The Winter War (20 page)

twenty-two

AMANDA HAD INHERITED THE BOLDNESS
of the Paul family, along with a feeling of entitlement, a sense that the world existed for her sake. She was not afraid of unfamiliar situations; instead she viewed them as challenges that were meant to be handled. By the time she was four years old, she already knew how to swim, and when she was six she was diving from the three-metre board at the Swimming Stadium. The next summer she was diving from a height of five metres in the Gumtäkt district.

Helen allowed her to climb the tower and dive. She knew it was dangerous. She knew that Amanda might do a belly-flop, which would knock the breath out of her. But she let her try it because the fact that Amanda even dared attempt such a dive fascinated mother and daughter alike. Helen never would have tried anything like that when she was a child. So Amanda, who was half the size of the other kids, climbed up the tower. She waited for her turn and then took up position at the very edge and dived off. Without a trace of fear.

Lukas was different. He hesitated, carefully weighing things before doing them. He didn't want to subject himself to any risks or land in unexpected situations.

Helen thought that life was like the game they used to play as kids. After placing ten sticks on a board, someone would kick the board and make the sticks fly in all directions. Everyone ran off to find a hiding place while one person picked up the sticks and put them back on the board before going in search of the other kids. The real challenge was for someone to come out of hiding to kick the board before everyone had been found. Those who were timid stayed in place and let someone else do the kicking. Helen thought that Amanda and Eva were the sort who would always run out to kick the board.

She viewed herself as the one who picked up the sticks and searched for the others. Life was an endless process of picking up sticks. There was always something that needed to be done or cleaned up, and as soon as Helen felt that the biggest job had been taken care of, as soon as the kitchen or hallway had been tidied, one of the kids would come running inside and toss their dirty shoes on the floor, so she had to start all over again.

By the end of the week, she felt as though she'd been working overtime after an extra-long shift, counting the minutes until she could crawl into bed. She just needed to make the last steps up the mountain, pick up the clothes from the floor, fill the washing machine, gather up the Lego pieces, take out the essay books to grade, cook dinner and then clear away the dishes. She had to push aside all thoughts other than the tasks at hand and try to make sure that everything went smoothly for the remaining four or five hours before the whole family went to bed, exhausted from the winter fatigue and darkness and the children's minor but vexing fights about completely trivial matters.

Now it was Friday, and Helen was sitting in the teachers' lounge listening to everyone plan their weekend. There was a Friday mood in the air, a feeling of loosening their ties – even though Niklas, the mathematics teacher, was the only one actually wearing a tie. A feeling that they'd soon be free.

‘What are you doing this weekend?' asked Marit, who was Helen's closest friend among her colleagues. They were seated across from each other, sharing a desk. They often worked together and helped each other correct papers.

‘I don't know. Nothing special.'

‘Would you and Christian like to come over for dinner tomorrow? Do you think you could get a babysitter?'

‘Just the two of us?'

‘I was thinking of inviting Michael too.'

Michael was the new history teacher, and Helen knew that Marit had been looking for some excuse to socialise with him outside of school. The problem was finding a babysitter. Katriina was out of town, and Helen doubted she could persuade Max to come to Esbo to spend the night at their place. But maybe she could drive the children over to her parents' flat in Helsinki.

‘I'll have to ask my father. Maybe.'

‘Try. I was thinking of making
bœuf bourguignon
.'

‘Great.'

‘I promise it'll be worth it.'

Helen considered accepting the invitation without Christian, but it wouldn't be much fun to be the third wheel. She decided to ring her father after the next class.

The work week had been longer than usual because they'd attended training sessions every evening. Gunvor, who was the principal, had gone to a continuing education course somewhere in Sweden and had brought back new ideas that she wanted to put to use at the school.

Helen suspected that Gunvor had misunderstood half of what she'd learned at the course, which supposedly dealt with equality in schools.

