Then suddenly we noticed that all we could hear was our own voices, our booming steps; the wind had stopped as quickly as it had whipped up for the second time, and outside a great, milk-white silence had fallen. The doors out to the yard slid open almost by themselves. Twisted into the most remarkable shapes stood the lamp-posts around the playground, and our strict gymnastics’ teacher shouted: No looking at the lamp-posts, do you hear? But his voice sounded isolated and powerless – why should we not have looked at the destruction around us, at the old school with its thick, scratched, dirty walls, at the rafters jutting up towards the pale red sky like the ribs of an old whale, at the trees standing bare and leafless, their branches broken, at a world that had perished and had risen once again? If I shut my eyes I can see them all, the boys in their golf trousers and jackets that were too tight, the girls in their gingham dresses and stockings round their ankles, their plaits and jumpers – I can see them all if I shut my eyes, the way they were standing in the playground, the way their faces lit up after the storm; the enormous yellow storm, which I later heard had only been localised and no other schools or other parts of the city had suffered but ours …
I awoke to find our mathematics’ teacher standing by my desk holding her short flexible ruler and sat up drowsily.
‘Is Carpelan sleeping during class? Don’t you know what happens to those who sleep during class? Answer me!’
The class was absolutely silent, everyone was staring at me.
‘They dream,’ I whispered.
‘Louder,’ she bellowed, utterly exasperated. ‘Louder!’
‘They dream,’ I shouted.
‘They dream,’ my classmates exploded, shouting and cheering. ‘They dream, they dream!’ The class descended into shouts and laughter and I was given a detention.
But as I was walking home through the dark playground I found a wet blue jotter, and on its cover there stood in beautiful handwriting the words: “The Great Yellow Storm”. I stood beneath the lamp-post, the upright, untouched lamppost in amongst the flaming linden trees, every leaf patiently waiting to fall at the first hard frost. My heart was racing and I began to read: “I remember dreaming about the great storm that one October evening, over forty years ago, shook our old school house …” After that only the blank, white pages stared back at me. There was no name on the cover. I took the jotter with me and hid it in my desk drawer. Still, I had to show Mother the note from my teacher: “Sleeps during class and answers obtusely.”
Mother looked at me helplessly: ‘What am I supposed to do?’
‘Sign your name at the bottom.’
‘But what did you say, then?’
‘I said I was dreaming.’
‘Doesn’t everyone do that when they’re asleep?’
I was unable to answer. We looked at each other helplessly. ‘So what were you dreaming about?’
‘The great yellow storm.’
‘The great yellow storm? Well then …’
And with that Mother nodded and wrote: “Have seen the great yellow storm myself.”
Then beneath that she signed her name.
But every time the wind begins to howl and the clouds race across the sky I remember the day the school’s roof flew off and the birds disappeared, the day Havsparken was plunged into a menacing darkness and everything wailed and shook at the force of the mighty wind, still stalking us, waiting for the chance to transform itself and shake everything that comes in its path.
Boman
Pentti Holappa
Pentti Holappa (born 1927) is one of the central figures of Finnish modernism and has enjoyed a long and respected career as a writer. He has written both poetry and prose, often tinged with political or social critique. Characteristic of Holappa’s work is the presence of an underlying ethical dialogue, which he fuses with elements of fantasy. He is particularly interested in the dynamics of human relations, both of people on the margins of society and of those searching for perfection. His works have been translated into many languages, and particularly in France he has enjoyed great success as a poet. In 1998 Holappa was awarded the Finlandia Prize for his novel Ystävän muotokuva (‘Portrait of a Friend’). The short story in this anthology is from the collection Muodonmuutoksia (‘Metamorphoses’, 1959).
I might begin my story by saying: I once owned a dog called Boman. But I might also begin by saying: I was once owned by a dog called Boman. These two sentences reveal two different truths about the same matter and this a good way to begin the story of Boman, as what happened to her has often caused me to doubt many things I once held to be true. Allow me to point out that I was by no means the only person who thought they owned Boman. As far as I am aware, many people believed they had that particular privilege. This often happens to creatures that are well-liked.
