The Winter War (9 page)

nine

‘YOU FUCKING CUNT,' SAID MALIK
. ‘You tricked me.' He was restlessly pacing Eva's small room. This was how Malik always talked whenever he was angry, so she didn't take his words seriously. She'd heard him call one of his best friends a ‘fucking cocksucker' right to his face.

Eva had taken out the pregnancy test she'd bought at the chemist's shop and shown it to him. He peered at her with a blank expression and then slammed his fist into the wall, really hard. Eva thought it must have hurt terribly. Why did men do things like that? She wondered if it was something that Malik had learned from watching films. It seemed like the craziest thing to do, and Eva couldn't help laughing.

But Malik was furious. ‘What the fuck? What's so damned funny?'

Natalia came in, wanting to find out what was going on. Her usual cheery expression showed a touch of concern.

‘It's okay,' said Eva, not sure whether that was true or not. It felt as though she always ended up in these kinds of situations with men. She managed somehow to bring out their inner despair. ‘My period is late, so I went out to buy this …'

‘If it turns out you're pregnant, are you thinking of having an abortion? End of story?'

Eva nodded. ‘I assume I will.'

‘You assume you will?'

‘I mean, yes, I will.'

Malik calmed down. His whole body had looked as tense as his fist, but now he relaxed.

‘Okay. Go and do it. Let's find out.'

So Eva went into the bathroom, took the device out of the package and read the instructions. She'd taken a pregnancy test twice before, and both times it had been a false alarm. She stood there in the bathroom, listening to Malik shuffle around her room. After ten minutes she opened the door and joined him.

‘I'm not pregnant.'

‘Okay,' said Malik. He came over to give her a hug. ‘I'm sorry, babe. I shouldn't have lost my temper like that. But you know that I wasn't planning on … on our relationship being anything more than some innocent fun. I'm just not prepared to be a dad.'

‘Yeah, I know that,' she said, and sat down on her bed.

Innocent fun was exactly what it had been. From the very beginning the only reason she had slept with Malik was because she was lonely in London, and it was something to do – someone to talk to. One day after class he had shamelessly made a move on her. (‘Eva, could you wait a minute? I'd like to talk to you.') It had started with a drink, and after the second drink, he'd thrown himself at her. She liked his aggressive ardour – it was both embarrassing and exciting at the same time, like a love story in a novel; not very cool but slightly irresistible.

Later, she began treasuring their time together after making love as much as the sex itself. Malik enjoyed telling her – although boasting was probably a better word for it – about the art boom in the eighties, and all the parties and exhibitions, about ‘fucking Saatchi', ‘fucking Venice', ‘fucking Basel', and so on. Eva soon realised that Malik's self-described underdog status was just a pose. He actually came from a well-to-do family who owned a grand house on ‘embassy row' in Belgravia. He'd gone to all the best schools and spent his holidays at French ski resorts. She'd even seen a picture of him as a fourteen-year-old schoolboy wearing a Lacoste pullover. But he chose, of course, to view himself as the black sheep of the family.

The fact that he'd become a teacher was the result of a huge concession on his part. His father had demanded that Malik, after he turned thirty, should find a way to become selfsupporting. But Malik also claimed that by then he'd lost all interest in making art in the twenty-first century because the whole climate had become so individualistic.

‘Artists need to find like-minded peers so they can toss their ideas around. If you look at the history of art, it's filled with movements. The Impressionists all knew each other, hung out together, drank together, fucked each other's wives, married each other's cousins.'

Malik wanted to divorce Sarah, but since he was part-owner in her gallery, they hadn't yet signed the papers. They had no children, and Malik claimed that he never wanted to have any. (‘This world is too fucked up to have kids.')

It struck Eva that Malik might have interpreted the whole pregnancy scare as some form of blackmail, a way of getting at his family's money.

‘I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything about it, since I wasn't sure,' Eva now told him.

‘No, no, I'm glad you did. It's not just your … problem.'

Later in the evening, after Malik went home, Eva lay in bed and found herself thinking about Alexander. He'd been the boyfriend with whom she'd had the longest relationship. After four years they got engaged, moved in together, and then split up two months later. They'd talked seriously about having children, but put off the decision several times, since Alexander first wanted to finish his studies and get a job. According to him, they would then move into a terraced house in Esbo or Vik and have three kids (a girl and two boys, if Alexander had his way).

