgirls were putting on their uniforms. A newspaper vendor was hanging up advertisements for the dailies outside his kiosk. Inside the bar, the television was on, but without the sound. Margareeta bought a newspaper and sat down at a table amidst waiters who were still mopping the floor. Hurmo huddled miserably under her chair, his snow-covered fur leaving a little puddle beside him.

The Laplander stopped half-way down the corridor. He opened a door and, after a short delay when Ivan stood obstinately on the threshold, trampling the thick moquette, hustled him in. The room was windowless; a lamp, swathed in scarves, gave out a ruddy light, revealing dark-papered walls, a chest of drawers of varnished wood and a bed with the covers pulled neatly back. The Laplander thrust the Silja Line ticket into the Vostyach's pocket, took a plastic bottle and two glasses out of the fridge, put them on the bedside table and left the room. Ivan looked around him. Two tubular metal light fittings hung from the ceiling, connected to a wire which ran all round it, giving out a dull, unsteady light; they jingled slightly when the Laplander closed the door. The wall at the foot of the bed was entirely covered by a poster depicting a tropical beach. A fish tank containing little coloured fish was gurgling on a console table. Ivan stared at them in delight, and they stared back. A small stick of incense, in a brass brazier shaped like a dragon, gave out a slight thread of smoke. Ivan heard a rustling noise and a sound of running water, coming from behind a curtain. From the other side of the wall came the low cackle of a radio. Somewhere else, a heating pipe was clicking away, giving out a smell of dry paint. Suddenly the curtain twitched, then opened, and a sturdy middle-aged woman appeared, with extremely black hair and a heavily made-up face. She was wearing a black lace leotard, open at the front, revealing red underwear, dangling suspenders and a deep-set belly button in a fleshy fold of skin.

‘Hello!' she said, sidling towards Ivan in her little silver clogs in a manner suggestive of some tried and trusted ritual; but then a whiff of rankness, sudden as a slap, brought her up short and forced her to retreat, to collapse abruptly on to the edge of the bed, seized with a fit of coughing, until she could recover herself. Regaining her composure, she adjusted her hair, and leotard. Then she picked up the bottle and filled the two glasses on the bedside table, downing one in a single gulp and reaching out to hand the other to the Vostyach, keeping him prudently at arm's length. Ivan shook his head and backed up against the door. He had never seen a woman dressed like that. He did not know that they wore such items beneath their outer garments. In the turnip-growers' village the innkeeper's wife wore felt boots and voluminous coarse cloth breeches beneath her heavy overcoat. Ivan had seen them once when he was spying on her in the back of the shop. And the eyes of the fair-haired woman who collected his words were nothing like the lying, threatening eyes of the woman he had before him now. He stayed where he was, shaking.