The Winter War

by Philip Teir

  There were no pictures of him.

  ‘Is my shirt in the bedroom?’ Max yelled.

  ‘Yes, it’s hanging in the wardrobe,’ replied Katriina.

  He went to the kitchen and got out the vases. On the table he saw a copy of Helsingin Sanomat lying open at the cultural section, to show the feature article about him. He thought he’d allowed his rambling to go a bit too far this time. He knew that some of his academic friends sneered at his sociological one-liners.

  The headline was a quote from him: ‘Total freedom is not an ideal state.’ Max had talked about that subject the way he always did, saying that the sheer number of choices available to us make us depressed. In the photograph – which was at least seven columns wide and covered the full length of the page – he wore an anxious expression, as if the photo was taken just as someone reminded him of something sad. In reality, he’d had a hard time understanding what the photographer wanted from him. He looked at the picture again and wrinkled his nose. He suddenly thought he recognised something of his mother in that troubled expression. Didn’t all of her relatives look as if they might burst into tears at any second?

  Katriina had placed the newspaper on the table so that their guests would see it. He considered folding it up and tossing it in the recycling bin. But the article wasn’t bad. He’d read it before it was printed and emailed Laura some suggested changes and clarifications. Earlier in the day he’d looked up the paper’s website and read the discussion threads under the interview. The tone of the comments had surprised Max – apparently there were still people who thought he had something sensible to say.

  By six o’clock the flat was filled with people: Helen and her family; Max’s sister Elisabeth; his colleague Antti, who’d come early; as well as a younger colleague from the department, an incredibly ambitious doctoral student named Sara. Max hadn’t wanted to invite his editor, Matti, since he had no desire to talk about the Westermarck book, but Katriina was in charge of the guest list, and of course she had refused to leave anyone off.

  The noise level had risen to a pleasant hum, and Edvard was running around, wagging his tail as he greeted and sniffed at everyone. Max was doing his share of conversing as he showed the guests his study and the desk where he usually sat, but the whole time he was on the lookout for Laura. Each time he heard the door open, he was hoping it would be her.

  By seven, most of the guests had arrived. Katriina had stood at the door with Max to welcome everyone, although he occasionally slipped out to the balcony to smoke a cigar.

  Now he was moving through the crowd, making an effort to smile at everyone. He didn’t always know who he was talking to, but afterwards it was the details he remembered: Katriina’s earrings, the décolletage of the wife of a colleague, a red handkerchief, a pair of white trainers. At eight o’clock Laura finally appeared, wearing a short purple dress, her black hair glossy, and with a cautious but endearing smile that she directed with complete self-control at Katriina under the muted lighting in the front hall. Max stood back, trying to maintain as neutral a demeanour as possible, which was difficult since he’d already had a few drinks, though he wasn’t sure exactly how many. He felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he hoped no one noticed. He waited as Laura went into the flat with Katriina to say hello to the other guests. He stood there, watching them from a distance, those two women. Then he waited until Laura was alone, at most five minutes, although it seemed like an eternity, before he approached her.

  She didn’t seem to know anyone else, which was a relief to Max. It meant that he had an obligation to entertain her.

  ‘Hi. You came.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I have to say that the article turned out great.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes, I do. You really understood what I was trying to say. And that doesn’t happen very often. I’ve heard lots of positive comments about it.’

  ‘It wasn’t that special, but thanks.’

  ‘You should definitely get into reporting on cultural issues full-time,’ he said.

  Laura merely nodded, so he went on talking, since that was the only thing he could think to do. He was aware that he could look right down at her cleavage, and it took a real effort not to do so. He looked at the other guests and noticed that Matti was on his way over. He was still at the other end of the room, but his eyes were fixed on Laura. Max quickly tried to think up some way to out-manoeuvre him. He’d been trying to avoid Matti all evening, since he knew his editor would inevitably ask about the book, and maybe even demand to have a look at it.

  ‘Maybe I should introduce you to everybody.’

  ‘No, you don’t have to do that.’

  She seemed a bit shy as she looked at the other guests. By now Matti had almost reached them.

  ‘But I really should,’ said Max.

  He raised his glass and began tapping on it with his cigarette lighter, but it made no sound. None of the guests turned around, so he went over to the table, where the coffee service had just been set out. He picked up a knife and struck his glass harder. The sound sliced right through the noise of the party, and the wine in his glass sloshed over the rim and on to the floor. Now he had everyone’s attention.

  ‘Er, hello, I just want to say one thing. As you all probably know by this time – thanks to my wife, who never lets this sort of thing go unnoticed – in today’s issue of Helsingin Sanomat there’s an article about me, in honour of the occasion. You know that I usually detest journalists …’

  Scattered laughter in the room. Max was good at playing to the crowd.

  ‘… but in this case I made an exception because the journalist in question is a former student of mine, one of the most talented, and she’s actually here with us today. Laura, where are you?’

  He pretended to search for her. Laura was still standing in the corner, and she gave everyone a little wave.

  ‘There you are! Not only is Laura an amazing cultural journalist, she’s also an expert on financial matters, reporting on Asia, in particular.’

