Sometimes, the door leading into the drawing room was left ajar, and by craning my neck I could see them, sitting at a round table surrounded by grand furniture and busts twisted into strange positions. There were bottles and glasses on the table. The master of the house would always have his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up high on his muscular arms. The others, too, had loosened their clothing; only Erik squatted stiff and formal in his ill-fitting Sunday jacket and unstarched loose collar. He was so obviously a peasant, lost among townsmen. I believe he kept me with him for that very reason; he might have come from the country but he still had a manservant. I was sure he wouldn’t tell anyone that we were related.
He behaved well and with restraint, eyeing his cards coolly and, upon winning, shrugging off the other men’s congratulations. He resembled a gravedigger, or a verger in his Sunday best, who is privately mulling over a bottle he has concealed in the chapel foundations, or the tribulations of his wife, languishing in confinement, but who behaves in front of the congregation as if filled with the Holy Spirit. He barely touched a drop of liquor, merely moistened his lips with it cautiously from time to time. When he finally got up from the table at an early hour of the morning, he was in the habit of bowing clumsily to the other players and taking leave of them in such an everyday manner that he might as well have been leaving a meeting of the village society.
In winter, however, his demeanour and appearance changed. He had learnt to lose. His collar began to droop, his eyes goggled feverishly, he kept licking his lips in a tortured manner and twisting about in his chair. He no longer despised the liquor but drank it down like all the others. Often, after we had left the house, he did not want to seek out the cheap quarters where we had been in the habit of spending the night, or what was left of the night. Perhaps he felt that fleeing the town distanced him from his losses. So we sped through the moonlit landscape, ignoring the frost and the blizzard. I was chilled by the frost but a mysterious source of warmth had lit up inside me. Although I did not yet know about the future, although I had no inkling of it, I was close to bursting into a song as I held the reins in my numb hands. I felt much more than mere joy at his misfortune. I felt as if I had died and were about to be brought back to life.
He did not always lose. Sometimes he won and paid his debts in order to have the opportunity to lose again. I noticed his increasing restlessness in between the trips to town. The house with its outbuildings, the surrounding forests and fields, were no longer enough for him. He was constantly on the move, stamping hither and thither aimlessly. His face was etched with premature lines, and his eyes stared hard, as if out of the mouths of caves.
Winter turned into spring and we were given the war. Erik gambled, lost, won, lost again. The lilacs began to blossom once more. I did not know I would shortly enlist in the army when we made one more journey to town and the luxurious white-painted house that had become Erik’s private Sodom. I sat in the porch, as always, and this time I understood that it was not fate kicking Erik but human inventiveness. I saw through a chink in the doorway that the other gamblers – the master with his relaxed demeanour, two porky-faced burghers and a tall man with a permanent, ghastly grin – were giving each other signals. Both Erik and I should have realized a long time ago. They were rubbing their necks, scratching their noses, or tugging at their whiskers so frequently that you would have thought they were victims of an attack by a swarm of angry fleas. Tortured by his anxiety, Erik didn’t notice anything, and I lacked the courage or the will to burst into the drawing room and tell him.
As we were leaving, the master followed Erik to the steps. He did not address Erik with the same playful brotherliness he had adopted in the summer, and even into autumn. His voice took on a rough, earnest tone as he said, ‘I’ll give you a few weeks. After that, the matter will have to be arranged.’
‘There’s a war on,’ Erik said. His voice wheezed, as if it were being squeezed through a narrow tube. ‘It’s difficult to arrange anything.’
The master gave it some thought. ‘All right. Until the hostilities have ended. But not beyond that.’
So Erik was granted time by the Emperor and the King. Soon I understood that the war suited him. Of course, he did not really like war itself, but it kept him at a remove from the inevitable march of events that awaited him once battle ceased. After we had finally retreated into the miserable winter camp at Tornio, I realized that he did not miss home at all. He would rather lie around, hungry and cold, amid the stench of congealed blood and rotting flesh. When we received the order to depart, he walked the long journey virtually wordless, day after day only opening his mouth when forced to. Not until we were walking along the familiar village road did he come out with, ‘Might be worth your while starting to look for work.’