But one day Eva developed an inexplicable sense of anxiety about everything, about all his plans and the fact that their life together seemed so constrained. She felt as though she couldn't tell what was left of their actual relationship behind all the ideas about their relationship. She discovered that she felt happiest when she was home alone and forgot about Alexander, forgot about his very existence, and this led to the realisation that she didn't want to be with him. For her, a life in Esbo seemed to hold no promises for the future.

Katriina was furious when Eva called it quits, since she'd become very attached to Alexander, and for several months she'd held out hope that they'd get back together.

When the wedding invitation arrived a year later, everyone finally realised that it was over. Eva decided to go to the wedding, mostly because so many of her friends would be there.

That was a mistake.

Alexander and Marika got married on a large estate just outside of Borgå. It wasn't a bad ceremony. Marika's nieces were the bridesmaids, and Alexander's best man organised a spontaneous sort of flash mob inside the church. Lots of the guests stood up and started singing as the newly married couple walked back down the aisle. It was the type of meticulously planned spontaneity that Eva realised someone of her generation ought to perceive as the height of romance.

Immediately after the wedding cake was presented but before the disco dancing started up – and before the wedding ultimately degenerated into an inferno of sickly sweet selfpromotion and kisses on the cheek – Eva decided she couldn't take it any more. Two guys who she remembered had studied economics at university had rented a DJ console, and they began playing horrible Swedish music from the eighties while, with their naked torsos glittering, they pumped their arms in the air. She went over to a table where she found an open bottle of white wine, so she sat down and poured herself a glass.

Pulp's ‘Common People' began blaring from the loudspeakers. Eva got up and walked past Alexander's parents, straight across the dance floor and out into the summer night.

Several people were standing on the stairs, smoking. She asked a guy she didn't know – presumably one of Marika's relatives – if she could blag a cigarette from him. He was a few years younger and close to six foot six, with a nose that was both crooked and flattened, as if someone had punched him in the face a number of times, and it had never regained its former shape. He dug around in his jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette.

Eva took it from him, murmuring her thanks. He offered her a light, holding the lighter in a big pale hand with long bony fingers.

‘Eva,' she said, holding out her hand.

‘Johan,' he told her, shaking her hand.

‘How do you know …?' she asked.

‘Marika. And you?'

‘Alexander. We used to be an item.'

She glanced inside at the party. They were now the only ones left outside on the stairs.

‘They seem happy,' she said.

‘Uh-huh. They seem to be. Are you here with someone?' he asked.

‘No. Solo.'

‘Are you having fun?'

‘I wouldn't say that.'

Eva was rocking back and forth on one of the steps of the small stone staircase, as if preparing to suddenly take off and flee. She exhaled a cloud of smoke and looked at his face. He was nice, even though he was younger than she was. Eva considered asking him to dance, but suddenly she heard the opening bars of a tune that she instantly recognised. She couldn't believe her ears.

Johan must have noticed, because he asked cautiously, ‘Is everything okay?'

Eva felt confused.

‘It's just … That song they're playing. It was our song. Alexander's and mine.'

Johan took a drag on his cigarette and then blew out the smoke.

‘Hanlon's razor,' he said.

She didn't understand what he said.

He repeated it. ‘Hanlon's razor. It's an adage or a law, sort of like Occam's razor, you know. “Never attribute to malice that which is adequately explained by stupidity.”'

Eva started laughing. It was the first time all evening that she'd found anything amusing.

‘Where'd you hear that?'

‘I don't know. I guess I'm just a nerd.'

‘You don't look like a nerd.'

‘Believe me, I am.'

She studied him for a moment. ‘You know what? Nerd or not, I think the only way for us to survive this event is to go inside and dance and pretend we're having fun. What do you say? I think the bar is open.'

He nodded, so she took him by the hand and they rejoined the party. They went over to the makeshift bar and poured themselves a couple of strong vodkas. The dance floor was an explosion of skin and glitter, blisters, sweat and euphoria.

When Eva awoke the next morning with a stale taste in her mouth and a pounding headache, she first had to figure out where she was. It took a moment for the penny to drop. She looked around at the shiny tent wall with light seeping through the cracks, heard people laughing outside, breathed in the stifling air, and then, when she turned over, she saw him. The tall dark man lying there, his cheek pressed against the green ground cloth. The texture of the material had left an impression on his skin so it looked as if his face had been flattened in a waffle iron. When she saw his crooked nose, it all came back to her. She was still in Borgå. It was day two of the wedding celebration. They were supposed to get up, have breakfast, drink some coffee, and look alert.

