Diego Marani - The Last of the Vostyachs

But there was no time for that. They would have to be assuaged by the woman’s burial; they would have to be plucked from the ice and driven skywards so that the breath of the universe could take them to itself again. Ivan loaded the body on to the sledge and set off for the beach at Tahvonlahti. He was thinking of cutting down a birch tree to make a catafalque on which to lay the body, but when he had almost reached the sea another dark shape caused the reindeer to stiffen. The Vostyach seized the axe and moved steadily towards it. This time too he recognised it by the smell. He knelt down and wept, inhaling the cheap scent of the only being in the world who had ever truly wished him well. Crouching beside the corpse, he drew it to his chest, as he had done so many years ago with his father. Twice, in the course of his harsh life, Ivan had cradled the lifeless body of the person who was dearest to him in his arms. He recognised the wave of grief which swept over him, as it had done all those years ago. He felt almost happy, because it was a familiar form of suffering and Ivan knew where it would strike hardest, where in his body it would lodge itself, sapping the strength from his legs, trapping his breath down in the pit of his stomach. Suddenly, he felt an age-old solitude descend upon him: that of his whole extinct people, of every Vostyach who had ever lost himself in the Siberian forests, who had ceased to speak and had gone to earth with the wolves, forgetting how to be a man. Now he himself no longer had anyone to speak to, no one with whom he could use the word describing something grey glimpsed vaguely running in the snow, or the colour of the birch trees when they are coming into leaf, or the smell of the lake as it unfreezes and gives off the fossil breath of hundred-year-old fish, the whistle of the wind as it blows in from the sea, dashing mountainous blocks of ice against the rocks.

Ivan cut down two young birch trees that were growing on the beach. He stripped them with the axe and fashioned them into eight white stakes, which he then laid out on the ice. He wove branches between them, and hoisted the bodies on to them, using the rope he’d taken from the storeroom in the zoo. He placed a stone on each woman’s chest, together with the fragments of reindeer horn he’d brought with him in the sack. He decorated their hair with falcon feathers and covered their staring eyes with snow. Then he knelt before the catafalque and drummed out the song of sleep, accompanying it with a long lament, so that the great breath of the universe would slow down a little and take their lost spirits into its care.

Out of the wind in a phone box on Iso Roobertinkatu, Margareeta had made any number of calls to the police station on the other side of the road. Hyttynen was not answering. As they were going back into town, he had dumped her unceremoniously at the corner of Lönnrotinkatu. He wouldn’t hear of going back later to Vasikkasaari, and he wasn’t remotely interested in the story of the strange animals running about on the ice around the island. Helsingfors Idrottsföreningen Kamraterna was just a few points short of victory, and that did nothing to improve his temper.

‘Listen, madam, you’ve already caused me to miss the hockey match and get frozen feet. Enough’s enough! If you’re looking for somebody to spend the night with, I suggest you try picking up someone in a nightclub. A new one has just opened at the end of the Bulevardi,’ he had said to her dryly, pointing to the open door. Margareeta would have liked to ring her husband’s bell just one last time, but she was exhausted. Her eyes were burning, her feet hurt and at each red light Hurmo would curl up on the ground and go to sleep. So she’d gone home, gulped down all the beer that was in the fridge and now she was drunk. She picked up the receiver without quite knowing who she was going to phone, then suddenly remembered Jarmo’s answer phone and the newly rewound tape.

‘ I know you’re listening, Jarmo. I know you’re in there, in the dark. And I advise you not to throw away this tape: listen to it carefully, it may well be of use to you when we see each other again in court. I’ve been looking for you all day. I even went to Villa Suvetar, with the police. It was the only way I could be sure of getting the door opened. I know you’ve been there, no doubt accompanied by one of your “women friends”. Isn’t that what you called them? “We share so many ideas, so many values, that sex is never going to rear its ugly head”, you’d say to me whenever I dared to express puzzlement about the amount of time you spent with other women. I had to swallow lie upon lie. But you’d never done it at Villa Suvetar. You always spared the cottage at Vasikkasaari the mortifying spectacle of your seductions, though I don’t think that was out of respect for me. It was more likely the memory of your mother which prevented you from sullying the old holiday house where you had spent your childhood summers. So this is a sign that at last you feel truly free, of both me and your mother. Indeed, basically, for you we were one and the same: someone who would admire you, forgive you unconditionally, relish your successes as though they were our own. And whom you in your turn could cheat on. In your mother’s case, this went no further than stealing a bit of loose change from her purse; in my case, it was my life you stole. Who did you take a sauna with in Villa Suvetar? With that student of yours with the big feet? Or with the Estonian lectrice? You disappoint me: the one this year is a real fright. And anyway, you’d have saved that sacred place for someone more useful to you. Some functionary at the Ministry of Education, perhaps? Or did you turn gay for one night in exchange for some important favour? Oh no, I see: that ugly great creature from the Vice-Chancellor’s office who puts forward candidates for the Finnish Cross to the President of the Republic. After all, you’d stop at nothing, as we know.

‘But this is a strange night, Jarmo. Perhaps it’s some unusual line up of the planets, or perhaps the cold has caused normally indissoluble chemical elements to separate. At all events, today I’ve seen things which have escaped me for fifteen years. This evening, the lights of Helsinki lit up the whole circuit of your vile doings. I made a bracing tour of all the places where you’d so gleefully deceived me, I visited the love nests I’d always known about but had never wanted to see, the sites of your finest lies, the pitiable ruins of a happiness which, though short-lived, had been very real. I happened to pass the local swimming-baths, and I remembered that short period when you used to go there regularly. After supper, every other day. Swimming was the only thing that helped your backache, you told me. I went on as far as Annankatu and walked past the block where the director of the Institute of Slavic Studies lives. Sinikka Hirvi, that was her name. And then I saw it all. It had taken me ten years. Now I know that you used to slip a bleach capsule into your bag together with your swimming suit and towel, and dissolve it in Sinikka Hirvi’s bath tub so that you would come home smelling of chlorine, so as to convince me you’d really been at the pool. That was why those strange capsules had featured on the weekly shopping list for half a year — I had always wondered what you used them for. That was why, when I bought a mauve box, you smelt of lavender, and when I bought a yellow one, you smelt of citronella. I saw the faces of your lovers plastered over the walls of the city as though in a gallery. Even the ones I’d never met, even the journalist from the Helsingin Sanomat you so wanted me to meet that Friday evening. I had to skip my piano lesson to join you at the Klaus Kinski. First you bedded them, then you introduced me to them. Why? Was it a way of ensuring my forgiveness? Or did you want to show them what you had given up in order to be with them? This afternoon, I went to look for you at the university. The windows in your office were open, the carpet was covered with snow and the floor was strewn with old papers and bits of glass. At first I was worried. I thought something awful might have happened and I went straight to the police station to report your disappearance. A policeman came with me to open your front door. But when I went into those rooms where you now live, without a single trace of your past life with me, as though I had never existed, I realised that I couldn’t care less what had became of you. For all I care, you can sink into the ice in the sea off Helsinki or be burned alive in a car accident. It’s all the same to me; I’d just like to be there when it happens. I want to cheer on the icy wave as it closes over your head and fills your mouth, to spur on the flames until they’ve charred you to a frizzle, like a fish on a spit, giving up on you only when they’ve reduced you to so much black mush stuck to the car seat. First, though, you’ve got to take Hurmo back; otherwise I’ll flay him, stuff him and place him on your desk for you to gaze at until the last trump sounds!’