Instead of discussing how they could make the school less gender-segregated, Gunvor had spent four hours talking about the differences between boys and girls – and doing it in a backhanded and peculiar way that was presumably completely unintended. In an attempt to show that she was politically correct she ended up saying things like: ‘Boys have more energy and that means we need to be more attentive to their needs.' Or: ‘Girls like to work together because then they're better able to focus.'

Gunvor had asked the teachers to come up with concrete goals for improving the atmosphere in their classes.

Niklas had suggested they start by ‘getting Erik Hulkkonen to take off his cap during class', which made everyone laugh.

Erik Hulkkonen was in the third year, and Helen could understand why Niklas detested him so much. The boy, who was from a wealthy family, had blonde hair and a buff physique. He seemed to regard the teachers in his school as nothing more than riff-raff. Niklas, with his little mobile-phone holster, was the sort of person that Erik and his ilk ate for breakfast. But Niklas was an adult and able to exert authority over Erik, and he did so as often as possible.

Gunvor was not particularly old, just over forty, and it was clear that she still viewed all new trends as potential ways in which to elevate the school's image. She drove a Volvo big enough for a large family, even though she had no children. Her life revolved around her dogs, and there was a certain kennellike smell about her. Helen thought Gunvor herself was a little like a dog: eager to take on new things, but also suspicious about anyone she regarded as threatening. She enthusiastically displayed her Gunvor nature, or what Marit and Helen had labelled her ‘psycho laugh'. They had also settled on the term ‘old-man shui' for the way Bengt, the German teacher, wore the same jacket to work every day and reeked of tobacco. Occasionally Helen had to use a computer where he'd been working, and the smell he'd left lingered for several minutes.

After the last class Helen phoned her father. Marit had told her it was crucial that she find a babysitter because Michael had already accepted the dinner invitation.

Max sounded anxious on the phone. Helen hated asking for help on those occasions when she was certain her request would be denied. It was so humiliating to listen to all the excuses.

‘I'd like to come out there, but I'm afraid I can't. I'm going to visit Grandma tomorrow. If it was any other day …' Max said.

‘That's okay, Dad.'

‘What about next weekend?'

‘No, it has to be tomorrow. But that's all right. We can skip it. Say hi to Grandma for me.'

‘What about Christian's parents?'

Helen had thought about asking them, but she knew they wouldn't want to spend the whole evening at their flat. So that meant driving the kids over to their place in Kyrkslätt. Christian's mother was willing to babysit, but there was always a feeling that it was a lot to ask. They would agree to do it, but preferably not overnight. Besides, for some reason Lukas had a hard time sleeping there, and Christian's mother would always phone if he gave the slightest indication that he wanted to go home. That meant they would end up sitting through dinner with their mobiles close at hand.

So when Helen got home she was surprised to hear Christian offer a third option.

‘What about ringing Marit and this Michael guy and asking them to come here for dinner instead? Then we won't need to find a babysitter.'

That was actually a great idea. Helen was amazed because Christian rarely suggested inviting anyone over. But it might be a good compromise.

‘But are you planning to cook? Or do you want me to come over and help you?' Marit sounded sceptical. Helen realised that moving the dinner to another location represented a certain downgrading in Marit's eyes. If she wanted to seduce Michael, it would be easier in her own flat than in a home with young children in Esbo.

‘You do realise that
bœuf bourguignon
has to be prepared a day in advance, right? I was just on my way out to the supermarket.'

‘I'm sure I can manage. Or I'll make something else.'

‘Okay, okay. But let me know if you need help. I'll come over early and bring a salad and dessert.'

After Helen ended the conversation, she went into the kitchen and Googled the recipe. It turned out that she'd need mushrooms, bacon, beef and red wine. Christian came in.

‘So, are they coming?'

‘Yes, they are. But unfortunately that means you now need to go food shopping.'

twenty-three

EDVARD HAD APPARENTLY DISCOVERED
that the hamsters were loose in the flat, because right now he was standing in the front hall and barking. Max tried to get the dog to show him where they were, but Edvard just stood there, looking upset.

