“How was she doing?” Jonna asked sharply.
“Good, I think. You can’t see very much.”
“You can use that acoustical stuff,” Jonna said. “You seem to work a storm into almost everything you write. Did you check the stern lines?”
Mari said, “I think they’re under water. It’s risen.”
They sat opposite each other at the table without talking. How Papa loved storms, Mari thought. The wind coming up would wipe away his melancholy and make him happy. He’d set the spritsail and take us out to sea…
Jonna said, “I know what you’re thinking. That you always hoped for storms because they made him happy. And when a storm like this blew up, didn’t he used to say ‘I think I’ll go down and look at the boat’? But you know, he just went out to look at the waves!”
“We knew that,” Mari said. “But we didn’t say anything.”
Jonna went on. “It was certainly no trick for your father to pull up his boat; it was child’s play. Shouldn’t we eat something?”
“No,” Mari said.
“Do you think there’s any point in going down to have another look?”
“Hardly. There’s nothing we can do.”
“When was it we realized we couldn’t do it any more? Years ago?”
“Maybe. It happened gradually.”
“When you were dragging up stones from the anchorage.”
“About then,” Mari said. “But it was actually interesting, not being strong enough to lift and roll any more. It gave me ideas, you know – completely new ideas. About lifting, leverage, balance, angles of fall, about trying to use logic.”
“Yes,” said Jonna. “Trying to figure things out, I know. But don’t talk to me about leverage right now. Is there anything left in that bottle?”
“A splash, I think.” Mari went to get the rum and two glasses. The storm’s humming monotone filled the room – steady, soporific, like an imperceptible trembling. They might have been on board a large steamer.
“He travelled a great deal,” Jonna said.
“Well, yes, when he got grants.”
Jonna said, “I’m not talking about your father. I’m talking about mine. He used to tell us about his trips. You never knew what he was making up and what really happened.”
“Even better,” Mari said.
“No, wait… They were awful, terrifying things, including storms, although he’d never been to sea.”
“But that can make them even better,” Mari said.
“You’re interrupting. And when he was talked out and didn’t know how to end it, he’d just say, ‘And then it started to rain and everyone went home.’”
“Excellent,” Mari said. “Wonderful. Endings can be really hard.” She went to get the cheese and the crispbread and then went on. “He didn’t tell us stories. He never talked much at all, now that I think about it.”
Jonna cut the cheese in pieces and said, “We used to go to the library, the two of us. Just Papa and me. It was like being in his pocket.”
“I know. He knew where the wild mushrooms grew, and he’d take us there and light his pipe and say, ‘Family! Pick!’ But he preferred going alone. Then he’d hide his mushroom baskets under a spruce and take us back with him at night, with torches, you know. It was frightening and wonderful. And he’d pretend he’d forgotten which spruce it was… And then we’d sit on the porch and clean mushrooms with the night all around and the kerosene lantern burning…”
“You said all that in some newspaper,” Jonna said, and filled the glasses with the last of the rum. “Old Smuggler. Put that to soak; I want to save the label.”
“Was he really brave enough to do serious smuggling?” Mari asked.
“Oh he was brave enough to do anything.”
“But my father was social,” Mari said. “You remember prohibition when Estonian vodka would float ashore and everyone went out to salvage it? Do you know what they did? They sold the canisters for huge sums of money! But he never did that. He let me go with him to search the beaches, young as I was. I’ll never forget it. We hid the canisters in seaweed. He was adventurous.”
“Wrong,” said Jonna. “He was an adventurer. There’s a big difference.”
“You mean your father?”
“Of course, that’s who I’m talking about. You know what I mean. He dug for gold, cut down enormous redwoods, built railways… You saw the gold watch he got in Nome when he was guarding fish, the one with the inscription?”
“Yes,” Mari said. “A genuine Hamilton.”
“Precisely. A genuine Hamilton.”
It had now started to rain, and that wasn’t good. A heavy rain could weigh down Viktoria and hamper her movements in the heavy seas. Mari tried to be funny. “And then it started to rain and everyone went home.” But Jonna didn’t laugh. After a while Mari asked, “Didn’t he ever get homesick?”
“Yes. But when he came home he wanted to be off again.”
“Mine, too,” Mari said.
The rain got worse and worse – a real downpour.
Mari chattered on. “You know what he did when he got his government prize? He bought a paletot, you know – an overcoat. It was long and black and new, and he didn’t like it. He said it made him feel like one of his own statues, so he went to Hesperia Park and hung it on a tree.”
They listened to the rain.
“She’ll get too heavy,” Mari said. “And we can’t get out to her to bail.”
Jonna said, “Don’t tell me things I already know.”
They both knew well enough. The rain would go on, the boat would grow heavy, the waves would come in over the stern, she’d sink in her lines. But how deep would she sink, and would the rocks on the bottom knock her to pieces, or was it calm down there despite the storm, and how deep was it, how many metres…?
“Did you admire him?” Jonna asked.
“Naturally. But being a father wasn’t easy for him.”