Boman was a female mongrel. She had a shining black coat, a tail with a joyful curl and two ears that stood up vigilantly. She was small. Initially I had thought taking her in was merely an animal-friendly gesture: I had thought I was saving an abandoned puppy from certain death. I had no idea of the significance this was to have. Enjoying a somewhat macabre sense of humour, a group of friends and I christened her after a poem telling the story of a civilised animal. Needless to say, this name proved far more than simply an omen.
People have always assured me that dogs need to be trained, and perhaps I did not have the strength of character to take this claim with a pinch of salt. Thus by chiding, complimenting, rewarding and disciplining her, I began to teach Boman civilised manners, I began to shape her in my own image. I had no comprehension whatsoever of the bewildered look in her brown eyes, I merely persisted with her training, even though the initial results were nothing special. Boman had to ask to be let out when she needed, Boman was not allowed to bark, Boman was not allowed to chew my slippers, Boman was not allowed to run about the neighbour’s garden and so the list went on. A dog living in a civilised society has to learn a surprising number of different things. And because dogs cannot ask ‘why’, they cannot be given any explanations. They simply have to accept these demands as they are, as if they were humans – a race whose entire culture is based on mindless submission.
My bookshelves contained a variety of books with detailed accounts of how best to instill a dog with human values. Of an evening I would often leaf through these books whilst Boman lay at my feet. Every now and then she would give an unfriendly growl and look me right in the eyes. It seemed that she was behaving as if she had understood what I was doing. I decided to tell my friends about this to show them what an intelligent dog I had. However, I had not had the chance to do so before Boman gave me a most unpleasant surprise.
On the day in question I had shut her in my study as I had gone into town to run some errands. When I arrived back home the room was covered in mutilated shreds of paper, and there was Boman lying on the floor with part of a book cover in her mouth. Of course the first thing I did was give her a thorough telling off. Boman accepted this punishment as if it were perfectly natural: she did not try to defend herself or even hide under the bed. She clearly understood the matter and I gullibly believed this would suffice. Every one of the dog training books states that once a dog knows what is permissible and what is not, it will start to behave properly. I finished telling her off and began to tidy the room. Only then did I notice that the only books missing from the shelf were those dealing with dog training. All the other books were still stacked neatly exactly where they had been left. An odd coincidence, I thought, and decided to tell my friends all about it.
At that time Boman was about six months old. It was summer, though I decided not to travel anywhere, staying instead at home working and not going outdoors very often. To put it plainly, I was gloomy. There is however no point in talking about this any further; after all, human sorrows differ very little from one another. I tried using books to, as it were, vaccinate myself spiritually: I would seek out gloomy books, something which was hardly difficult. Almost all good books ar
e gloomy. I read stories about people who committed murders and suicides; people who suffered from famine and illnesses; people who rotted away in prison and died with not a soul to remember them; people who refuse to accept the so-called joys of life, who flaggellate themselves, who indulge in other sacred rites and who gradually wither away in their studies. Surrounded by such novels and other entertaining reading I revitalised my spirit with philosophy, which convinced me all the more that all people are essentially evil, that life is meaningless and that our every action merely brings about more suffering. Still, sometimes it occurred to me that my own fate was after all reasonably bearable, and to tell you the truth I took some amount of delight in the plight of those fellow beings worse off than myself. Nonetheless this offered me only mild comfort and did not bring me any true enjoyment. After work each day I would often spend the evenings gripped in a melancholy stupour. When Boman became restless and started scratching pointedly at the door, I would begrudgingly leave the house, and walking through the woods or along the shore I would try to shut out the sound of the birds singing or the roar of the waves, and I would blind my eyes so as not to see the grass, the trees or the sky dotted with stars.
