Diego Marani - The Last of the Vostyachs

I haven’t said anything about my discovery to my colleagues in Saint Petersburg, not even to Juknov, although he’s my superior. Dear Jarmo, the times when we shared a scientific passion are long gone — the times when I would write you letters even longer than this to update you on the progress of my research. Perhaps you will be surprised by the sincerity of these pages. You may feel it is misplaced, because we are no longer in such close touch. I know that my discovery will arouse envy and jealousy in the academic world, I know that many of my colleagues will try to put a spanner in the works and dispute its authenticity. I know that you too will find the existence of my Vostyach inconvenient. Nonetheless, I decided to tell my secret to you, and you alone: perhaps because there was a time when everything seemed to me more innocent, when we too spoke a language which has now disappeared: the artless, straightforward language of two students who were full of hope. So, in the name of the enthusiasm we once shared, I am asking you to help me, to do all you can to ensure that Ivan receives a warm welcome in Helsinki and is treated with all possible consideration. We must keep an eye on him, make his time there as pleasant as possible. He must feel that those around him are on his side. I don’t want him to feel that he’s being treated like an animal at the zoo, or a fairground attraction. After the conference, I’ve decided to go back to his forests with him and help him to settle back into the village where I found him. All in all, it probably doesn’t matter if he carries on living among the Nganasan and forgets his Vostyach. One peaceful human life is surely more important than the survival of the lateral affricative with labiovelar overlay.

Before going back to Saint Petersburg, I had to stop off here in Moscow to get Ivan a passport. It wasn’t easy. I had to pull strings and it all took several days. Ivan is completely at sea in a big city. The lighting and the crowds are what bother him most. He hates walking down a busy pavement, and finds the flashing shop signs particularly alarming. By day he stays in his hotel room, and by night I take him walking in the parks. He needs to take long walks in the darkness before he calms down a bit. The plane journey nearly did for him; another flight to Helsinki might really finish him off, so I thought of taking the Friday night train with him which arrives in Helsinki about 7.30 in the morning. But I shall have to stop off at Saint Petersburg because there’s a meeting of the academic senate on Saturday night, and after so many months away I can’t afford not to be there. So I’m asking you if you’d be good enough to meet Ivan at the station and take care of him for a few hours. I’ll be arriving by plane the same evening, on the 19.15 flight. There won’t be much for you to do. Leave the hotel booking to me. Your task is just to be with him and make him feel safe. Perhaps you could say something about him to the people at the desk, so that they’ll be more understanding. I do hope you can help me. I’ve talked to Ivan a lot about you. I’ve told him that you’re a dear friend, that you’re a scientist, like me, that you study the languages of the men of the tundra and that you wish them well. So he decided he wanted to make you a present — a pipe made from the bone of a falcon, the kind his people play when they go hunting and want to propitiate animal spirits. He’ll give it to you when you meet. I’m telling you this because it’s important that you show appreciation for this gift. This matters to him — it is a sign of trust.

I’ll telephone you on Friday 9th January to make sure that you’ve received this letter, trusting I’ll find you in your office. If I remember rightly, around six o’clock you always used to have a nip of cognac in front of the open window before going down to dinner. And I know you to be a man who doesn’t change his habits lightly.

See you soon,

Olga.

Professor Aurtova had just finished reading the last few words when the phone rang.

‘Hallo, Olga.’

‘Jarmo! Is it still cognac?’

‘ Koskenkorva is for backwoodsmen and vodka is strictly for Russians. All that’s left for civilised people is cognac. One day we’ll be making an excellent cognac on the banks of the Pyhaharvi.’

‘Some people never change, eh?’

‘Change implies mistakes.’

‘Same old fighting spirit, I see. Is it my Vostyach who’s worrying you?’

‘It depends how Vostyach he is. He might just be a drunken Kalmuck who got on the wrong train.’

‘I see. You didn’t like the dig about the red-skins. Come on, I take it all back. Let’s bury the hatchet and light the pipe of peace.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m not on a war footing. Send me your Vostyach by all means. I’m eaten up with curiosity.’

‘You’ll see, you’ll be moved the moment you hear his voice.’

‘I’ll try not to cry. What time does the train arrive?’

‘At 7.48. Ivan will be in coach 16. You can’t miss him: he’s dressed like a trapper and he always has his drum slung round his neck.’

‘I hope he doesn’t bite. What does he eat?’

‘Very funny. Try roots and berries! But Jarmo, do you really not believe me?’

‘I believe you all right. I was just joking. Where will your wild chum be staying?’

