My first thought is, Jesus Christ, she won’t even wash herself with the brown stream water; that’s why she’s taken out the bottle. Then I get it. The sun and her thigh have been warming that water all day. The wombat bottle holds about a quarter of a litre of water — a generous amount for washing yourself at the camp. By now it’s probably warm to the touch.
Damn, she’s not giving up. It almost makes me smile.
She crouches down to wash herself but doesn’t wet her head. She might as well: her half-centimetre crop, which sometimes makes her look like a little Latino boy, would dry in no time. She pours water over her neck and back, letting it run into her armpits. She keeps her Crocs on her feet, just like I did: wet feet will only gather up more crap. With water in the palm of her hand, she splashes her groin, then stands up and dries herself on a sarong.
She pulls on her civvies and hangs up her hiking socks, shorts and T-shirt to dry.The sarong is left flapping on the fallen tree. I’ve already taken out the camp kettle.
'How about some super-delicious chicken noodles?’ I ask.
Heidi
This is the first time I’ve slept in a sleeping-bag in years. I’d forgotten how claustrophobic it can be. I’d forgotten what it feels like not being able to poke your toes out of the end of the duvet, not being able to move your legs properly from side to side and how difficult it is trying to turn on to your side or stomach.
As I lie awake and listen to the sea, I realize that I’d also forgotten just how thin a piece of fabric it is that separates me from the night outside.
And in the bush that had fallen suddenly upon the whole sorrowful land, the immense wilderness, the colossal body of the fecund and mysterious life seemed to look at her, pensive, as though it had been looking at the image of its own tenebrous and passionate soul.
— Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness
LAPLAND
Levi, the Rabid Reindeer
Sunday, April 2006
Heidi
It was a bizarre-looking concoction to say the least, with layers of clear and red liquid.
I wanted to ask what the hell was in the glass but decided instead just to knock it back in one.
Wow.
At first my taste buds didn’t know quite how to react, then a split second later my mouth was filled with a most extraordinary sensation and my arms were covered in goosebumps.
'What the . .. ?’
‘Sambuca and tomato juice.’
Well, I suppose I had asked him to come up with something to help alleviate my acute symptoms of fatigue, irritation and of being far too sober.
I reached into my handbag and dug out my wallet. ‘Let’s not put this on the company card. Our accountant’s really anal about this kind of stuff. A bloke in our office once ordered a packet of peanuts in a club, and the accountant made him list exactly which clients had eaten them — all that for some pointless expenses clause.’
He put his finger on my wallet and pushed it back towards me. ‘On the house.’
‘Can you do that?’
‘That’s what the write-off book is for.’
I started to laugh. It felt as though the weird and wonderful drink had taken the lift from my palate right up to my brain, where it had come to rest and was now giving off a soothing, numbing glow.
‘Thanks . . .’ I paused, meaningfully.
‘Jyrki.’
‘Thanks, Jyrki.’ I reached my hand across the counter and watched and above all felt the way his enormous fist swallowed it up. ‘Heidi.’
‘And is Heidi having another one?’
‘She certainly is.’
Jyrki
It’s normally fun closing up the bar. You can play God for a moment and flick the lights for last orders. Then you turn from Jekyll into Hyde: just a minute ago I was smiling, joking, genially pouring fresh drinks, then in a flash I transform into a humourless, monosyllabic tightarse. In seconds the generous provider, everyone’s best friend, the life and soul of the party, is transformed into a cold-hearted thrower-outer.
Still, the last-orders bell doesn’t mean your shift’s over. There are still glasses, drinks measures and beer trays to rinse out. You have to make an inventory of the day’s takings, reset the credit-card machine, then clear up all the shards of broken glass and pieces of lemon rind on the floor behind the counter.
But on that one occasion I allowed the bar to remain open a little longer. The shift manager had told me to use my common sense when it came to closing time, so long as we stayed within the letter of the law. I made a judgement call: I was only too happy to carry on looking at that black fountain of hair and the glinting expression behind that thick even fringe — a look that was a mixture of exhaustion and mischief, caution and seduction, sweet and savoury. It wasn’t for nothing I’d given her that sambuca-and-tomato-juice shot: it was barman’s instinct.
I poured her anodier one every time she emptied her glass.
Heidi
The coffee filter was rinsed out, the bottles counted, and the whirring cash register was busy churning out an endless stream of receipts. Jyrki’s movements seemed minimal, but everything happened as if by magic. Every now and then he would stop to exchange a few words and didn’t seem to want to encourage me to drink up the last in a seemingly continuous line of shots that had appeared in front of me — although many of the other customers nodding off in their chairs were told politely but firmly that perhaps it was time to hit the hay.
Jyrki was quite a catch, I thought as my brain turned gradually softer and softer.
I learnt that he was originally from Ostrobothnia and now lived in Tampere—or at least that was where his official address was — but that his flat was a small, cheap rented bedsit which he only really used to store his stuff.
Jyrki was on the books of some staffing agency that hired him out and sent him off all over Finland. There was always a need for experienced bar staff: holiday cover, summer festivals, city festivals, rock festivals, new bars opening up that wanted to get things off the ground with staff that knew what they were doing. There was plenty of work, and he was often able to pick and choose between offers. The local employer generally sorted him out with accommodation, usually a shared flat or some other modest place suitable for a free spirit with no wife or kids.
