True (31 page)

The woman in the painting was looking into Eleonoora's eyes.

Rautalampi coughed at the same moment that the shop door squeaked. Someone entered, and Rautalampi said he would be right back.

Eleonoora stood in front of the painting for a moment. Then she turned, saw a chair in the corner, and sat down. She actually wished someone would come and cover the painting up. But no one came.

It was Eeva looking at her, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop looking back.

TO BE UNREACHABLE,
to be indifferent to everything, these were the only ways Eleonoora knew to express anger. She walked without any particular destination. The sea was a level wall sparkling dazzlingly. The anger came in a wave of nausea, in flashes of memory.

Two hours later she stopped and looked at her phone. Nine calls. Some from her father, some from the phone in the apartment on Sammonkatu, some from an unknown number. The screen blinked. Anna. Maybe it wasn't a coincidence—Anna had tried to call her earlier.

The phone fell out of her hand. She didn't intend to pick it up. Then she changed her mind—perhaps she guessed what Anna was going to tell her—and she picked it up off the ground.

She spoke without asking why Anna was calling, without explaining what she meant: “I saw Eeva. In a picture.”

Anna was silent. Anna knew! Anna wasn't denying that she knew!

“Grandma told me about her,” Anna said. “And Grandpa. They told me about Eeva.”

Eleonoora had just one thing to say to her: “I don't want to talk to you. I can't bear to see you right now.”

Anna paid no attention to what she said. “Grandpa has tried to call you several times. He finally called me. Grandma's dead.”

1967

T
HE LITTLE GIRL
is sitting on the swing kicking her legs. It's already October.

The little girl's mother wouldn't have allowed it, but she begged, asking again and again, finally crying, lying on the floor and kicking for a long time. Finally her mother asked me to come.

“Half an hour,” she said. “In the yard. You can't come inside.”

I walk through the gate, her mother looks at me, comes out the door. She leaves the two of us. The little girl doesn't look at me and seems not to care. She's grown, even though it's only been a couple of weeks. She has on a red coat and shoes appropriate to the fall weather. The days have been chilly.

I have to look at her very closely. I have to take in her every gesture, the lines of her face, still only half formed. I go and sit on the swing next to hers.

“Why are you wearing a coat?” she asks.

“Because the weather's getting cooler. You have one on, too.”

“Oh, yeah,” she says.

She picks up some speed. Her legs bend and straighten and bend again. The swing creaks a little.

“Mommy said that I can swing a little higher because I'm getting to be a big girl.”

“That's right,” I say.

“Can I come over to your house?” she asks suddenly. “To spend the night?”

“No, not today. You have to stay home today.”

“Tomorrow,” she says. “Can I come tomorrow?”

“Well, maybe,” I lie.

She swings faster. The squeak of the chain sounds frenzied, resolute. Her gaze is focused—she's looking at the door. She swings forward, backward, forward, backward.

“I can come to your house,” she says. “I'll ask my mom and dad. We can build a fort.”

For a moment I, too, believe that this is possible. She'll come and we'll spend the day the way we often have. I hear myself lie to her, because there's nothing else I can do: “OK. You can come over tomorrow.”

“Can I spend the night?” she asks.

“Yes. Maybe you can spend the night.”

Ella hops down off the swing. I try to force a smile. “Let's go,” I say. “Your mom and dad must be waiting for you.”

“It's fall and there's apples in the trees,” she says. “We went to the park yesterday and Mommy said that you can make jelly out of them. We're going to make jelly next week. Daddy says jelly is the best thing he knows of. He puts lots of sugar in it. We'll put the jelly on our rolls, and sugar, too. Daddy's going to put as much on as I am. Mommy said that I can't see you anymore, but she doesn't know that I'm coming over to spend the night.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I nod. I can't cry yet.

“So I'll come over tomorrow,” Linda repeats.

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

Linda's lip trembles. I see a very new expression on her face before she starts to cry. I take her in my arms for the last time. For a moment she doesn't say anything, just sobs.

“We'll build a fort,” she says.

“Yes, let's build a fort.” I say.

“What if Mommy and Daddy come, too?” she asks. “Can they come too?”

“Maybe,” I say.

“And we can sleep with you in the fort,” she suggests. She looks at me, thinks of a solution. “Mommy and Daddy can go home and I'll stay at your house and we'll sleep in the fort.”

“Let's do that.”

“Will you sleep beside me all night long?”

“Yes. I'll be beside you all night long.”

She's satisfied with this. We have a plan. She sniffles. I don't let my own tears come yet.

“I'm going to go upstairs now,” Linda says.

“Off you go.”

She runs to the door. I sit on the swing and watch her go. She pulls on the door handle. She's so short that she can only open it with difficulty. Before she goes in, she turns around again.

“Bye! See you tomorrow!” she shouts.

She's not crying anymore. She's smiling.

Then she's gone. I sit on the swing a little longer before I get up and walk across the yard and out through the gate.

When I get to the street I speed up to a run and for a moment I can't see what's in front of me.

23

E
LSA DIED SUDDENLY.
The death surprised Martti, even though he knew it was coming. Just that morning she had been in good spirits.

They'd had new potatoes for lunch and Elsa had marveled at how many she could eat. After lunch she wanted to dance, and Martti cranked up the old record player.