‘What for?’ I asked.
‘You just never know. Could be I’ll lose the house.’
At that moment, I was too tired to think about it. I put the matter to one side. I expect I would have done so even if I had known about the letter waiting for me at home.
Once I had read it, I sat in my room for a long while without moving. You could hear the emotional voices of the womenfolk, who were mobbing Erik in another room. Meanwhile, I stared at the unpapered wall with watery eyes and tried to digest the fact that I had been liberated. I had not even known that I had an uncle living in the New World, let alone one with a fortune to leave me. The news was almost too massive to absorb, but absorb it I did. Fortunately, I had also learnt patience, for I needed it now, along with resourcefulness. First I had to invent a pretext for travelling to the capital to arrange my affairs, and then another for going to Vaasa to speak to the Crown Bailiff. I needed to be long-suffering and cunning in persuading the Bailiff to carry out his official duties, but before that, I had to pay a visit to the manor house, a Gomorrah erected for Erik’s personal use but the Promised Land to me.
For once, I went there in broad daylight. It was still a handsome house by day, but a little smaller, more modest. And the proprietor, who received me in a smoking jacket, did not seem as overpowering as he had on the dark gambling nights. But he did not let me inside the house this time, instead scrutinizing me haughtily from the front door before asking, ‘What do you want? Your master must have sent you because he didn’t have the nerve to come himself.’
‘I don’t have a master,’ I said. ‘But if you’re referring to Erik, I’ve come to talk about him.’
He wrinkled his nose, with its wide nostrils. ‘Go ahead, then. But I haven’t got all day.’
‘Erik’s got these IOUs? And he’s pawned his house?’
His gaze sharpened. ‘It’s no secret as far as I’m concerned.’
‘Good. I was thinking I’d buy them.’
When I saw how fast greed can follow realization in a man’s eyes, I felt like slapping my thighs. ‘Buy? Buy what?’ he said.
‘The debts, I’d like to buy the debts.’
After which I was invited in and seated in the best chair in the drawing room. That was done, no doubt, to ensure that I did not keel over onto the floor after emptying all the chalices served by the master. The offerings of liquor did not make me like the man; on the contrary, I saw through him and thought I could never stoop as low as he had, by practising deceit behind a façade of respectability. I did, however, have to compromise that principle when the Crown Bailiff unexpectedly showed little inclination to cooperate.
What I have done is not strictly in the spirit of the catechism. Never mind. Tomorrow I will be moving into the big chamber upstairs, I will address the servants and begin to delve into the finances of the house. Then I will sit in the drawing room and chew steak, so that fat drips down my chin.
I will begin to live like a lord.
THE HOUSEMAID
Mother saw him first. He was standing by the gate, staring. One night then the next. He was small, immobile, inscrutable. Mother said he would have to be chased away because he was bound to have impure intentions. I wa
s tempted to reply that it was high time I got to know that side of life. I bit the words back, though, and then one day, when I came back from the shop, he was sitting inside and Mother had made real coffee for him. They were talking confidentially and laughing, and Mother’s cheeks were red like after sauna.
I did not think much of him. That beard made me sick. I knew I could get a much more imposing man if I wanted. I had not failed to notice how the shoemaker’s apprentice looked at me when I was out and about, and the tinker who moved here from the neighbouring village. But after Mother began talking about the biggest house in the village, and what it would be like to be the mistress there, something inside me melted. I did not at first understand how such a tramp could become a master, but then I saw the money. A bundle of notes lay on the kitchen table and Mother’s lips trembled. Later, Mother said it was God’s gracious treasure. That I understood. We had not eaten pork fat for a long time since Father’s death.