  Laura was clearly embarrassed. The guests looked at their host, then at her, not sure where to direct their attention.

  ‘Well, that’s really all I wanted to say. I hope everybody got enough to eat, because now it’s time for coffee and cake.’

  Everyone raised their glasses in a toast. For a moment Max felt very pleased with himself. But then he saw that Matti had reached Laura and was shaking her hand. Now he was motioning for Max to join them, and he had no choice but to comply.

  Matti had a slightly macho way about him that Max found annoying, but he realised that certain women fell for that sort of thing. His editor was in his fifties, good-looking and cocky, but also well read and a thoroughly hardnosed businessman. Max had a feeling that he was about to lose out to him. Matti had already placed his hand on Laura’s bare shoulder.

  ‘I was just telling Laura here what a damned good article she wrote. It’s rare to read anything that good in the paper these days.’

  Max nodded. Laura seemed pleased with the attention.

  ‘You know, Max, since this is your birthday, I wasn’t thinking of bothering you with any questions about your damn book. But I thought I’d make a suggestion, and it’s lucky that the two of you are here right now, since this has to do with both of you. Today when I was reading the paper, I came up with an idea, and I think it’s a damned good one. How would it be if Laura helped you out? She seems to understand what you’re talking about. Why don’t you let her have a look at the text? Then I won’t have to do it.’

  Max glanced at Laura in surprise. Yesterday he’d actually fantasised about taking his manuscript over to Långa Bridge and tossing it over the side.

  ‘I don’t know … I’m actually almost finished …’

  Matti gave him an amused look. ‘Damn it, Max. Let’s be honest now. Tell me how it’s really going with your book. So far I haven’t seen a single sentence of the bloody thing.’

 
Now Matti turned to Laura. ‘I have no doubt that Max has written something, but as long as he won’t show it to me, I can’t be sure, can I?’

  Max knew he had to defend himself. He was pissed off by the situation, with Matti embarrassing him in front of Laura and making him talk about this topic.

  ‘If you like, you can have a look right now. I’ve got it in my study.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Matti. ‘Maybe it’s a dumb idea. I’m just thinking that it might be good for someone to wrest it out of your hands. There’s no harm in that, is there?’

  It occurred to Max that so far Laura hadn’t said a word. The noise level had risen, and Max had to lean towards her to hear what she said.

  ‘Of course I’ll have a look. If that’s what you want, Max.’

  He looked her in the eye and felt something that resembled tenderness – she had no idea how much it meant to him to have received a little media attention again. He was ashamed that he was such easy prey to flattery.

  He was just about to reply when the doorbell rang.

  Helen shouted, ‘I’ll get it!’

  Max thought it might be Eva, but when the door opened, he heard an unfamiliar man’s voice out in the hall. Max excused himself and left Laura and Matti to go and see who had arrived. He realised that the man was a stranger to him. He was unshaven, with dark hair and a foreign look about him. Maybe from India? Max couldn’t hear what he and Helen were saying because of the noise from the party.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked Max.

  Now Katriina came into the hall.

  ‘Are you Max Paul?’ asked the man in English. His clothing was odd – he looked like a combination of an old-fashioned vagabond and someone who had put on a costume. A silk handkerchief stuck out of the breast pocket of his worn jacket.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Are we making too much noise? I can ask our guests to keep it down a bit. It’s my sixtieth birthday, you see.’

  ‘No, that’s not it. But I’m looking for your daughter, Eva. I understood that she would be here tonight.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘I’m her … friend. Russ.’

  eleven

  MALIK’S ATTRACTION TO EVA began to cool after that evening when she frightened him with the pregnancy test. He demonstrated his waning interest over the following days by standing behind Laurie and leaning close as he showed a new-found eagerness to discuss the technical aspects of her paintings. Eva could see how his arm kept searching for a new position – looking as if it were getting close to the fastener on Laurie’s very visible bra. Suddenly, the only reminder of Malik’s presence in Eva’s life were the white streaks of Ritalin inside her art books. During class he would lapse into harsh criticism, and nothing the students did seemed good enough. Ben, in particular, repeatedly heard that he was an incompetent bungler who ‘couldn’t tell art from his fucking elbow’.

  Eva had quickly made up her mind as she sat hunched on the toilet in her flat, with Malik right outside the door. She had no intention of telling him that the test was positive. The truth was, she was a little afraid of him.

  She considered reporting him to the dean of the college for assault, but she realised that that would be a lie. She had been a willing participant in their affair. She had enjoyed it, enjoyed how it made her feel.

  Instead, she began taking walks every day after college, until one day she found herself standing outside the gallery that belonged to Malik’s wife. She had no idea how she’d ended up there. This was on a Thursday evening. It was already past seven, but the gallery seemed to be open, judging by the sign placed outside on the pavement.

  The premises looked like an abandoned shop that someone had transformed into a venue for art. It was nothing like the spacious and minimalist galleries so prevalent in the East End.

  Eva had always pictured Sarah and Malik’s gallery as elitist and expensive. A place that was exclusive, in white and black, and intimidating. Not this Berlin-style do-it-yourself place in an abandoned building.

