Diego Marani - The Last of the Vostyachs

Olga shook her head in irritation. She helped herself to more smoked salmon and drained her fourth glass of champagne. Aurtova immediately refilled it, though he was beginning to see that it wasn’t going to be so easy to get her drunk, and that he might have to resort to the green pills.

‘Once, when we were at university, I remember you lending me a notebook, in which I found the following quotation from Znamensky: “All words are already present in reality, even before they have been uttered. They are like objects in shadow, which only the lantern of the mind can bring to light, one or two at a time, never all at once. There is no such thing as a dead word, because one word will constantly produce another, and all of them contribute to the meaning which the mind illuminates.” That is a lovely image, a declaration of a love for language in all its forms. And you believed it, at the time. But today I can see that you are no longer the passionate scholar you once were. I feel that it is no longer languages which interest you, but something else — although I can’t quite gather what that something is,’ observed Olga bitterly. A whitish thigh became all too visible inside the black fishnet mesh when she crossed her legs.

‘Well, today, with a good modern electric language, a sort of linguistic halogen lamp, you would be able to see the words Znamensky mentions all at once, and sweep the room clear of the dry bones of dead language,’ joked the professor, once more taking his distance. ‘Come on, Olga! Must everything always end so tragically when you Russians are involved? We just have different views, that’s all it is. Let’s just agree to disagree and enjoy the evening!’ protested Aurtova, shrugging.

‘You’re quite right, why choose today to argue? We’ll have plenty of time for that tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll be two linguists separated by opposing theories. Today we’re two old friends from university, meeting after a long gap. Give me some wine, Jarmo, it’s cold tonight,’ said Olga, pretending to be cold and inching along the sofa towards her host.

‘Of course! The wood grouse should be cooked by now,’ he said, getting up in a hurry, and returning with a steaming pot he set down on the table. Savouring the rich smell, Olga winked at him and surreptitiously undid another button of her blouse.

The faces of the customers seated at the tables of the Café Engel glowed in the warm candlelight. It melted the snow from their hair, causing it to drip down from the brims of their hats. Even from outside the window Margareeta thought she could smell the fragrance of the cinnamon cakes, the violet pipe-smoke, the damp fur caps, the lavender-scented wax, even the bitter smell of newsprint: all smells which reminded her of Jarmo, that winter Sunday when she’d first met him, in this very place. This evening, though, wandering around through the snow-bright streets in search of her ex-husband, places she’d seen a thousand times, looked at indifferently for years, suddenly presented themselves cloaked in an aura of foreboding. Forgotten memories now rained down upon her, merciless as X-rays, revealing things she had tried to forget for years. Now she remembered smiles and glances that had escaped her at the time, the ticking of the clock in the living room, the signature tune of a radio programme and Jarmo still not home; a car door banging shut in a car park, the sound of high heels fading into the distance, Jarmo emerging panting from a street corner. Now, and only now, in that evening darkness, Margareeta unravelled any number of small mysteries, making connections between them, one by one, and constellations of shoddy actions, galaxies of lies took shape in the dark skies of her memory: a densely tangled web of all the low tricks of which Jarmo had been capable. Jarmo: there had been a time when even saying his name had filled Margareeta’s heart with joy. Perhaps one should never fall in love in winter. Perhaps emotions were a bit like plants: they needed the spring to put down roots, the summer to flourish and produce their fruit, the autumn to prepare for the thankless season of dark and cold, when the sun is the merest memory. But her life with Jarmo had been one endless winter, a dry trunk which had never put forth leaves. Margareeta did not want to go into the Café Engel, she did not want to stir up other painful memories from the dank places where they lurked. But it was too cold to wait for him outside. She pulled herself together, tugged at Hurmo’s lead and went back into the town centre, in search of an empty bar where she could drink, and mourn. She went back to Liisankatu for the umpteenth time, stood under Jarmo’s window. But all the lights were out, and his car, parked in the street, lay under an even deeper layer of snow. Suddenly it occurred to her that Jarmo might be in his office. Of course, why had she not thought of that sooner? The congress on Finno-Ugric languages was about to start, and he would surely be in the university, putting the last touches to his paper. Margareeta cast an angry glance in the direction of the building next to the cathedral. The fourth-floor windows were dark, but she thought she saw something moving in the dark eye of one of them. Digging her heels firmly into the hard snow, Margareeta crossed the square and pushed open the big wooden door. She was well-known to the porter as Professor Aurtova’s wife. He told her that her husband hadn’t been in that Saturday; the last time he had seen him had been the previous night.

‘He dashed off like the wind, scarcely even said goodbye,’ he remembered, scratching his forehead underneath his peaked cap. Then he added:

‘I haven’t seen him today. Actually no one has been around. They’re all in the conference centre.’

‘I’m just going up for a moment to collect something,’ said Margareeta, biting her lip.

‘By all means! In fact, could you take this up for me?’ said the porter, handing Margareeta a folder secured by an elastic band. ‘The man who deals with the mail doesn’t come in on Saturdays, and with my bad leg I have trouble with all those steps.’

Margareeta took the folder and set off up the stairs, switching on the light on each landing as she went. The Institute of Finno-Ugric languages occupied the whole of the fourth floor. There was only one light on in the corridor, above the photocopier. Hurmo slithered over the gleaming parquet. Margareeta felt a sudden uprush of anxiety as she pushed open the door bearing the brass name-plate ‘Prof. Jarmo Aurtova’, and was surprised by a burst of cold air. She fumbled for the light switch. She had been right: what she had seen from down below had been the curtains billowing in the wind in front of the open windows. The Karelian carpet and the seats of the two Gustav II-style chairs were covered with a thin layer of snow, which had melted beneath the radiators, leaving two fan-shaped pools of water. All there was on the desk was a burnt-out candle and a bottle of cognac. The floor was glittering with shards of broken glass, together with the odd sheet of paper, blown about by the wind. Hurmo tugged on his lead and scratched at the parquet flooring, sniffing out his master’s smell. Margareeta felt downcast, indeed alarmed. She let go of Hurmo’s lead and clutched the folder to her as though it were a defensive shield. She walked around the room, looked behind the cupboards and under the desk, expecting at any moment to stumble upon her husband’s frozen corpse. She closed the windows hastily and stood there, listening. The clock was ticking on its shelf, the small pair of gold scales was catching the milky light of the lamp. Big drops of water were falling from the curtains on to the sopping carpet. Down in the square a tram was rattling by. Breathing heavily, Hurmo was looking at his mistress with the same professorial look as her husband adopted when he was seated at his desk. Margareeta sighed, picked up the lead and hurried out of the room, along the corridor and down the stairs, tossing the folder on to the porter’s desk as she passed it. He raised his eyes and watched her in bewilderment as she left the building.