Their dancing was just a rocking, Elsa leaning against him and he against her. He remembered how she had felt on their first evening. Lauri had asked her to dance first, and Martti had watched her back. She had a lovely furrow between her shoulder blades. He looked at her neck, at the two dark curls on her forehead, damp from the thick air.

Elsa had seemed assertive, strong, like a country girl who could carry a milk can and herd cows to pasture with an expert hand. He was surprised when she told him she grew up here in Helsinki, in Eira, the daughter of a university instructor and a language teacher.

A broad face, peculiar, thick eyebrows, and dark, wavy hair. Full lips and a little gap between her front teeth. A sweet smile—calm, the kind of smile that made you think there was nothing to be afraid of, not even the sorrows that would inevitably come if you lived long enough.

Elsa was still rocking against him. The record had come to the end. There was the sound of a lawn mower in the yard.

“Summer,” she whispered.

The dance changed to an embrace.

“I probably won't be up for strawberry season.”

“You never know.”

The lawn mower hummed, a breeze blew in the window. The floor creaked a little under their feet. Then the phone rang.

He answered it. Elsa sat down on the sofa and looked like she was listening. It was Rautalampi from the art supply store. Unaware of his role as messenger, he told him about Eleonoora's visit. She left kind of abruptly, Rautalampi said. She just took off. So what should I do with the painting—the sketch? A second passed before Martti understood what Rautalampi was talking about. Then he remembered. Martti said he'd think about it and call back later. He noticed that he sounded calm.

He hung up and looked at Elsa. When he'd told her what it was about—she had already guessed somehow, it seemed—she said, “I have to call Eleonoora. I have to call her right now.”

She called six times. She tried calling from their land line, then from her own cell phone, then from his. No answer. She stood for a moment without moving. Then she took several steps, looked around as if she were searching for the door in an unfamiliar room, and sat down.

“Are you feeling bad?”

“A little,” she said. “A little bad.”

“Are you in pain?” he asked. “Where does it hurt?”

She went to lie down, closed her eyes. Her breathing was a little uneven, as if she were short of breath.

“It's hard to breathe,” she managed to say. “A little. A little difficult.”

In the ambulance, before they put the mask over her face, she squeezed his hand and said: “I'm not sure exactly what I should ask forgiveness for. The things left unsaid? But I want to have a chance to work this out.”

He squeezed her hand and nodded, because he didn't know what to say.

Then she said, “You ask forgiveness, if I don't get the chance.”

In the hospital, Elsa was hooked up to a lung and heart monitor. Martti sat beside her. As soon as they'd arrived he had asked the nurse to call Eleonoora again. Elsa reached out her hand and put it over his. Her hand felt light and cold. It was difficult to hear her breathing.

“Are they going to call her?” she said. “Maybe they can try again.”

“They tried, she didn't answer.”

HE REMEMBERED ANOTHER
time when Elsa had held his hand. She had been strong then, obstinate, contradicting him. He'd often thought of her standing in the doorway, preventing him from leaving. He remembered everything about her on that day, every detail. She was wearing a light green shirt, her hair up, her cheeks red with rage and lips tight, not long before she forbade him to leave.

She took his hand. He just wanted to leave. He wanted to push her out of the way. Her resolute gaze opposed him.

He had to push her to get out the door. He shoved her to the side.

A few days after he came back, she got sick. Her fever rose sharply. He tucked Elsa in, put Ella to bed, read her a story, and waited for her to go to sleep. When he came back into the living room to make sure everything was all right, he heard the rhythm of Elsa's breath as she slept, saw the redness of fever in her cheeks, and love flooded him, perhaps stronger than ever, pushing everything else away. He undressed, careful not to disturb her, pulled the blanket aside and settled beside Elsa, held onto Elsa and felt her damp skin under her nightshirt. She bent her knees in her sleep. He wrapped himself around her.

She muttered, Don't leave. Stay here. Maybe she was delirious with fever. But it was a request, not an order. He wanted to be asked.

“WILL YOU COME
over here?” Elsa said, lightly patting the sheet on the hospital bed.

He looked at the door, as if asking permission. He sat on the bed, moved her over a little—it was difficult but he made a space for himself and lay down.

If you closed your eyes you could think it was any ordinary morning before getting up—the light outside the window, vague plans for the day at the edges of your thoughts.

“Don't go,” Elsa said. “Don't go anywhere.”

“I won't. I'll stay right here.”

Her breathing eased before the collapse. Martti had almost started to get used to its feverish sound. Now the silence felt disturbing. He was afraid to go to sleep.

Maybe he did fall asleep for a moment. Elsa was unmoving.

The actual death, the event itself, wasn't peaceful. The doctor said afterward that her organs seemed to have gone into shock, ceasing to function one by one very rapidly.

But it felt to Martti that she had already left by then, a moment before her physical death. Her departure was peaceful. Elsa opened her eyes, and closed them.

He'd seen her do that a thousand times. He held his hand over hers and looked at her. Her form froze, as if taking its last shape, taking its place. It looked as if she was gathering up her weight, her moments, her years, there next to him.

She said very wearily, “You'll stay if I sleep a little?”

“I'll stay. I'll stay right here.”

1968

S
PRING. I SLOWLY
start to breathe again.

The winter was cold and slippery, now and then open and drafty, as if the city were a great hall in an abandoned mansion. The whole first part of the year I felt like my limbs were from a previous century, like my head belonged in a museum, among the fragile objects there, in a glass case.