“Not for mine, either,” Jonna said. “It’s funny. You actually know very little. We never asked, never tried to find out about the things that were really important. We didn’t have time. What was it we were so busy with?”
Mari said, “Work probably. And falling in love – that takes an awful lot of time. But we still could have asked.”
“Let’s go to bed,” Jonna said. “She’ll probably make it. And anyway, it’s too late to do anything about it.”
The wind died toward morning. Freshly bathed and shiny, Viktoria lay at anchor as if nothing whatever had happened.
Stars
JONNA HAD A MATTER-OF-FACT RELATIONSHIP with Mari’s brother Tom. They rarely saw each other in town, more often on the island, and then their discussions were practical. Tom would motor over to talk about lumber, special tools, maybe a generator that didn’t want to work. It was barely three miles between their islands. Generally they got their machines running again, which gave Mari a secure feeling that most things here in life can be made to work.
She would stand for a long time and stare down his arrow-straight wake every time he drove back home. In June, Tom’s island lay right in the sunset. Later the sun went down behind islands further south.
Once upon a time – astonishing but true – Tom and Mari had planned to emigrate to Tonga in the Pacific Ocean. They displayed neither disappointment nor relief when Her Majesty’s Service replied very politely that as a result of the recent typhoons they could not at the moment give any attention to immigration. Tom and Mari searched out a more northerly island and built a cottage and spent their summers there for many years. Tom wanted a skylight so he could look at the stars before he went to sleep, but the window leaked when it rained. Then they bought a telescope from an ad, unfortunately an older model that didn’t make the stars very much bigger.
All of that was a very long time ago.
It was now already the end of August, and the sun was setting far south of Tom’s island. There were no small boats on the water, only fishing boats, mo
rning and evening, passing by with their black salmon flags fluttering at their sterns. But Tom was often out for the fun of it. Mari would see his boat heading straight out to sea, early and late.
“Jonna, listen to me. In those days we used to row, Tom and I. We rowed out to every skerry, the tiniest rocks, farther and farther out. Don’t you ever want to go off to other islands?”
“But we’re already on an island. They’re all pretty much the same. And you can’t go and waste a whole work day playing picnic.”
One morning Tom came to get putty and window paint. He’d brought spring water and the mail. Mari had a letter from Johannes, one of the very few he’d ever written her.
“Jonna,” she said, “Johannes wants to come and visit. You remember Johannes. Just for two days.”
“But you know the cottage is too small. And the tent blew to pieces.”
“I know, I know, but he doesn’t want to stay in the cottage. He wants to sleep on an uninhabited island in a sleeping bag. He used to talk about it, but we never did it.”
Tom thought of saying something but kept quiet.
Jonna said, “Don’t you think Johannes is too old for a sleeping bag? And it’s almost autumn. When is he coming?”
“Tomorrow,” Tom said. “On the eleven o’clock bus from town. He called the store. I can go in and pick him up.”
They thought about it.
“Have you got sleeping bags?” Tom said.
“Of course we have,” Jonna said. She put the cans of putty and window paint in the basket and walked Tom down to his boat. They agreed that the best uninhabited island was Västerbådan, where it was easy to go ashore. The radio had promised clear weather.
Jonna said, “I’ll pack some food for them.”
“Good,” Tom said. “As I recall, he doesn’t think of stuff like that. So long.”
“Bye.”
That evening, Mari told Jonna things Jonna had long known but that now seemed important again.
“You know, Johannes and I had big plans and ideas, and one of the biggest was to live a natural life, peel away everything unnecessary, live in a cave or some such place – and try to grasp essentials. I know what you’re going to say, but don’t say it. Anyway, Johannes had his ideas long before the flower children came along!”
“This was in the fifties?”
“End of the forties, I think. But he never had time to live the natural life. And that time we collected money for that abandoned house in southern France and were going to invite friends who wrote or painted and needed a place to work in peace – but every time we’d got some money together, he’d give it to some strike fund… And the whole time we had this idea of living on an uninhabited island.”
“Where do you sleep on an uninhabited island?” Jonna asked.
“Don’t be dumb. I said sleeping bags.”
“Did he believe all that stuff?”
“Of course! Naturally. But we never had the time.”
“And now he’s got the time?”
“No. No, I don’t think so.”
“I hope it goes well,” Jonna said. “Anyway, I’m sending along sandwiches and coffee and some canned goods. Is there anything he specially likes?”
Mari answered immediately. “Baked beans. And he doesn’t like coffee with powdered milk.”
“Excellent, we’re out of powdered milk. I’ll go and look in the cellar.”
Mari went out on the granite slope.
I know. I remember what he wants. To lie on his back in the heather and look at the stars a whole autumn night and listen to the sea without having to say a word. But there was never enough time… If only it doesn’t get cloudy. Once he promised we’d live in a tent on Åland for a whole week, and I waited and waited but he sent word that he had too much editing to do… I borrowed a bicycle and pedalled all night. It was June and the nights were light and there were rosehips blooming everywhere and I found the village where his mother lived and she said, “Aha, so you’re Johannes’ friend. Come in and have some coffee.” I could ride a bicycle again sometime; they say you don’t forget, it’s like swimming…
Mari and Jonna woke up early. The weather was clear and quite cold.