Max didn't have time for this. He needed to pack if he was going to drive to Kristinestad with Laura in the morning. He decided that the hamster problem would have to wait until he got back. Surely two hamsters could survive for a few days without food.

He let Edvard sleep in his study, closing the door so he wouldn't start barking in the middle of the night. In the morning he packed some last-minute items, attached the lead to Edvard's collar, and walked over to Laura's place.

Max was in a dream-like state; he had a feeling this wasn't really happening to him. It was all going so fast, like a film rolling before his eyes. He thought this was how it was supposed to feel: living in the moment, noticing every little detail of his surroundings, every individual smell – not just a conglomeration of smells, but being able to separate out each of them from the rest. He felt acutely aware of the moment he was experiencing.

Laura opened the door with the phone pressed to her ear. She had on a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, and she wandered around the flat as she talked. Max wondered if this was how she opened the door to everyone. Maybe he was just one in a series of men who had crossed this threshold. She seemed to be having a conversation related to work, because he heard her say things like ‘deadline' and ‘five thousand characters', and she laughed before saying something like ‘No, no, I can make it, I need the work right now.' Then she ended the call. She came into the living room where Max was sitting on her bed.

‘Hi, Edvard! The two of you are early.'

‘I know. I thought it would be a good idea to get started before rush hour. Are you still willing to drive?'

‘Absolutely.'

The fact that Laura had borrowed a car, a trim little Toyota, had opened up whole new possibilities. They wouldn't have to bother taking a taxi out to the house in Sideby. Usually Katriina or Helen drove when they went to visit; otherwise Max was forced to take both a bus and a cab.

Half an hour later, Laura's mobile rang again when they were in the car. She took the call, and Max could hear she must be speaking to a friend because of the way she was giggling and teasing, almost flirting. She talked for twenty minutes, and Max tried not to listen too closely.

‘Sorry, that was my father,' she said, after ending the call. She kept her eyes on the road and seemed to be an experienced and confident driver, much like Katriina.

Max stared straight ahead. ‘What kind of work does your father do?'

‘A bit of everything. He has a consulting business, and it's been going really well.'

Max merely nodded. He wasn't particularly interested in finding out anything about Laura's father. Was he older or younger than Max? And which was worse?

Earlier that morning, Max had gone to the shop on the corner to buy food for the trip. Then he'd phoned his sister to say he was going to visit their mother. Elisabeth lived in Närpes, a half-hour drive from Kristinestad, but he knew he needed to ring her in advance or she'd hear about his visit later from their mother.

Every time Max went to Österbotten, he wondered whether this might be the last time he would see her. She wasn't seriously ill, but she was old, and there was always the risk she might suffer a stroke, since she'd already had a few minor blood clots in the past. During the past few years she'd been confined to a wheelchair, and Max was grateful that his sister lived in Österbotten (which Elisabeth had nicknamed ‘Gloomy-bottom').

After their father died, Max had sold their childhood home, to their mother's great sorrow, especially when it became necessary to empty the house so she could move to a flat in Kristinestad. She loved collecting all sorts of things and found it impossible to throw anything out. Her room in the nursing home was also filled with papers, stacks of old newspapers and various items she didn't really need. When the house was sold, Elisabeth had, true to form, already selected what she wanted to keep: Arabia porcelain, glass candleholders from Iittala, a bookcase from Asko. Katriina had many times pointed out to Max that he also had a right to those things.

‘I can't understand why you let her just take everything that had any value.'

But Max hadn't felt like fighting with his sister over a few plates.

‘So where does your mother live? Is it a nice place?' Laura now asked.

‘I suppose you could say that. It's run by an association. The buildings have been designated historic structures and all that. The oldest is from the 1800s. Very grand. The Österbotten associations are good at that sort of thing.'

