Diego Marani - The Last of the Vostyachs

When Margareeta woke up, the first thing she saw in the thin light was the dog. As usual, he was sleeping curled up on one of the small armchairs in her bedroom. He was snoring, his body twitching as he dreamt; his eyelids were fluttering and his front paws quivering. Since Jarmo had left, Hurmo had refused to sleep in the wicker basket under the basin. He would sniff it, whimpering, then pace around it but refuse to go in. It was as though he were afraid that people were leaving the house one by one, abandoning him to his own devices. Each time she looked at him, Margareeta was amazed at how much that dog resembled her husband. It was incredible that a man and a dog could look so alike. Their expressions were similar, they even walked the same way, and when he barked Hurmo would twist his neck in the same irritated fashion that Margareeta had always found so annoying in her husband. She shuddered at the thought that in fact her husband had never left her, but had somehow wormed his way into that snarling ball of matted fur, to carry on tormenting her even after their divorce, just as the Lapp sorcerers befuddled the Lutheran pastors sent to convert them. They would suck their souls from out of their bodies and replace them with evil spirits who drove them mad.

It was now ten days into the new year, and Margareeta was beginning to look forward to a clean break with the past. Hurmo was now all that remained of her husband; he too would have to go, back to his master, together with his fleas. That day would be the last time he would sleep on the little armchair in her bedroom. On waking in the morning, Margareeta no longer wanted to see her husband’s canine double snoring at her feet and spreading his stink of ageing fur throughout the house. It was still dark, but Margareeta got up and switched on the coffee percolator. Outside it was snowing. The radio informed her that the recent cold dry snap would be followed by a blizzard. She dressed, gulped down a cup of coffee, put the dog on the lead and dragged him outside. As a matter of fact the dog was a bitch, but no one had been aware of this fact until she had produced five monstrous little mongrels. Or perhaps the creature was both male and female at the same time, somehow fiendishly enjoying the advantages of both sexes. There was no knowing what kind of animal she had coupled with. Like Margareeta’s husband, when she was on heat she would go with whatever came to hand: Margareeta thought disgustedly of the big mangy mud-bespattered sheepdog she’d seen sniffing around Hurmo one afternoon in the park. It had been staring vacantly into space as it mounted the bitch, just as her husband probably did when he thrust himself upon his female students, lustful and brutal, bathed in unpleasant male odours.

Frozen and motionless, the city was now emerging from the dawn mist. The odd empty tram rattled along the snow-covered avenues, lights ablaze, bearing gaudy advertisements for tropical holiday destinations. Margareeta felt that she would have to have the dog problem solved before the day was out.

Aurtova walked into the station booking hall breathless and snow-covered. He’d spent a fortune, been punched in the face and had barely four hours sleep, but he had managed to make the necessary arrangements. He felt in his coat pocket to check that the money and envelope with the Silja Line ticket were still there, then ran his fingertips cautiously over his black eye. His steps echoed menacingly in the half-empty booking hall. He glanced at the arrivals board and hurried towards platform 1. The train had clearly arrived some time ago. Cleaners were going up and down it with yellow brooms and rubbish bags. The last passengers were walking towards the exit, pulling on their gloves and turning up their coat collars. He caught sight of someone who looked like one of the hunters he’d seen briefly emerging from Ibn Al-Idrisi’s map. Was that the Vostyach? Was that ugly mug the missing link between Finn and Redskin? Between the strong-willed race which had resisted Russian invasion and those primitive headhunters, with their painted faces? Aurtova clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. He would never allow the name of Finnish civilisation to be brought into disrepute by some tatterdemalion hominid. Sophisticated Scandinavian design, Europe’s most advanced social security system and communications technology could have nothing in common with peoples who had been defeated by history and were now penned into reserves, drinking themselves silly and sporting feather head-dresses in front of slack-jawed tourists. He approached his quarry stealthily, as though fearing it might escape him.

‘You Ivan?’ he asked quietly, trying to avoid attracting unwelcome attention. The strange figure had a drum slung over one shoulder, and now he drew it closer to his chest.

‘Ivan Vostyach!’ he shouted, taking his passport from his pocket and proffering it to Aurtova like a talisman. He gave out a strong smell of wild animal, a circus smell.

‘Me Aurtova!’ growled the professor, moving backwards a little so as to draw a breath of less polluted air. The cleaners were now peering curiously out of the train windows. They had had their eye on the outlandish fur-clad figure pacing the platform for quite some time. Who on earth could he be? A reindeer-breeder? A seal-hunter?

‘Aurtova!’ Ivan repeated tonelessly, staring at the professor.

‘Yes, Aurtova! Friend Olga!’ he agreed.

Ivan continued eyeing him from head to foot.

‘Friend Olga,’ he said flatly.

‘Yes, friend Olga!’ Aurtova held out his arms and smiled, hoping to appear well-disposed.

Then Ivan felt in his pocket, produced a leather package tied up with a shoelace and handed it unceremoniously to the professor. Aurtova opened it impatiently, to find it contained a curved piece of bone. Then he remembered the business about the pipe. He looked around him in embarrassment. There was no one else on the platform; only the cleaners on the train. They were spending more time than necessary cleaning the last two compartments, darting glances out of the window to see what was going on out on the platform.

‘Thanks! Nice work! Fine craftsmanship!’ said the professor, turning the object round between his fingers and slipping it into his pocket. But Ivan narrowed his bleary eyes and shook his head. Placing a finger in front of his mouth, he indicated to Aurtova that he should play it. Then the professor remembered what Olga had said about the need for a courteous response. He fished the bone patiently out of his pocket and blew firmly into the little hole. It gave out a piercing whistling sound, like birdsong. The Vostyach smiled and nodded in satisfaction.

‘Olga,’ he said.

‘Olga, yes. Olga say me take you hotel!’ said Aurtova, less patient now, stuffing the pipe back into his pocket. He set off towards the exit, indicating to the Vostyach that he should follow him. Ivan picked up his sack and settled his drum more comfortably on his shoulder. They walked through the snow to the underground car park, Aurtova leading and Ivan following, looking around warily and sniffing the air, nostrils aquiver.

He sat down on the seat and placed the drum firmly on his knee, then breathed on the window so as to be able to see out. His gaze was met first by the huge bronze statues on the station façade, holding their lighted torches, then the impressive outline of the Sokos Shopping Centre, standing starkly in the square like a black glass monolith.

‘Helsinki,’ he said, again flatly, though in fact it turned out to be meant as a question.

‘Yes, Helsinki! Suomi, Finland!’ was Aurtova’s prompt response, as he leant away from his passenger towards the car door in order to avoid contact with his stinking skins. Now the Vostyach was staring open-mouthed at the green dome of the cathedral, with its gilded stars. The professor was looking at Ivan out of the corner of his eye and trying to breathe out through his nose, so as not to have to take in the sickening stench.