‘The winter season is the best round here. The summer’s grim. You should see those slopes when there’s no snow.’
I ’d never thought of that.
'So you’ve been here in the summer, too?’
'In the autumn. Been hiking a bit out in the fells.’
A barman with a rucksack? Wow.
‘We’re like modern-day lumber jacks. We’ll go wherever there’s work. Winter in Lapland, summer at the Seinajoki Tango Festival, the Hanko Regatta, Kaustinen or wherever . . . And, besides, during the summer you always need staff to serve in all the beer gardens.’
‘I’m a lumberjackt and I’m OK . . .’ I burst into song.
Jyrki gave a laugh.
‘I had a different song in mind.’Then, in a voice—a grave, profound, vibrating voice: ‘Gladly we rushed there, where the common calling rang. .’
I was in raptures.
‘Our steps have the same echo!
‘All the way from Hanko to Petsamo!’
Our old Second World War march was brusquely interrupted by someone who was apparently Jyrki’s boss. He scowled at us, said something tight-lipped about closing up the bar and washing out some blender or other. Jyrki smiled at me and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, What can I do? From the other end of the counter, his dexterous hands taking some machine apart, he turned to me and raised his eyebrows in a look that really got my juices flowing.
I downed the last drops of tomato and aniseed.
Shit.
‘And a very good, night to you, too,’ the puffed-up boss said, from behind the bar, looking meaningfully right at me.
I slammed the glass on the counter and walked towards the door
, doubtless staggering more than a bit.The sub-zero air outside was bracing and fresh, and the blue-black sky seemed oppressively beautiful.
Someone was standing by the stairwell having a cigarette — a member of staff at the Rabid Reindeer, to judge by the shirt.
‘Sorry, do you know a barman called Jyrki?’ I asked in passing.
The man looked at me suspiciously.
All of its own accord, the story started bubbling convincingly from my mouth. Such excellent service, blah blah blah, then before we knew it the bar had closed, Jyrki had disappeared, and my boss Riitta had wanted to give him a special tip, a personal one, a big one. She’d told me to give it to him. In person.
Jyrki
It was half past four in the morning. I’d just got back to my room when someone started hammering on the door.
I furrowed my brow in confusion but went to open it.
It was the girl from the bar. Her dark hair was a bit tousled. You could tell from her eyes that all those sambuca shots had finally hit her bloodstream.
She wanted to talk. Because we’d only just got started.
I asked her how she knew where I lived.
She said she’d worked it out.
I told her I was about to go to bed.
She said she’d be more than happy to come to bed, too, and ducked under my arm and into the room. She sat down on the edge of the bed and started unbuttoning her blouse, although she still had her shoes on.
She was endearingly tipsy.
I let her undress to see just how serious she was.
She was deadly serious.
Without her clothes on, her body was worthy of more serious attention.
I folded her clothes and laid them on a chair. I sat next to her on the bed and tried to focus on her hopeful, slightly blurry eyes, although my own kept scanning downwards almost by force. I gently pushed her shoulders and lowered her on to her back. Her lips were set in a pout, waiting expectantly to be kissed.
I took the bedspread and pulled it over her.
I told her it wasn’t really my style to screw anyone who wasn’t a hundred per cent sure what they were doing, but that if she felt the same way in the morning we could renegotiate.
The next morning she felt exactly the same way. Still.
Heidi
I left Jyrki’s room with only a few minutes to spare before our brunch appointment with the clients.
Jyrki had told me he had the day off.
At brunch I was bubbly and euphoric, and although I’d had a shower — my hair was still damp, a detail Riitta surely didn’t fail to pick up on — I was certain that I must have given off the pungent scent of multiple satiation.
Erkki twice pointed out that a client was speaking to me. I giggled, flicked my hair, pouted and laughed it off.
But beneath the surface I was seething. Christ alive. I’d wanted a one-night stand. I’d had a one-night stand.
I’d had an exceptionally high-quality one-night stand.
And not only that: I’d met a man with principles.
What’s more, on the way I’d succeeded in painting myself into a corner.
The rules of interaction between man and woman, between hunter and prey, are eternal. If the hunter is interested, the prey calls the shots.
When I decided to turn from prey into hunter, I turned control of the situation over to Jyrki.
I craved for a resumption of our little fling so much that my heart ached, and my body seemed to be splitting itself into two climatic regions, one of which was rather tropical. But what sort of woman goes and throws herself at the same guy twice? Say no more . . .
What if I just swallowed my pride and risked rejection?
This was such a painful possibility that I didn’t even want to entertain the idea — a matter that wasn’t remotely entertaining. The choice would be his. That’s the way it is.
As I sat in the women’s loo during our brunch, which had extended well into the afternoon, I had to dig into my handbag, take out my wallet and stuff it between my teeth to make sure my miserable, frustrated whimpering couldn’t be heard in the adjacent cubicle, leaving a series of deep crescents impressed into the brown nappa leather.