Max thought that when he got old he wouldn't mind living in that sort of place. They didn't have the same problem recruiting nursing staff in Österbotten as they did in Helsinki. Yet he could see where things were headed. In fifteen years the area, which was now sparsely populated, would be overflowing with retirees.

Dusk was setting in as they arrived in Kristinestad. They drove round the small bay and entered the town, which stretched out invitingly in the dim light before them. Christmas lights still shone in many of the windows. In another lifetime Max could have imagined living here, yet he felt sad every time he came back because nothing ever seemed to change.

After crossing the bridge they drove towards the central square. Max knew every cobblestone of this place, every street corner, and every crevice in the facade of every building. They were all stored inside of him, like a dormant form of basic knowledge that he could take out at any time. His father was buried in nearby Lappfjärd. It was said that when the church was built, metres were mistaken for cubits, and so the structure had ended up eight times larger than planned. It could hold more than three thousand visitors and was the second-largest provincial church in Finland. It looked more like a cathedral, towering over an area with so few inhabitants.

‘I think it's best if we stop here in town and park near a café. Then you can wait for me there while I walk over to the old folks' home. It shouldn't take long.'

Max had given this some thought as they drove and decided it was what they needed to do. Under no circumstances did he want his sister to know that he'd come to Kristinestad with someone other than his wife. The mere fact that they were driving through town like this was a risk – Max knew people in every neighbourhood, and they might easily give him away. Gossip spread like wildfire through the communities of Österbotten.

The home was not far from the centre of town, about a kilometre away, but Max wasn't properly dressed for the weather. He wore no cap, and his toes were freezing. January in Kristinestad: the candles shining mutely from hundreds of windows decorated for Christmas, the piercing wind sweeping around the corners of the buildings, a lonely lamp post illuminating the sign that identified the street as Kattpiskargränd, a hint of the sea somewhere close by.

After his father died in the early eighties, Max's mother had lived alone, but in some ways it seemed as if that was when she first began to live. She got involved in various clubs and took a more active role in her job. She worked at the social welfare office in Kristinestad, and if the child protection services had trouble placing certain children in foster homes, she often let the kids stay with her. That would never be allowed in present-day Finland, but at that time it was still possible. Max knew that he'd inherited a sense of solidarity and social consciousness from his mother. During the nineties, when the first refugees from Yugoslavia arrived in Finland, she had offered to hide a family at their summer cottage in Sideby. By then she had retired. The authorities were looking for the family and posted their names in the newspaper. Ebba, along with her daughter Elisabeth, managed to hide them for a week before the police tracked them down.

Max went inside the home and shook off the snow from his shoes. Then he plodded along the linoleum floor towards his mother's room. His wet shoes made a slurping noise, the sound of a son taking a temporary break from his stressful life out in the big world. An old grandfather clock ticked steadily in one corner, and a woman who worked in the kitchen was wiping off a table.

‘Hi,' said Max.

The woman looked up. She was young, maybe thirty-five, with her hair cut in a trendy style and dyed purple and blonde – maybe the work of one of the students at a nearby beauty school.

‘Hi, Max! We didn't know you were coming.'

She recognised him and knew his name. So why didn't he know hers?

‘I was thinking I'd drop by to wish my mother Happy New Year.'

‘It's a little late. She usually takes an afternoon nap about this time. Would you like some coffee?'

‘Sure. Thanks.'

He sat down to wait, looking around the room. A stuffed wood grouse adorned one wall, a vitrine containing Lions Club banners stood in the corner, and the whole place was neat and clean, with not a speck of dust in sight. Somewhere further along the corridor he could hear the unmistakable sound of a pair of shuffling slippers – an old person taking a walk.

So was this how life ended? In a building smelling of linoleum, with stuffed birds and lace tablecloths and women with new haircuts speaking the southern Österbotten dialect? It could have been worse.