I cannot say how long this would have continued if Boman had not awoken me. She declared open war on my books, the very foundations of my existence. After the books dealing with dog training, she chose to tear up my books on popular psychology, then philosophy, steeped in the sweet smell of death, then the gloomiest of my novels. Naturally I was incensed at the dog’s barbaric behaviour. I was no longer content with merely reprimanding her, but became furious and enraged at Boman, who always remained perfectly calm during my outbursts. I did not know how to shake her self-assured animality and had therefore to resort to the sorts of measures common only to bad educators.
I began hiding the books I thought to be in the greatest danger. At first Boman was unperturbed. Instead of those hidden away,she destroyed books within her reach. I realised that I had categorised my books wrongly. The books Boman had destroyed were of greater value to me that those I had hidden. Finally I was left with no option but to lock all my books away. It was an extremely time-consuming, frustrating job, and I was made all the crosser by the sight of Boman lounging on the floor with an openly mischievous glint in her eyes as I toiled. I took to reading in much the same way that secret drinkers practise their vice. I would attempt to creep up to the locked bookshelf without Boman’s noticing, I would hide the title of the book I had chosen and would not put it down whilst lighting a cigarette, going to the kitchen or answering the telephone. This was an awful lot of bother, but it meant I was enjoying reading more than ever. Many’s the time I would spend the wee hours of the morning with a book in my hand in the grip of a wicked, clandestine excitement.
Once, as dawn was approaching, I startled upon noticing Boman’s muzzle peering inquisitively over my shoulder at the book in my hand. I gave a start and snapped: ‘You’re just pretending. You can’t read.’
Everyone talks to their dogs; there is nothing out of the ordinary about it. Be that as it may, it is perhaps less common for the dog then to reply. In fact, it may very well be that such a thing has never happened – never before. In any case, Boman replied in a beautiful, cultivated voice, with perfect diction:
‘Of course I can read. I learned the alphabet when I was three months old.’
‘Then you did it without my knowledge,’ I snapped angrily. ‘It’s inappropriate for a dog to learn things it isn’t taught. You might have kept your skills to yourself, but of course with your vanity you had to tell me. Don’t you remember that modesty is a dog’s greatest virtue? Dogs should lie down at their masters’ feet and dutifully obey his commands.’
What a fine sermon, I thought, and was surprised to hear quite how beautifully a little moral indignance made my voice resound. Boman listened politely, but did not seem the least bit disturbed, not to mention showing any signs of slinking under the bed in shame. After my speech she replied politely, yet with an ironic smirk:
‘I’m surprised that all those books haven’t instilled you with a greater love of the truth. To keep your self-esteem intact – something which, I must say, seems to be built on very shaky foundations – I am prepared to remain silent, though you will have to forgive me if I yawn from time to time. Your company can be very dull. I do have one request, however. When we go for walks, please do not throw sticks expecting me to retrieve them for you. I find it a most tedious and unimaginative game.’
I had already raised my hand and was about to teach my rude dog a lesson she would not forget, but the calm look in Boman’s eyes made me relent. Instead I shrugged my shoulders, picked up my book once again and tried to read. I had in fact proved the existence of a very rare phenomenon – talking, literate dogs were not to be found in every household. Not for a moment did I think I was delusional, or that I had been swept away by hallucinations. Besides, there was no reason I would conjure up ‘voices’ to speak to me in such a haughty, offensive manner – the way Boman had spoken to me. A moment passed, and once I felt slightly calmer I turned to look at the dog.
‘Let’s agree that you may only use these linguistic skills of yours when we’re alone. I do however expect a certain amount of respect, and a polite tone of voice. I am your master, after all.’
‘And so do I. After all, I am your dog.’
Another argument was about to erupt, but I managed to control myself.