At dinner later that evening, it was barely ten o’clock when I complained of a headache, made my apologies and left the table, my glass of cognac untouched.
I went back to my room and switched on the television.
I had to keep my resolve.
Still, I wasn’t entirely surprised when, half an hour later, there came a knock at the door.
And no, it wasn’t Riitta bringing me a Nurofen.
The doorbell rang. Might have been Tuesday.
Didn’t answer. Probably the Jehovahs or something. If somebody wants me they can call, and if someone calls it’s up to me whether I answer.
It doesn’t matter what time you open your eyes. The air's the same: grey and grainy. From the light you can tell day from night, if you want to.
It’s night when the streetlamps shine a stain on the floor.
It’s day when the stain isn’t there.
It’s summer when there’s a stain there all the time.
The quilt’s sticky and too hot. If I throw it off, soon I’m too cold as the sweat chills against my skin. Crappy quilt, too thick. Could sleep with just a sheet if I had one. I think there’s one in the bathroom, in a heap in a corner. So many stains on it that it’s stiff in places. Blood and cum; some mine, some other people’s. Or maybe the blood's not mine. Or maybe it is. I get nose-bleeds.
The grainy air is fizzing in front of my eyes. It could be any time of day.
The good thing about winter is you can sleep whenever you like for as long as you like.
SOUTH COAST TRACK, TASMANIA
South Cape Rivulet to Surprise Bay
Tuesday, March 2007
Heidi
It might be too late by the time we leave South Cape Bay, or so I’ve already heard Jyrki mention several times as he glances at his chunky multifunction watch. Clearing out the camp took much longer than setting it up, and the moment we step out of the camp and on to the sands along the beach I realize that we’re late. Crucially late.
South Cape Rivulet is shallow, sometimes nothing more than a creek. It was from the side next to the beach, flowing out from the depths of the impenetrable thicket, that we had collected our drinking water the previous evening. As it flows towards the sea the current cuts across the sands at the bottom of the bay, forming a channel a couple of metres wide. Hikers normally just wade right through it, no problem, to reach the other side where South Coast Track — or Southy, as Jyrki has already started to call it affectionately — continues on its way towards Granite Beach. The water reaches up to your knees.
At low tide.
By now the rivulet is wide and deep, although through the brown water you can’t see quite how deep. To me it almost seems like the work of some malevolent magic. I can understand how the rivers flood in Ostrobothnia when the snow melts in the spring or during the monsoon season in tropical regions, but how a river can widen and deepen so dramatically twice a day is beyond my comprehension. It’s almost as though it’s breathing in horrifically slow motion.
Jyrki looks out at the strengthening current and sighs.
‘We’ll never get across,’ I hear myself say, my voice shaking, perhaps even with something approaching relief.
Jyrki puts his rucksack down on the sands, secures his hiking poles beneath the side straps, and in a single uninterrupted motion proceeds to untie the laces of his hiking boots, take off his socks, stuff them inside the boots and tie the laces together in an overband knot. Then he strips off his shorts, his T-shirt and. even his underwear without batting an eyelid.
I can’t help but look back towards the edge of the camp, but the border of eucalyptus trees is like a green botanic wall.
A similar wall faces us on the other side of the rivulet. No, that one’s far darker and thicker, rising up along the
high green rocky embankment.
The woods were unmoved, like a mask — heavy, like the closed door of a prison — they looked with their air of hidden knowledge, of patient expectation, of unapproachable silence.
Oh, Joseph, Joseph.
‘They’ve seen naked men before, and if they haven’t it’s about time they did,’ Jyrki says. He stuffs his clothes beneath the strap of his rucksack and tightens the buckle to form a secure bundle. He hangs his boots around his neck so that they are dangling across his chest, one on each side, picks his rucksack up from the sand and places it on his head. The naked man then steps into the current.
The channel deepens so suddenly that after only two steps Jyrki is up to his waist in water. Another step and the water almost reaches up to his chest; the soles of the boots dangling around his neck skim the surface of the rivulet. A step further and the water is once again at his waist, then his thighs, his shins. Jyrki throws his rucksack and boots on to the sand on the opposite shore and without a moment’s hesitation gets back into the water.
‘Strip off if you don’t want to trudge around in wet clothes for the rest of the day.’
‘The water’ll be up to my neck.’
‘Swim. Head diagonally into the current. It’s pretty strong; you can feel it in your legs.’
‘How strong?’
My clothes fall on to the sand; my hands are trembling. Jyrki crosses the rivulet in an instant and stands there naked in front of me, water dripping on to the ground. He takes my boots, which I haven’t had time to tie together, and throws them one at a time across the water. I hear a dull thud as they hit the sand. Jyrki snatches up my clothes and hiking poles, stuffs them under the straps around my rucksack, and with a single graceful pull he has the whole heavy load perfecdy balanced on his head as though he were a robust native woman of some exotic country. He wades out into the brown water, reaches the opposite shore before I can take more than a few tentative steps and throws my rucksack on to the sand. Then he turns around and holds out his hand, a living bridge, and I don’t even need to see whether my feet can touch the bottom as he’s already pulling me towards the other side, steering me along the surface like a child.