Diego Marani - The Last of the Vostyachs

‘ Suuri, ikivanha heimo !’ exclaimed the Vostyach, pointing towards the buildings. They were the only three words of Finnish that he knew. Olga had taught him them.

‘Yes, great and ancient tribe…’ repeated an uncomprehending Aurtova.

In the distance, over the sea, there were now glimmers of a hesitant white dawn. But over the city the sky was still dark, tinged greenish-yellow by the lamplight. The headlights of a snowplough came into view along a side street as the vehicle skidded from one side to the other, raising a cloud of dirty snow, which then fell back upon the car, causing Ivan to clutch the seat.

Even though it was early on a Saturday morning, and such few cars as there were, were proceeding with difficulty through the snow, wherever possible Aurtova was taking unfamiliar side roads, hoping to avoid being seen by anyone he knew. In order further to reduce this risk, he had hired a car from the airport. He drew up at the pavement somewhere in Kallio, in front of the unlit window of a run-down bar.

‘Hotel,’ said the Vostyach.

‘Yes, hotel,’ the professor agreed. Then he paused for thought. He had been surprised by the Vostyach’s tone of voice: when asking a question, after initially rising, it then seemed to fall. Then he remembered the interrogative prefix. Unlike in Finnic languages of the Baltic group, in Proto-Uralic the interrogative particle was thought not to exist. Obviously there must be a tone of voice for expressing a question, but no one had ever been able to distinguish it, and it was impossible to reconstruct it. Perhaps that was what the Vostyach was using. Aurtova was intrigued. For all his current criminal intent, for a moment his mind was once more that of a scientist. Right now — albeit not for very long — he was in the presence of the last Vostyach. He wanted to hear the famous velar affricatives and retroflex palatals with his own ears.

‘You speak language of men?’ he asked his guest, bringing out Nganasan words at random.

Ivan frowned uncomprehendingly.

‘Ivan Vostyach, Vostyach,’ he exclaimed in alarm.

‘Yes, me understand, Vostyach! Speak Vostyach!’ Aurtova urged him, somewhat curtly.

‘Speak Vostyach!’ Ivan repeated, scarcely more politely.

‘ Vostyach, puhukää, sana, wada, may, rääkidi! ’ Now Aurtova came out with a volley of Finno-Ugric words.

‘Vostyach!’ repeated Ivan in exasperation.

Then Aurtova lost patience and turned to Russian:

‘In a word, my friend, where are you from? Let’s hear a bit about you! Are you really a Vostyach? Or just a dolgan shepherd who wandered into the Tajmyr Peninsula and told Olga a pack of lies? Come on, tell me the truth!’

When he heard his host abandon the friendly sounds of Finnish and move on to the spongy palatalisation typical of Russian, Ivan stiffened. Olga Pavlovna had promised him that there were no Russians in Finland. He put the drum on his knee, braced himself with his feet and thrust his back against the door with all his strength, until the window shattered and he was able to wriggle out.

‘No, wait, me friend! Jarmo friend of Vostyach! Jarmo little Vostyach!’ Aurtova began to plead in Finnish, trying to put on an Estonian accent, which sounded more uncouth. Ivan had run to the corner of a block of buildings and was watching Aurtova’s movements with suspicion. The professor had picked up the sack from the back seat and was waving it around slowly, as though it were a bait, as he tried to approach the Vostyach.

‘Pardon! I Finnish, no ruski, Suomi, Helsinki! This hotel!’ he said quietly, trying not to attract attention. ‘Olga this evening arrive here hotel. Olga Vostyach!’

Hearing Olga’s name, Ivan calmed down. He turned back towards the car and snatched his sack out of Aurtova’s hands.

‘Hotel?’ the professor suggested in a friendly tone.

‘Hotel,’ repeated Ivan.

‘Good,’ answered Aurtova with relief.

They went up the dark staircase of a council house. On the second-floor landing, Aurtova knocked three times and gestured to Ivan to stand back. The door was opened grudgingly and a threatening face became visible in the semi-darkness.

‘The rest of the money!’ said the face’s owner, putting out a rough, red hand.

Aurtova felt in his pockets. He handed the man a wad of notes held together with an elastic band, and the envelope with the Silja Line ticket.

‘The agreement is as follows. You keep him here until this evening, then put him on the 18.15 boat. And remember, make sure he’s good and drunk,’ hissed the professor through the crack in the door, receiving a grunt by way of answer. The door then closed again, to reopen a few seconds later to reveal a large, thickset man with a flat face peppered with reddish freckles. His nose looked as if the nostrils had been brutally dug out of it with the use of a drill, his eyes were two narrow clefts in the leathery skin. He was wearing a leather jacket which was too small for him, from which his huge hands protruded like lifeless lumps. He looked Ivan over sharply, casting a sneering grimace in the professor’s direction. Aurtova took a step backwards, giving the man’s gnarled hands a nervous look as they clenched and unclenched.

He thought back with disgust to the previous night’s humiliation, when he had had to go into that bar to pick up a prostitute in order to be able to speak with the Laplander. Tatiana disgusted him, but she was the only one available. Aurtova had followed her into a room at the back of the bar, though he felt not the slightest desire to lay a finger on that obese reindeer. All he wanted was for her to take him to the Laplander. Aurtova did not know him, indeed he had never even seen him. All he knew about the owner of the ‘Unusi Teatteri’ was that he was a Laplander and that he had some girls working for him in rooms behind the bar. But Tatiana misread the situation. Thinking that Aurtova was nervous, she pulled out her breasts, pouring champagne over them and laughing. It was only after they had gone into the room, which smelt of unwashed socks, and Aurtova refused to take his clothes off, that the Laplander arrived. Tatiana had pressed a button on the telephone, then put her clothes on again, cursing. Seated on the edge of the bed, she was waiting, chain-smoking, swearing furiously. The Laplander too was furious, because Tatiana had wasted a whole hour. Then he had punched Aurtova and paid Tatiana as though she were Miss Finland herself. Only afterwards had he heard him out.

Now Ivan and the two men went down the stairs in silence, then into the street and along to the bar. Day had now broken, but the street-lamps were still alight. A strong wind was raising eddies of snow. The Laplander turned the key and pushed open the bar door.

‘Hotel,’ said Ivan.

‘Yes, hotel,’ agreed Aurtova, pushing the Vostyach through the door with a reassuring smile. The place smelt of smoke and stale liquor, and the animal stench that came from Ivan mingled with them, forming a heady brew. In the bruised half-light the wood of the counter and the grimy glass of the windows and mirrors winked back at one another half-heartedly. The soles of their shoes squeaked on the tiles of the beer-drenched floor. Ivan was hanging back, moving forward cautiously into that unknown cave. Aurtova pulled him firmly into the room, as though hoping to cut off his last line of escape. ‘Vostyach now rest, this evening Olga! Hyvää? Hästi? ’ he said to him, uttering each syllable with particular care and putting his face threateningly near to Ivan’s. The Laplander had opened a door concealed in the wall at the end of the room and was showing Ivan into a lit corridor. Walking backwards between the tables, still covered with dirty glasses and overflowing ashtrays, Aurtova waved goodbye to the Vostyach and went out into the street, then set off hastily towards the car, relieved to be free of his charge but a little disappointed still not to have heard the lateral affricative with labiovelar overlay.