‘In fact, your powers of speech could be very useful indeed,’ I said in a more friendly tone. ‘You know very well that my finances are not in the best possible shape, and this might just be the answer. People will pay a great deal of money to see anything new and out of the ordinary. I would say that a talking dog, who can also read, is fairly out of the ordinary. You could recite beautiful poems in front of an audience – that way we would also be doing the arts a noble favour. You could read texts handed in by the audience: we have to prove that you really can read, you see, and that you haven’t just learned it all off by rote. Perhaps we could even hire you a singing coach. This has true potential: we need to appeal to a young audience, and nowadays all they seem interested in is popular music. Italian songs are very much in fashion. You might want to liven up your performance with a little dance routine: you would become the first dog in the world to dance the mambo.’
‘Yes, a splendid idea,’ said Boman. ‘You should hire an enormous circus tent. It would be full to capacity every night.’
‘Absolutely,’ I cried excitedly. ‘Soon we won’t have a care in the world.’
Boman carried on talking calmly despite my enthusiasm.
‘I can see it all in my mind’s eye. The tent is packed full, the crowd is waiting eagerly. Then suddenly you appear in the spotlight, with me on the lead, and urge me up on to the stage. Thunderous applause. You bow to the audience. But what happens next?’
‘You’ll begin your performance, of course.’
‘Yes,’ said Boman. ‘If I feel like it. I can’t say for certain whether I’ll always be in the right mood.’
‘You mean you’d refuse?’ I shouted angrily. ‘You’re the most ungrateful creature I think I’ve ever met. I saved you from a certain death, I’ve shared my dinner with you, sometimes I even allow you to sleep at the end of my bed. And this is how you repay me for the trouble!’
‘I didn’t say anything final, I merely wanted to highlight a likely scenario. A true friend will never give too rosy a picture of the future, but will always remind others of its shortcomings. And a dog is a man’s best friend; I’m your best friend. In any case, you might think of becoming a ventriloquist just in case. Masters of ventriloquism are very rare indeed.’
At this I was very hurt.
‘Me, a ventriloquist? I hope you don’t think I’d turn myself into a clown just for money. I do have some self-respect, you know.’
‘You would only have to be my stand-in,’ Boman gently pointed out.
For a while I sa
id nothing to her. I needed all the self-control I could muster, because it was not easy dealing with a dog which, in addition to all its other attributes, can think. This plainly obvious fact was the most difficult for me to accept, as my dog training books, all written by skilled animal psychologists, had imprinted upon me the tenet that dogs necessarily lack such symbolic cognition. They did not, however, appear to be right.
As I sat there Boman’s slender muzzle brushed against my knee and her brown eyes looked up at me as gently as only a dog can. Those eyes had made me forgive the destruction of many of my most beloved books, and her self-deprecating gaze did not go unnoticed this time either. I lay my hand on her neck and scratched her gently under the collar. We were friends again and, as if by mutual agreement, decided to forget our previous conversation.
‘You should take better care of yourself,’ said Boman in a friendly tone. ‘To tell the truth, I’ve often been worried about the state of your body and soul. You’re a young man, yet here you are wasting the best years of your life surrounded by books, many of which – if you’ll forgive me – are of questionable quality.’
‘Perhaps you’re right. I don’t see other people very often and I’m on edge rather a lot.’
‘I’m not surprised. People no less than dogs ought not to neglect their needs during the mating season.’
‘The mating season. Who told you about things like that? As far as I can see you’re still a minor.’
‘Mother Nature is an excellent teacher,’ she said with a smile in her eyes.
We talked for a long time and had a very pleasant conversation. An untamed animal instinct sometimes shone through Boman’s opinions and this upset me a bit, but still I tried my best to tolerate it. I had noticed that Boman did not find my humanity entirely pleasant either. We avoided the subject of philosophy, as we held utterly opposing views. Boman only had to remind me of the inspired words of one of the great thinkers of our age, referring to “the stars up above and humankind down below”, and I realised that, ultimately, human wisdom was not intended for wise dogs.