Max finished his coffee and then headed for his mother's room. Quietly he pushed open the door and went in. A small lamp was on, standing in the corner next to her bed, casting a halo over her. She was lying on the bed under a blanket.

Her hair was as white as the pillow. A few years ago she was still colouring her hair, but she had stopped doing that now, and there was something almost mystical about it, as if she'd already crossed over to the other side. Max touched the blanket and tried to wake her up.

‘Mum?' he said, giving her arm a little shake.

She opened one eye, just one, which looked so strange, as if she were performing some sort of trick. Then she opened the other eye too and slowly turned her head towards him. When she recognised Max her whole face lit up with a smile.

She tried to say something, struggling to get the words to come out of her throat. At first he heard only a hoarse sound, and her smile changed to a concerned expression as she swallowed hard. Finally, she got control of her vocal cords.

‘Max,' she said. ‘You're really here?'

‘Yes, I am. Happy New Year, Mum!'

She stared at him with a gentle expression that was hard to read.

He helped her to get out of bed, holding on to her waistband as he moved her over to her wheelchair standing near the bed. Then he rolled her to the middle of the room, over to the sofa and coffee table, which was covered with newspapers. There was also a bouquet of flowers in a vase – he glanced at the card attached to the flowers and saw that they were from a former neighbour – and a little box of cough lozenges.

Max picked up a tube of some sort of hand cream. ‘Dr Oppolzer's AFRO-Schlamm contains an African clay that has both antibacterial and antiseptic properties at the same time as it heals skin problems. Daily use of this clay has also been proved to have beneficial effects on heart ailments and vascular disease.'

‘What's this?' asked Max. ‘Something that Elisabeth sold you?' But his mother didn't reply, and he decided to drop the subject. Elisabeth sold natural remedies to people crazy enough to believe that anything labelled ‘natural' had to be good for them.

The bookshelves and bureaus in the room were filled with photographs of Max's daughters and Amanda and Lukas, of Elisabeth and her three children and grandchildren, of other relatives' kids, and a wedding photo of Max and Katriina, taken in 1979. Max looked so young and thin, with a little downy moustache.

He took off his jacket. ‘So Elisabeth has been over to visit?'

It took a moment for his mother to answer. Over the last ten years Ebba's health had been up and down, but it was her moodiness that had been the major problem. These days she took antidepressants, a dozen pills with names like escitalopram and mirtazapine. Max didn't know much about medicines, but she had seemed happier during the past two years, so apparently the pills helped. He had a feeling that she wasn't the only resident of the nursing home who took pills for depression. He assumed that he would end up doing the same when he got older.

‘Yes, she was here … when was it? Last week? Was it Christmas last week?'

‘No, two weeks ago.'

She nodded.

Max felt a pang of guilt. If he'd had a car he could have brought his mother home for the holidays and let her celebrate Christmas with the girls and with Amanda and Lukas, but it was too late for that.

‘The grandkids came over for Christmas. They're getting so big.'

Ebba didn't respond, so Max searched for something else to say.

Suddenly she asked, ‘Does Amanda still play the piano?'

‘I think so.'

‘I'm glad. It's good to play music. It's good for your health.'

Max nodded. For a few minutes neither of them spoke, and he thought how good it was that she was able to live here.

‘I'm thinking of staying overnight at the cottage.'

He spoke louder than normal, even though he knew there was nothing wrong with her hearing.

‘How is Katriina?'

She was looking at him intently.

‘She's fine. She's on a trip to the Philippines right now. For work.'

‘Oh,' she said. ‘The two of you travel so much.'

Max turned away and stared out of the window. Then he picked up the tube of hand cream, unscrewed the top, and sniffed at the contents. It smelled pleasant, like the sea. His mother had always had cosmetics at home – hand creams and suntan lotions – and in the sixties she'd even worn a fur coat, since his father had been so adamant about keeping up with the bourgeois customs of a provincial town.