Pasi Jääskeläinen - Secret Passages in a Hillside Town

The weather was rainy, but the sun was shining at Book Tower Publishing. Seija usually searched her account books for signs of catastrophe and chewed on her grey tresses, the others watching her the way seafarers watch a barometer. But now she was glowing. The whole staff thought that Greta Kara’s next book would improve their finances and raise the company’s profile, so the mood in the place had considerably improved.

The Suominens continued their Sunday walks.

Olli took pictures of their walks and sent them for developing. He didn’t have to fight with Aino about the photos any more. They had come to an understanding: Olli chose the rare photos that he judged successful, in technical terms and in atmosphere, for the family album, and Aino put the rest in albums she bought at the discount store.

In a couple of weeks, she had filled four albums. Olli’s expensive, leather-bound, exclusive album, on the other hand, had only five pages full.

The summer break started at the beginning of June, so Aino was on holiday and had started dreaming of travel again. Olli didn’t know when he would have time for a break. He spoke tentatively of sometime in July or August. Aino grew resentful and reminded him that he had promised two years ago to take a long holiday and he’d said that the whole family could have a two-week trip to some golden beach. Olli assured her he would keep his promise, but perhaps not this summer, because he had so much work to do at the office.

Aino punished him by leafing through travel brochures and sighing audibly.

Because no such trip was in the offing and Olli couldn’t get away from work, Aino invented ways to pass the days pleasantly with her son.

Every day when Olli came home from work, he saw Aino and the boy picnicking among the berry bushes in the garden. They read children’s books, drank juice and binged on Marie biscuits. If it was raining, they would build a fort for shelter. Every day, Olli was invited to join them. The idea was attractive, in principle, and he could have taken some nice photos of such an activity, but once he had changed clothes he preferred to throw himself on the sofa for a nap and then relax in his office with Facebook.

Eventually Aino had had enough. She stamped her foot and said that Olli must have had the world’s most boring childhood to have become such an absolute square as an adult.

Hurt, Olli replied that he had in fact gone on many more picnics as a child than Aino might imagine, and had marvellous adventures, but those days were long ago and now he was an adult and he preferred to eat his meals indoors instead of sitting in the grass with the insects.

Sometimes mother and son went into town to look at the shops and have a hamburger and a milkshake. Once when Olli came home in the evening he didn’t recognize the boy because he’d been to the barber and bought some new clothes. He looked at the child, started polishing his glasses and said, Who do we have here? Then he sealed his fate by asking if they had any other guests in addition to this unknown child.

Three days of silent treatment followed.

Email whizzed back and forth between Olli and Greta’s computers, sometimes on a daily basis. A publisher naturally has to keep in touch with a new star author. Greta sent reports on Paris cafes and the pastries she’d eaten. She wrote about her work on the Jyväskylä guide and promised to send the first samples soon, asking Olli to be gentle with his criticism.

Olli replied that he was eager to see the text and soothed her worries:

I think that the woman who wrote A Guide to the Cinematic Life can write about any subject in an interesting way. I’m still reading your book every day—like half the population, apparently. Have you seen Amazon? Your book is constantly at the top of their list, in spite of the religious criticisms—or maybe because of them.

Right now I’m reading the part where you talk about the “cinematic self” that is just waiting to be found and to shine, and your examples are Chaplin’s Little Tramp, Sophia Loren’s mother figure in Ettore Scola’s A Special Day (which we’re just about to watch at the film club) and Ingrid Bergman’s Ilsa in Curtiz’s Casablanca . A silly, polemical, frivolous, annoying film—and absolutely enchanting!

By the way, a couple of clergymen I know criticized your book vociferously when I told them you were moving to the Book Tower list of authors. When I read what you wrote about the moral heresy of Christianity, how the cinematic aesthetic raises the personal aesthetic to a higher norm, I completely understood why they were so indignant!

It was an ordinary Sunday. It ended with Olli and Aino watching the ten o’clock news.

The clock ticked on the wall. The dishwasher churned and hummed in the kitchen.

Their son was asleep in his room. Aino said she hoped that the boy’s cold didn’t get so bad that they would have to take him to hospital during the night. Olli shared her hope and asked if they still had cough syrup in the medicine cabinet. Aino said there was still half a bottle.

The prime minister was talking. When he disappeared and the traffic report came on the screen, Aino started talking about their Sunday walk and a chance encounter they’d had. They had been walking up the Ridge when a red scooter had appeared alongside them. It was driven by the blonde woman with the scarf from the film club, who smiled at Olli, shot an odd look at Aino, and sped on her way.

Neither of them had made any comment about it. But now Aino asked if they knew each other, Olli and this scooter woman. Olli said he had exchanged a couple of words with her at the film club.

Aino started talking about the scooter, and finally announced that she wanted one. Olli looked at her in surprise and offered to buy her a scooter first thing tomorrow, if she liked. He asked if it mattered what colour it was. Aino asked if he was serious. Olli said he was. Aino said she was just kidding.

They stared at each other.

Then Aino said that they ought to buy their son a child’s bicycle, with stabilizers wheels. And a helmet, of course. Olli sighed and promised to go to the bicycle shop tomorrow.

Aino leant into Olli’s arms. Olli looked down the front of her shirt. She had nice breasts. They smelt like a rubber eraser. Olli stroked her thigh and asked if she might like to have sex. She said she was tired, but that he could get back to her about it tomorrow evening, if he was at home. Then the news ended. Aino said goodnight and went upstairs. Olli remained sitting on the sofa. There were only boring programmes, on every channel. He turned off the television, climbed the stairs, went into his office, sat down at the computer and opened Facebook.

He found Greta Kara in his list of friends and checked her status.

Greta Kara loves Jyväskylä!

IN THE DREAM, Olli is walking across a lawn.

The pale buildings of the rifle factory loom around him. Their narrow, three-storey structures look like head-stones. On the other side of the buildings there are two roads: the car road that plunges towards the harbour, and beneath it the railway. A long train is clattering past. Olli enjoys the sound of it. He feels like singing, because he knows it’s going to be a good day.

The sky is a deep blue. The grass under his feet is growing so quickly that he can hear the small sigh of it. Birds are burbling in the trees. Merry lizards are playing on the walls of the buildings, their songs only audible from very close by. The long, endless summer holidays are beginning, and soon his playmates, whom he has missed all winter, will be here.

But he doesn’t see them now, or anyone else. He’s alone.