She lay there in the tent without making a sound and tried to go back to sleep, but she was both too wide awake and too tired to sleep any more. And besides, it was much too hot. She'd slept with her sweater on after waking up and freezing in the night. Now the sun was right above the tent, and she was sweating. As Eva began moving about in her sleeping bag, he turned over and pressed his face against the tent wall. She tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

‘Are you awake?'

He mumbled something, as if speaking from a deep slumber, from some distant place.

‘What time is it?'

‘I don't know.'

Eva reached her hand towards her feet to see if she could find something to drink, maybe a bottle of water. Nothing.

She wriggled out of her sleeping bag and unzipped the front flap of the tent. Sunlight came streaming in, and she could see the clear blue sky overhead. She heard him stirring in his sleeping bag.

‘I promised to drive my sister and Alexander to the airport today. I hope it's not past eleven,' he mumbled.

Eva stared at him.

‘Your sister? Marika is your sister?'

He looked at her with bleary eyes as he scratched his head.

‘I thought you knew that.'

That morning she rang her mother and asked her to come and get her. She would have preferred to ask Max, but he didn't have a driving licence. When Katriina turned up, Eva was waiting on a gravel road outside the building where the party had been held. She wore a dress that looked as if she'd slept in it, which she had. She tried to look alert and cheerful as she hugged her mother, but she knew it was hopeless.

‘So, late night, huh?'

Eva smiled, but avoided looking at her mother. ‘Yeah. It was.'

‘Was it a nice wedding?'

‘Well, er … sure, it was fine,' she replied, staring straight ahead.

‘You didn't have to go, you know.'

Eva didn't say anything. All of a sudden she started crying, just a little, but loud enough for Katriina to notice. She kept her gaze on the road as she drove.

‘Eva, these sorts of things take time. It's okay if you still have feelings for Alexander.'

Eva couldn't believe her ears. She leaned against the car window, not saying a word. The sun was shining through the glass, but she was filled with anxiety.

‘What's the name of his new girlfriend? I mean, his wife?'

‘Marika.'

‘Do you know her?'

‘She's part of the same bunch of friends.'

Katriina turned to look at her daughter. ‘You'll find someone else.'

Eva sat up straight. ‘But that's not what this is about! Don't you understand?'

‘Okay, okay. I know. Sorry.'

It was partly because of Alexander's wedding that Eva decided to move away. When the acceptance letter arrived from the art school in London, she didn't hesitate for a moment. It couldn't have come at a more opportune time. Now she could simply leave the whole insular Finland–Swedish social circles of Helsinki behind and start a new life.

ten

KATRIINA HAD TAKEN A CAB
home from the florist's shop and then called Max as she stood on the slushy sidewalk, and together they'd carried all the flowers up to the flat.

Now she was standing in the living room, unwrapping the bouquets so she could place the tulips, narcissi and amaryllis in vases. Amanda was helping her.

‘What time does Eva's plane get here?' asked Max, going over to the table with the liquor bottles. He poured himself a whisky.

He was looking forward to having all the children and grandchildren gathered in one place. But he had no interest in any other part of the festivities. At the department they'd put together a Festschrift for him, which Max had accepted with much embarrassment, and he still hadn't dared read it. He knew it would be like reading his own obituary.

And now Katriina had organised a big party, and he was the guest of honour. He would have liked nothing more than to escape, but there was one thing keeping him here – the thought that he'd get to see Laura. Max had phoned to thank her for the interview, and that was when she'd told him that she'd decided to come to the party.

‘The plane's supposed to land at five o'clock, so she'll probably turn up in a couple of hours. By the way, I think you should wear your grey blazer tonight. And that dark-blue cotton shirt. I washed it on Monday, and I've already ironed it. Could you help me with this?'

Max put down his glass and went over to his wife.

Katriina had painted her nails red, and she was arranging the flowers and greenery in even piles. It was hard for him to tell whether the strong fragrance was her perfume or the scent from the flowers. He put his arms around her, leaned his face against the back of her neck and put one hand on her breast. The physical sensation of Katriina's sweater and her soft roundness underneath washed over him and made him feel almost serene. In a perfect world he'd be able to love both Laura and Katriina. Wouldn't he? What sort of idiotic rule made that impossible? It was so easy to love. The easiest thing in the world.

‘Okay … Cut it out, Max. Come on, go to the kitchen and get the big vase that's on the windowsill. I'm thinking of putting it on the table as a centrepiece. Fill it halfway up with water. Helen, could you help me trim these tulips a bit? And then I'd like you to do something pretty with these amaryllis that are left over.'