Then he was allowed into my room. They say you can do that once matters have been settled. Mother gave me some scent and told me to rinse under my arms and wash down below in the tub. He began stripping off his trousers with his back towards me, and I clenched my teeth and prepared myself for the pain. I hardly felt a thing. Come morning, after he had gone, Mother rushed to my bedside and began wailing. She asked if it had hurt badly. I said I had felt a bit of a tickle. Mother laughed, clacking her teeth. I could see her cavities shining.
Then he took me to town and bought me fripperies and I was like a lady. I did not care for the gentlewoman’s corset; it was suffocating, and I found it hard to undo at the back. But otherwise I liked it in town, where everything was fine and men stared at me like I was a really good heifer and where there was a place where you could sit daintily and eat lovely cream cakes. I asked him if we could not live in town instead. He said that with his money, we could run both the big house and another in town. And when he promised that I could eat cakes until I grew fat, I saw that I loved him ardently.
Then he began to coax me into it. At first I simply listened, not speaking, and he grew agitated and began harping on about it. I put him out of his misery, telling him there was no need to go on about something so simple. I promised that if I got the cakes and the houses, I would be prepared to be tickled by as many as ten men. We had done it several times by then and I had begun to like it. A roll in the hay is not bad as long as the man smells good.
So he took me to the house. There were other women there, all being ordered around by a madam with her face powdered white. And then the Bailiff arrived and I went upstairs with him. We frolicked a little and that was the end of it. Mauri was very pleased with me.
Then he sent Mother to talk to the Old Mistress of this house. I was to become a maid. It was not such a great sacrifice, I thought, especially since I knew it was temporary. Mauri told Mother what to say to the Old Mistress, and Mother did well because the old lady wanted to see me. The Old Mistress questioned and examined me; in the end I thought she would even check my teeth. I had the wits to lie and make out I could not bake. Kneading dough makes me think of men’s buttocks and then I grow damp.
I was supposed to listen to what they were all saying. I heard nothing special. At night I have had to creep into Mauri’s chamber except when it was that time of the month and I was left in peace for a change. And now I only need to sleep one night and I will be the Mistress. I just hope that Henrik will not let slip what we got up to in the stable not so long ago, before he heads off. Although I doubt Mauri would be cross. He does not really want me, at least not wholeheartedly and all the time. Sometimes, while toiling away with his back all covered in sweat, he forgets my name and calls me Anna.
HENRIK
I leave the drawing room and go into Father’s small study. This is where he used to sit, waiting for death: patient, modest and silent, his dry mouth working thoughtfully. Everything is as it was, nothing has been removed. Dust has been allowed to amass since his burial. There are fingerprints at the edge of the writing desk. Some of them are old, themselves dusted over, other are clearly fresh. They could have been left by anyone, but they make me recall Father’s gnarled hands.
I can now admit it to myself: I was afraid of those hands. Needlessly – he would not have broken a child’s nail.
The drawers are locked. I could easily force them open but that’s no longer necessary. This house is lost. How did the rat do it? I may yet be roused to kill him, but that does not prevent me from conceding his merits. One has to respect a man who first leads a sweet life in a nest belonging to others, a lavishly fed cuckoo chick, and then, at an opportune moment, proves to be the lawful owner not just of the nest but of the whole tree. If I do ever shove a knife into his kidneys, I will at least take my hat off to him beforehand.
Dusk sticks to the window. I was going to wait until night-time to leave, but it makes no difference now. I should go ahead with my plan, forget this place, shake it off. I just wanted to see this little corner once more. I do not know why. Perhaps I thought I would find the familiar smell of boot grease here. But I smell only dereliction and oblivion.