‘I’ve booked two rooms at the Torni. I’m not asking you to entertain him. All you have to do is keep him company; above all, don’t let him go wandering around on his own. And remember that he doesn’t drink alcohol. One more thing: don’t talk to him in Russian. That might frighten him. I’ve assured him that there are no Russians in Finland.’

‘What language should I address him in? I warn you, I have no intention of learning Vostyach!’

‘I’m sure that if you speak to him in Finnish, but without inflecting the nouns, with the help of the odd gesture he’ll understand you. Unless you’ve still got a smattering of Nganasan.’

‘Absolutely not. But I’ll manage. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of your noble savage. Indeed, for friendship’s sake I’ll come and meet you at the airport on Saturday evening.’

‘Oh, that’s sweet of you! It takes a Vostyach to drag a chivalrous gesture out of you!’

‘Well, at least he’s serving some purpose.’

Aurtova hung up. He downed the last drop of cognac and walked over to the map of the world by Ibn Al-Idrisi, the first geographer to have described the lands inhabited by the Finno-Ugrians in the Middle Ages. He scratched his beard thoughtfully, his attention fixed on the regions occupied by the speakers of Ingrian, Votic, Vogul, Mordvin and Udmurt, each with their different colours, stretching from Karelia as far as the Laptev Sea. At the bottom, in the margin, a dotted blue line indicated the lands supposedly occupied by the mysterious Vostyachs. ‘Two thousand wasted years,’ he thought. His people had spent two thousand years emerging from the darkness of the steppe. They had struggled, suffered, been in danger of being swept aside by brutal enemies. With admirable persistence they had at last won themselves respect among the European nations, indeed they were gaining a sphere of influence in the lands peopled by their backward linguistic cousins, and Finnish was gradually becoming the lingua franca of the Arctic Ocean. But now ‘someone’ was trying to throw Finland into the dustbin of history, together with the other conquered peoples who have no future. Aurtova was not having that. He looked away from the map and towards the portrait of Marshal Mannerheim, the hero who had twice saved Finland from the Russians. Now it was up to him, Jarmo Aurtova, to save his country. From those same uncouth Vostyachs, no less! The professor clenched his fists. His eyes lit up, and a brief dizzy spell caused him to lose his balance. Suddenly Ibn Al-Idrisi’s great map seemed to be positively awash with Finno-Ugrians: speakers of Veps, Ingrian, Nenets and Karagass seemed to be marching over the parchment like so many ants, forming endless black columns which soon scored the entire Siberian plain. The Hungarians were headed directly westwards, leaving speakers of Mordvin and Cheremis behind them. Speakers of Veps, Votic and Permic fanned out along the rim of the Arctic Ocean, while the Sami and Karelians carried on as far as the White Sea. Even the Finnic peoples lingered for a time beside the Pechora before heading firmly southwards towards Lake Ladoga. Samoyeds, Komi and Voguls crossed the Jenisej en masse and spread throughout the upland plains, pushing eastwards in ever-dwindling numbers. Only the Vostyachs never moved away from their Byrranga Mountains. Nervously watching all the others leaving, they wheeled round, clustered together on the shores of the Laptev Sea, and then withdrew into their forests. Peering more closely at the map, the professor saw hunters dressed in skins, hiding behind rocks, bows at the ready. Dark-complexioned, their skin chapped by the wind, they had deep-set narrow eyes and wore necklaces of wolves’ teeth around their necks. The women were huddled behind them, their babies wrapped in furs, their sledges, laden with household goods, standing beside reindeer kneeling in the snow. In the distance, a group of yurts had clearly been set on fire and armed horsemen were pillaging the smoking ruins, apparently emitting blood-curdling yells. They must have been Pechenegs or Khazars, who had left the steppe to follow the rivers down to the Arctic Ocean, sacking and slaughtering as they went. Blinking owlishly, Aurtova roused himself from his torpor and suddenly the vision faded, the human anthill disappeared. Now the map was as silent and motionless as it had been before. In his fine wooden frame, Mannerheim was now looking glum. His chest laden with medals, he was gazing into the distance, eastwards, towards the dark Karelian Woods from which the Slavic hordes had once emerged. The sound of his heels ringing out on the gleaming parquet, the professor honoured the marshal’s portrait with a military salute, stuffed Olga’s letter in his pocket, took his coat from the hatstand and ran down the stairs, forgetting the open windows in his haste, setting the old furniture creaking in the chill night air. A gust of freezing wind sent the curtains billowing and blew the candles out. Outside, it was beginning to snow.