Helen, Christian and the kids had come over in the morning. Max's sister had also arrived, and he knew that Elisabeth thought he should have worked something out so that their mother could have come to the party too. But what could he have done? It was impossible to imagine his mother travelling by train. If anything, Elisabeth should have brought her in the car. They'd argued about it on the phone.

‘But what if Mamma falls? Or if she needs to use the bathroom during the trip? I can't lift her out of the car.'

Max's mother had phoned that morning, sounding left out. She wanted to take a cab all the way to Helsinki, but he promised that instead they'd organise a family get-together in the spring, and hold it in a place where everyone would be able to attend.

On his way to the kitchen Max stopped in the hall. The entire wall was covered with photographs of family members. One of his favourite pictures was of Katriina at the San Francisco Zoo. In the photo she was kissing a chimpanzee. She had a deep tan, and she looked happy, as if for a moment she'd totally forgotten about the camera. Katriina was fearless in that regard – she would never have hesitated to kiss any kind of animal.

The rest of the photos were mostly of the girls. Pictures of Eva as a tiny newborn next to Katriina; pictures from the day-care centre and school; pictures of Helen and Eva on horseback; and lots of photos of Katriina, Eva and Helen in Berkeley. There was also a certificate that Max had received from the Finnish Academy and a framed copy of his parents' wedding photo.

There were no pictures of him.

‘Is my shirt in the bedroom?' Max yelled.

‘Yes, it's hanging in the wardrobe,' replied Katriina.

He went to the kitchen and got out the vases. On the table he saw a copy of
Helsingin Sanomat
lying open at the cultural section, to show the feature article about him. He thought he'd allowed his rambling to go a bit too far this time. He knew that some of his academic friends sneered at his sociological one-liners.

The headline was a quote from him: ‘Total freedom is not an ideal state.' Max had talked about that subject the way he always did, saying that the sheer number of choices available to us make us depressed. In the photograph – which was at least seven columns wide and covered the full length of the page – he wore an anxious expression, as if the photo was taken just as someone reminded him of something sad. In reality, he'd had a hard time understanding what the photographer wanted from him. He looked at the picture again and wrinkled his nose. He suddenly thought he recognised something of his mother in that troubled expression. Didn't all of her relatives look as if they might burst into tears at any second?

Katriina had placed the newspaper on the table so that their guests would see it. He considered folding it up and tossing it in the recycling bin. But the article wasn't bad. He'd read it before it was printed and emailed Laura some suggested changes and clarifications. Earlier in the day he'd looked up the paper's website and read the discussion threads under the interview. The tone of the comments had surprised Max – apparently there were still people who thought he had something sensible to say.

By six o'clock the flat was filled with people: Helen and her family; Max's sister Elisabeth; his colleague Antti, who'd come early; as well as a younger colleague from the department, an incredibly ambitious doctoral student named Sara. Max hadn't wanted to invite his editor, Matti, since he had no desire to talk about the Westermarck book, but Katriina was in charge of the guest list, and of course she had refused to leave anyone off.

The noise level had risen to a pleasant hum, and Edvard was running around, wagging his tail as he greeted and sniffed at everyone. Max was doing his share of conversing as he showed the guests his study and the desk where he usually sat, but the whole time he was on the lookout for Laura. Each time he heard the door open, he was hoping it would be her.

By seven, most of the guests had arrived. Katriina had stood at the door with Max to welcome everyone, although he occasionally slipped out to the balcony to smoke a cigar.

Now he was moving through the crowd, making an effort to smile at everyone. He didn't always know who he was talking to, but afterwards it was the details he remembered: Katriina's earrings, the décolletage of the wife of a colleague, a red handkerchief, a pair of white trainers. At eight o'clock Laura finally appeared, wearing a short purple dress, her black hair glossy, and with a cautious but endearing smile that she directed with complete self-control at Katriina under the muted lighting in the front hall. Max stood back, trying to maintain as neutral a demeanour as possible, which was difficult since he'd already had a few drinks, though he wasn't sure exactly how many. He felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he hoped no one noticed. He waited as Laura went into the flat with Katriina to say hello to the other guests. He stood there, watching them from a distance, those two women. Then he waited until Laura was alone, at most five minutes, although it seemed like an eternity, before he approached her.

She didn't seem to know anyone else, which was a relief to Max. It meant that he had an obligation to entertain her.