I hear sounds from the kitchen. There is no one in the yard. Although it is not completely dark yet, the oil lamps have been lit indoors. I go outside. To be on the safe side, I walk in the direction of the river. I climb down the bank, trampling the dry, rustling snow, and turn into the forest. I leave footprints but it cannot be helped. The wind has dropped and an overpowering silence comes out from the pines to thunder overhead. I begin hoping for some sound or other to break it – axe strokes, the scrabbling of wood grouse, even the howling of wolves. The sky has withdrawn behind a colourless cloud and the snow is vanishing among trees that match its grey hue. The forest is not as it used to be, the years have reshaped it, I have to find my way by following my instinct. I take care not to stumble on invisible roots. I begin panting, I feel the rush of blood in my ears. Am I afraid? No, but I do not wish to think about it, I just want to do it. The deed has been waiting for me patiently and I am hastening towards it. I will settle the old debt in my way and afterwards I will be far away.
I reach the edge of the field. A light glows in Jansson’s windows, piercing the thickening twilight. I am close, my blood has calmed, my lungs are fresh. I crouch as I creep across the field. I feel the frozen plough marks of autumn through my boots. I reach the cover of the old underground cellar just in time; a short, stout man, probably around the same age as me, walks through the yard. Anna’s brother, presumably. The Devil himself could not remember them all, their very conception is an unpardonable sin. Now the man knocks the snow off his boots on the steps, opens the front door, enters the house. Crouched, sounding out the surroundings with my senses, I speed to the door of the barn and squeeze in through the narrow opening.
I blink the darkness out of my eyes. The stench of straw stings my nostrils. I take the iron and the flint out of my pocket and feel my way with my feet towards the tall, looming stack. I bend down and start striking fire. Sparks fly into the dry hay. I drop to my knees, I blow into it. The straw is reluctant to catch fire. If only I had tinder.
The door opens behind me and a yellowish circle of light appears. I do not need to turn round to know that I have failed. I have my senseless impatience to thank for that. There have been such moments before; they form the landmarks of my journey on this earth. My destiny is to roam the world, superior in my abilities and above all in my will, but forced to concede that inferior abilities and wills again and again get to be in the right place at the right time. They have been granted a dower and they redeem it before they are widowed by the death of their opportunities. So I may as well turn round.
‘Who’d have thought,’ Mauri says, casually dangling a musket in front of him, ‘that you’d sink this low?’
‘I haven’t sunk low,’ I reply. ‘I was trampled down long ago.’
‘Maybe. But now I’ve got to save you, out of the goodness of my heart. I’ll have to settle this wi
th Jansson so you won’t get into trouble.’ He keeps turning the gun so that its barrel traces a line across my stomach. ‘Because an arson attempt can mean a ball and chains.’
‘It doesn’t matter to me. Prison won’t be much of a change. I’d probably meet pitiful scoundrels who enjoy cheating others out of their possessions.’
Jansson, who stands behind Mauri carrying a lantern, clears his throat and says in a quavery voice, ‘What if we just let this go? After all, nothing’s actually happened.’
Mauri does not bother even to glance at him. ‘You saw what he was about to do.’
Jansson’s fleshy face wobbles. ‘I saw, all right.’
‘And if necessary, you can mention it to the right people. I’m sure those people would keep it to themselves long enough for nobody round here to come to grief.’
Jansson’s eyes start darting about anxiously. ‘Yes, I…’
‘Good. You can go back into the house. But leave the lantern.’
So not only is Mauri in charge of the affairs of one house, he has also been blessed with the right to lord it over the masters of neighbouring houses. I immediately feel sorry for Jansson: a repulsively fat man who whines breathlessly even when standing still and whose sad clown’s face reflects the humiliating defeat of the whole of mankind. Age has begun bearing down on him. I barely recognize the man whom I once liked and who smilingly eyed me by the enclosure fence and said, ‘All right, then. If you’re mad enough, maybe you should be allowed to earn the hack.’ Now, as he waddles to the door, his head lowered, it seems he is struck by the same memories, for he turns to look at me and says, ‘I was thinking. About the horse…’
‘You may go indoors!’ Mauri cuts in. His voice lashes out, a snake attacking from a bush. ‘I’ll take care of the rest with Henrik.’
The Brothers Page 7