“So you don’t want to take the primus stove?”
“No, no,” Mari said. “It has to be a campfire. The campfire is very important.”
Tom came right on schedule, a tiny dot in a straight line toward the island. Pretty soon they could see there was only one person in the boat. He jumped ashore and tied up. Johannes had called the store to say that he had too much work at the paper, unfortunately, and he was sorry.
“Oh, well,” said Mari. “It doesn’t matter.” She turned abruptly and walked up toward the cottage.
Jonna was silent for quite a while.
Tom said, “Those old posts you were talking about. Shall we have a look?”
They went and looked at the posts. Some of them were only good for firewood, but quite a few could be used in Tom’s new dock.
Jonna said, “It’s funny about me, I’ve never really understood camping trips. Your sister gets a little too romantic at times. Changing the subject, are you busy with anything at the moment?”
“Just puttying the windows.”
“Is it a long time since you slept in a sleeping bag?”
“Oh, maybe twenty years, I guess.”
When Mari and Tom headed off for Västerbådan, Jonna stood watching until the boat disappeared behind the skerries. The wind had died.
That night she went out on the slope beside the cottage. Not one cloud disturbed the stars.
A perfect night.
The Letter
IT WAS NOT EASY TO SAY PRECISELY when the change had occurred, but Jonna was different. Very clearly, something had happened. It wasn’t something you noticed right away, not even enough to make you ask if she was feeling well or was upset about something. No, it was imperceptible, impossible to put your finger on. But it was there. No irritation, no depression, no pregnant silences, but Mari knew that Jonna was brooding about something she didn’t want to talk about.
They saw one another only in the evenings, because Mari was making sketches for book illustrations, a big commission that made her both happy and anxious. When she came over to Jonna’s, dinner was ready, they ate as usual with books beside their plates and watched television later. Everything was calm and exactly normal, but Jonna was somehow distant, far away somewhere. Mari had set the table with the wrong plates and forgotten the napkins, and Jonna said nothing. The man next door played scales on his piano and she didn’t notice. Johnny Cash came on the radio and she didn’t put in a cassette. It was frightening. When the film for the evening was over, she didn’t say a word even though it was Renoir. They were sitting in the library, and to have something to do Mari started leafing through Jonna’s mail, which lay in a pile of the table. Very quickly, Jonna reached for her letters and took them into her studio.
And then Mari dared say, “Jonna, is anything wrong?”
“How do you mean?”
“There’s something wrong.”
“Not at all. I’m working. I’m working well. I’m really getting into it.”
“Yes, I know. You’re not angry at me for some reason? No one’s been mean to you?”
“No, no. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jonna turned on the television and sat down to watch a stupid programme that was trying to be humorous, one of those programmes with an audience that laughs all the time.
Mari said, “Do you want some coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Or a drink?”
“No. Make one for yourself if you want.”
“Maybe I’ll go home,” said Mari and waited, but Jonna said nothing. So Mari made herself a drink, and, when she’d thought about it for a long time, she said as nicely as she could that Jonna meant so much to her that it would be completely impossible to get along without her.
But it was wrong, totally wro
ng. Jonna leaped up and turned off the television, and all her elusiveness and reticence vanished and she cried, “Don’t say that! You don’t know what you’re saying to me! You’re driving me to desperation. Leave me in peace!”
Mari was so astonished that she could only be embarrassed. They were both embarrassed. And then they both got very polite.
Mari said, “I think I’ll do the dishes tomorrow, unless you’re going to work very early.”
“No, it’ll be sometime after ten.”
“I won’t call, because I suppose you’ll unplug the phone.”
“Yes,” Jonna said. “Do you have juice?”
“Yes, I’ve got juice. Good night.”
“See you.”
Mari didn’t think she’d be able to sleep, but she fell asleep instantly before she even had time to realize how unhappy she was. It was only in the morning when she began to remember that she started feeling really, really bad. She had to repeat endlessly every word Jonna had said, the way she’d looked, the tone of her voice. And, mercilessly, how could she have said the things she’d said? Why, why, why? She wants to be rid of me.
Mari rushed across the attic and into Jonna’s studio, and without the least consideration or diplomacy she cried, “Why do you want to be rid of me?”
Jonna stared at her for a moment. Then she said, “Read this,” and handed her the letter.
“I don’t have my glasses,” said Mari angrily. “Read it to me!”
And Jonna read. She’d been awarded a studio in Paris for a year. The studio was meant for her use alone. The rent was very low. It was a great honour. Reply within ten days.
“Good Lord,” said Mari. “Is that all!” She sat down and tried to rearrange her fears as best she could.
“So, you see, I don’t know what to do,” Jonna said. “Maybe the best thing would be to turn it down.”
Any number of possibilities and impossibilities ran quickly through Mari’s head – sharing the studio secretly; renting something nearby; coming to Paris later when her illustrations were done, which would only take a few months. She looked at Jonna and suddenly she understood. Jonna really wanted to work in peace, a whole year, now that she was working really well.