‘Hi. You came.'

‘Yes.'

‘I have to say that the article turned out great.'

‘You think so?'

‘Yes, I do. You really understood what I was trying to say. And that doesn't happen very often. I've heard lots of positive comments about it.'

‘It wasn't that special, but thanks.'

‘You should definitely get into reporting on cultural issues full-time,' he said.

Laura merely nodded, so he went on talking, since that was the only thing he could think to do. He was aware that he could look right down at her cleavage, and it took a real effort not to do so. He looked at the other guests and noticed that Matti was on his way over. He was still at the other end of the room, but his eyes were fixed on Laura. Max quickly tried to think up some way to out-manoeuvre him. He'd been trying to avoid Matti all evening, since he knew his editor would inevitably ask about the book, and maybe even demand to have a look at it.

‘Maybe I should introduce you to everybody.'

‘No, you don't have to do that.'

She seemed a bit shy as she looked at the other guests. By now Matti had almost reached them.

‘But I really should,' said Max.

He raised his glass and began tapping on it with his cigarette lighter, but it made no sound. None of the guests turned around, so he went over to the table, where the coffee service had just been set out. He picked up a knife and struck his glass harder. The sound sliced right through the noise of the party, and the wine in his glass sloshed over the rim and on to the floor. Now he had everyone's attention.

‘Er, hello, I just want to say one thing. As you all probably know by this time – thanks to my wife, who never lets this sort of thing go unnoticed – in today's issue of
Helsingin Sanomat
there's an article about me, in honour of the occasion. You know that I usually detest journalists …'

Scattered laughter in the room. Max was good at playing to the crowd.

‘… but in this case I made an exception because the journalist in question is a former student of mine, one of the most talented, and she's actually here with us today. Laura, where are you?'

He pretended to search for her. Laura was still standing in the corner, and she gave everyone a little wave.

‘There you are! Not only is Laura an amazing cultural journalist, she's also an expert on financial matters, reporting on Asia, in particular.'

Laura was clearly embarrassed. The guests looked at their host, then at her, not sure where to direct their attention.

‘Well, that's really all I wanted to say. I hope everybody got enough to eat, because now it's time for coffee and cake.'

Everyone raised their glasses in a toast. For a moment Max felt very pleased with himself. But then he saw that Matti had reached Laura and was shaking her hand. Now he was motioning for Max to join them, and he had no choice but to comply.

Matti had a slightly macho way about him that Max found annoying, but he realised that certain women fell for that sort of thing. His editor was in his fifties, good-looking and cocky, but also well read and a thoroughly hardnosed businessman. Max had a feeling that he was about to lose out to him. Matti had already placed his hand on Laura's bare shoulder.

‘I was just telling Laura here what a damned good article she wrote. It's rare to read anything that good in the paper these days.'

Max nodded. Laura seemed pleased with the attention.

‘You know, Max, since this is your birthday, I wasn't thinking of bothering you with any questions about your damn book. But I thought I'd make a suggestion, and it's lucky that the two of you are here right now, since this has to do with both of you. Today when I was reading the paper, I came up with an idea, and I think it's a damned good one. How would it be if Laura helped you out? She seems to understand what you're talking about. Why don't you let her have a look at the text? Then I won't have to do it.'

Max glanced at Laura in surprise. Yesterday he'd actually fantasised about taking his manuscript over to LÃ¥nga Bridge and tossing it over the side.

‘I don't know … I'm actually almost finished …'

Matti gave him an amused look. ‘Damn it, Max. Let's be honest now. Tell me how it's really going with your book. So far I haven't seen a single sentence of the bloody thing.'

Now Matti turned to Laura. ‘I have no doubt that Max has written something, but as long as he won't show it to me, I can't be sure, can I?'

Max knew he had to defend himself. He was pissed off by the situation, with Matti embarrassing him in front of Laura and making him talk about this topic.

‘If you like, you can have a look right now. I've got it in my study.'

‘Okay, okay,' said Matti. ‘Maybe it's a dumb idea. I'm just thinking that it might be good for someone to wrest it out of your hands. There's no harm in that, is there?'

It occurred to Max that so far Laura hadn't said a word. The noise level had risen, and Max had to lean towards her to hear what she said.

‘Of course I'll have a look. If that's what you want, Max.'

He looked her in the eye and felt something that resembled tenderness – she had no idea how much it meant to him to have received a little media attention again. He was ashamed that he was such easy prey to flattery.