Diego Marani - The Last of the Vostyachs

‘No dice, he’s sleeping like a top. I left the number of the Koirasaari Coastguard Station with the receptionist. If need be, they can come to the cottage and let me know.’ Back in the car, Aurtova was rubbing his numb hands.

‘Let’s hope he doesn’t wake up in the middle of the night and start playing his drum. He did do that once in Moscow, and I had trouble explaining to him that it’s just not done,’ said Olga nervously.

‘He won’t make any more noise than the discotheque over the road,’ said Aurtova, pointing to a neon sign.

Olga was worried. She was about to ask if she could go up and take a peek at Ivan. She wanted to be sure he was all right. Even if she just caught a glimpse of him in the darkness of the room, she would be reassured by the sight of his small silhouette safely asleep on the bed. From the silence behind him, Aurtova sensed danger.

‘Did he give you the pipe? Did you play it? He so much wanted you to!’ she said after a pause.

Aurtova took the bone out of his pocket and put it between his teeth like a kazoo, turning towards her with a jaunty air. Olga smiled, albeit unwillingly. She had an odd feeling that her host, too, was ill at ease. She felt gratified by the idea that Jarmo had set this whole thing up, prepared the supper, perhaps even ensured that Ivan would be asleep so that he could be alone with her. She forced herself to forget her worries and raised her shining eyes to meet Aurtova’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. The professor, who knew a thing or two about women, lowered his chin and gave a sigh of relief. He went back on the attack with a new cheerfulness in his voice, adding:

‘Well now, dear Olga! A groaning board awaits us across the frozen sea!’

The car skidded briefly and set off towards the port. This time, wanting to avoid going through Suomenlinna for a second time, he took the longer route, continuing to the sea at Tahvonlahti. There too a snowplough had opened up a track towards the islands, but there were no poles to indicate where it lay, only the traces of snow chains, sometimes obscured by heaps of wind-borne snow. When they had left the shore lights behind, Aurtova noticed that there were stars overhead. This did not help matters; he would have preferred the blizzard of a few hours earlier. Luckily, there was no moon.

Seated in the darkness, Olga listened to the thrum of the engine and the beating of her own heart. She stared out of the window at the snowy expanse as it loomed up before them in the glow of the headlights.

‘At last we’ll be able to talk a bit, just the two of us. Our meetings have always been so brief, at congresses and conferences. Then we don’t see each other again for years. And to think that we once spent whole days together in the university library! These days I really know nothing about you,’ she said, leaning forward over the seat so as to see Aurtova’s face lit up by the green light of the dashboard.

‘That’s true. We lose touch and years go by in a flash,’ he said with a false sigh.

‘You must admit, it’s amusing that it should be the Samoyeds who always bring us together. Like in that special course we did. Let’s see if you remember the name of the seminar where we first met.’ Olga had placed her elbows on the back of the front seat and Aurtova could feel her breath on his neck.

‘Aha! Now how could I forget that! “Cacuminal fricatives in Proto-Uralic”, by Jove! A theory developed by that madman Collinder!’ came the rejoinder, as Aurtova leant forwards towards the windscreen to put some distance between himself and her unwelcome breath.

‘Well, that’s always been your view. But a lot of us agree with him.’

‘Oh, come on, Olga! That’s all been done to death. Early Proto-Uralic could not originally have had predorsal-gingivals, apico-cacuminals and palatalised liquids all at the same time. What would a pack of hunters have done with three different types of el?’

‘Not that old story again? Then how do you explain the postalveolar liquid found in Nenets, which is a synthesis of all three?’

‘My dear, you know quite well that that’s what’s known as the principle of least effort. The sounds of a language tend to dwindle over time, perhaps because in every area of life men want to do as little as they possibly can. In their heart of hearts, they tend towards immobility, towards silence. Who knows, perhaps one day we’ll all stop talking, and that will truly be the end of the world. Even you know that the older a language is, the more pared down its sounds will have become. The Quechuan languages have only three vowels. Chinese can express extremely elaborate concepts with the sound of just two notes. Take ideograms: originally they were orthographic signs, each brushstroke was pronounced separately. Now they have become petrified. One single ideogram is the equivalent of a whole speech.’

‘What rubbish! The principle of least effort was called into question by Zipf as early as 1935. A sound which you find difficult to pronounce might be quite unproblematical for a Korean. Take nasals: the French wallow in them, but a Finn can’t pronounce them even when he’s got a cold.’

The shoreline of Vasikkasaari now came into view, with the outline of the cottage visible behind the snowy dunes.

‘What an eerie place! Do you come here a lot?’ asked Olga, peering towards the shadowy shore.

‘I like to come here for the odd weekend. In the summer we use it as a holiday home. Margareeta likes picking berries in the woods, and I like fishing. In the evening we have a barbecue and sit talking in front of the fire. Whereas in winter Margareeta likes to stay in the warm in Helsinki and I come here to work. Solitude and silence, that’s what a scholar needs!’ came Aurtova’s rather too glib reply.

‘I didn’t realise you were so fond of solitude and speculation. There was a time when all your fishing was done in the student hostel,’ said Olga sarcastically.

‘Those days are over,’ said the professor, opening the car door for her with a smile.

‘Those days are over,’ Olga agreed, pulling the collar of her fur coat up around her ears.

Aurtova offered his guest his arm and escorted her to the door. Before leaving, he had taken the precaution of switching out all the lights in the cottage and turning the generator down to the minimum so as to save fuel. But he had left the fire alight, to ensure that the place would be reasonably warm.

‘Goodness, it’s nice and warm in here,’ said Olga as she went in. At the back of the stove, some embers were still glowing. Aurtova poked the fire and added more wood. He lit the candles on the table and refilled the stove in the sauna. Then he went into the kitchen, put the wood grouse into the oven to cook and took the aperitifs and champagne out of the larder.

The candlelight etched deep shadows into Olga’s face. She smiled brightly, her eyes following her host expectantly as he busied himself with his various tasks. Aurtova had noticed at the airport that Olga was dressed up to the nines. She was wearing large ear-rings, and a showy amber necklace hung in the décolletage of her silk blouse. She was also heavily made up: her mouth, smeared with too much lipstick, glistened greasily. Seated on the edge of the sofa, her hands in her lap, the Head of the Institute of Finno-Ugric Languages at the University of Saint Petersburg looked like a wistful housewife dressed up for a Saturday night out. Aurtova sniffed distastefully at the scent which was now beginning to waft through the warming air. He realized that he would have to give the room a thorough airing after she left.

‘Tonight, as an hors d’oeuvre, the house is offering smoked salmon, followed by roast wood grouse and potatoes, with lemon sorbet as dessert. First, though, the aperitif: reindeer pâté, piirakka with rice, and champagne,’ said Aurtova, putting the tray and bottle on the table.