  The wall facing the street was covered with graffiti, and the window was so dingy that it was hard to see inside.

  A dark-haired, broad-shouldered woman in her forties was sitting on a stool behind a counter that looked as if it belonged in a hotel lobby. Her arms were covered with tattoos, which merely served to enhance the ordinariness of her features.

  She nodded a greeting as Eva came in. ‘Just tell me if you have any questions. My name’s Sarah, by the way.’

  Eva gave her a wary smile and turned to walk around the room. Grey clouds had hovered over London all week, and the damp light seemed to seep through the window, filling the gallery space. It was not painted white, like most other galleries. Instead, it had the feel of a renovated warehouse, with a grey cement floor and patches of exposed brick on the walls.

  From somewhere at the far end of the room Eva could hear a whining noise that seemed to be emanating from a work of art. Sarah had gone back to reading her book.

  Was this really Malik’s wife? Eva had imagined someone completely different – a chic Londoner with a strong presence and cold eyes, an excessively thin woman who knew all the right people and who could crush any opponent with her little finger. Considering how Malik had talked about Sarah, Eva had the impression that she was a terrifying person who wouldn’t stand for any bullshit. But this woman was downright… motherly. And she didn’t look the least bit chic. She was more like an ageing Goth, with her black-painted nails bitten to the quick and matted black hair.

  Eva wandered around the gallery, looking at the artwork.

  The overall theme seemed to be gender issues. The first piece, closest to the entrance, was some sort of insipid Pop Art painting in garish colours – there were allusions to Warhol, but the figures lacked impact. As a concept, it wasn’t especially exciting, but from a technical viewpoint, it was well done. Eva saw from a sign on the wall that the paintings were the work of a local woman artist.

  ‘The art on that wall changes every week. On Monday there’ll be a new exhibit. You should come back then. It’s going to be great,’ said Sarah, who had noticed that she was looking at the paintings.

  Eva nodded.

  ‘We want part of the gallery to have a low threshold so that young artists who might not have much experience get a chance to show their work.’

  The main exhibit was devoted to an artist by the name of Claire Kelly. There was a photo of her in the catalogue that was lying on a table. She was a Londoner, born in 1972, who had ‘studied art in Bergen and Istanbul’, and now lived ‘with her cat and her husband in Paris’.

  The exhibit consisted of small sculptures, with rose-pink as the dominant colour. Eva thought it was a kitschy, nightmarish version of the sorts of things found in girls’ bedrooms in the eighties: ponies and dolls, little animals made of plastic with wisps of hair sticking out. Kelly had placed the sculptures inside cloth-lined boxes with dim, porno-type lighting – grubby and stained, as if they represented a dark back room, an alleyway, or simply an image of poverty. They were like a miniature world in which everything that was nice had been mangled by a socialrealist filter, like crime scenes in a girl’s bedroom.

  There was something inexpressibly sad about this monument to lost innocence, and yet the work had humour. A little girl’s dreams that had been confronted by a filthy reality, but that somehow also radiated a certain playfulness. Eva was reminded of something from her own childhood: those endless games that she’d played with Helen, how they’d sewn clothes for their Barbie dolls, how they’d sometimes visited friends and exchanged dolls with them. That unfamiliar smell of her friends’ toys. The feel of the Barbie doll’s hard sheen.

  Another piece was a video installation in which Claire Kelly wore a full-body suit made of flesh-coloured rubber. It made her look like an air-filled, pregnant sex toy. This was where the whining sound was coming from.

  About halfway through the forty-minute film the artist pulled out a rubber penis from between her legs, which sh
e then proceeded to inflate with a pump she was holding in one hand, all the while grinding her hips towards the audience standing in front of her.

  In another video, the artist wore a bridal gown over a bulging stomach, as if she were pregnant. She was standing next to a motorway, trying to thumb a ride.

  It made Eva think about the last scene in Mike Nichols’s film The Graduate, when the young couple runs out of the church. Except that here, it was a lone woman who was running away, with her little baby inside her womb.

  At the end of the video Claire Kelly was sitting in the back of a bus, speaking directly into the camera, talking about men that she’d met and their personal stories. She counted them off, one by one: old boyfriends and several one-night stands, although she never mentioned their names, just rattling them off like letters of the alphabet; sometimes telling a lengthy story, sometimes keeping it brief. One man she’d been with was from the suburbs, and he’d told her about his childhood. When he was a teenager, he’d killed his older brother, and that transformed the story into something biblical. For a while Eva actually forgot where she was as she watched and listened; there was something hypnotic about the whole installation. At the same time, it felt very radical because it was a woman telling the stories, like a prison guard talking about her prisoners.

  Eva remembered the glass of water they’d seen in their first class. Now she understood why it hadn’t really appealed to her. There was no story. Nothing to latch on to, no narrative. In order for anyone to believe in an artist’s illusory trick, the artist first had to establish a level of trust.

  As she was leaving, Sarah glanced up from her book to give her a smile. ‘I hoped you liked it.’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Eva, thinking what a strange comment that was. Malik had been telling them all autumn that the point was not to make art that people liked.