The End of Sunset Grove

by Minna Lindgren

  ‘“Graphics”, that’s a beautiful word,’ Irma said, savouring it. ‘It has a certain gravitas and solidness to it, like “gravestone”. Graphics. Do you suppose Anna-Liisa has got a gravestone for Onni yet? Wasn’t she having all sorts of trouble with it?’

  ‘You’d never believe how much!’

  Due to his bevy of ex-wives, Onni’s name hadn’t fitted on the original gravestone, and so Anna-Liisa had been forced to purchase her husband a new, larger one, in beautiful black granite. She had had her own name engraved on it in golden letters as well, which Siiri and Irma found slightly comical and above all pointlessly costly.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Jehoshaphat!’ Irma suddenly squawked, nearly frightening Siiri to death.

  A rat had emerged from behind the curtains. A real, live, sleek-coated rat that scanned its surroundings for a moment and then scampered off purposefully, its paws clacking against the plastic flooring. They gasped, unsure of how to react. Siiri felt a horrific stabbing at her temple, and Irma splashed coffee on her blue dress. When the rat jogged between their legs, they both screamed so loudly that the creature disappeared without a trace and the smartwall woke up.

  ‘Unidentified alarm! Check your smoke alarm!’

  Try as she might, Siiri couldn’t catch her breath. She felt as if she’d run eight hundred metres backwards, followed by three somersaults. Her heart was pounding ferociously, paused for a frighteningly long time, and then started pounding again. She couldn’t get a word out; she just gaped in turn at Irma and the smartwall, which once again was of absolutely no use.

  ‘It went over there!’ Irma screeched, pointing towards the kitchen. Her diamond ring flashed as if it were also on alert.

  The smartwall was as vigilant as Irma: ‘Danger over! No smoke!’

  Irma bravely rose and rushed into the kitchen. She clanked and clattered, shooed and shouted to frighten the rat, but the animal had vanished without a trace. Siiri laboriously pulled herself up and out of her chair and slowly made her way to join Irma in the kitchen. The blood was rushing through her ears as if she were standing under a waterfall. Her eyes went dark.

  ‘You’re fainting! Siiri, don’t – oh for Pete’s sake!’

  Irma caught Siiri before she collapsed to the floor and dragged her friend over to the small floral couch, where she raised Siiri’s legs onto the armrest. Siiri didn’t believe she lost consciousness, but she was too immobilized to do anything sensible. Irma was remarkably calm and collected and went to fetch Siiri something to drink from the kitchen. As she passed the smartwall, she gave it a peevish punch.

  ‘What are you staring at, with those stupid exclamation marks?’

  ‘Press 1 for ambulance 2 for customer service 3 for building maintenance,’ the wall replied amiably, dropping the exclamation marks. The yellow ball marking each option had eyes and a smiling mouth.

  Over on the sofa, Siiri caught a whiff of Irma’s cloying perfume mingled with a hint of light menthol cigarettes and Mynthon mints. She understood she couldn’t be smelling all of this, but one smell reminded her of another, and eventually an image emerged of Irma sitting on her 1930s Stockmann sofa upholstered in Sanderson fabric, a mint in her mouth and a cigarette in her hand, which she smoked solely to open up her blocked nostrils. The vein at Siiri’s temples was throbbing, but the rushing in her head had faded so that the fifth-octave A rang clearly again in her left ear. She felt vaguely nauseous. Was it the rat that had caused all of this? How was that possible? She didn’t remember ever having been afraid of rats, and in her youth they had been a common occurrence in Helsinki’s streets, courtyards and cellars. Rumour had it that some people had trapped and eaten them during the worst years of famine.

  ‘Drink this, you skittish city girl,’ Irma said cheerfully and handed Siiri a coffee cup decorated with pink songbirds and filled with red wine. ‘You’ll feel stronger. Skål!’ She had filled her own glass to the brim but slurped it masterfully from the side so that not a single drop splashed onto the flowered sofa or her blue dress.

  Irma was right. A couple of swigs of the slightly sour red wine worked wonders. Siiri felt her blood circulating again, from her humming head to her stiff legs, and she wanted to sit up at Irma’s side. Irma had her work cut out, hoisting Siiri’s old limbs from the armrest to the floor, but the moment passed cheerfully with Irma singing her favourite Schlager, ‘Siribiribim’.

  ‘So we have rats,’ Irma said in satisfaction, since the day hadn’t turned out to be a typically dull one, of which they had far too many. ‘Is this the beginning of the end now? Like in Camus’ The Plague?’

  This rat was healthy and alive, unlike in Camus’ book, where rats spat up blood, died in the streets and spread the plague. They spent a moment pondering if the rat had come looking for food, but decided that was improbable. Surely more tempting victuals were to be found in the skips of Munkkiniemi, enough for a rat to feed on to its heart’s content. What if the creature had smelled a body? Had someone died again?

  ‘Trained rats could be a good solution to the problem of old people dying in their retirement-home flats without anyone noticing,’ Siiri said.

  Such things happened on occasion, an old person might languish dead for weeks before some cleaner or light-bulb changer noticed them. There had recently been talk on the radio about the dangers of dying alone. One of the city’s bureaucrats had suggested that retirement homes and assisted living centres be required to check on each resident’s state once a week.

  ‘To see whether they’re alive or dead!’ Irma said, and started cackling. She wiped the tears from her eyes with a lace handkerchief and couldn’t stop laughing. They pictured some caregiving trainee, some seventeen-year-old Jemina, knocking timidly at the residents’ doors asking whether they were alive or dead and reporting the result with her smartphone. A trained rat would be much better suited to the task.

  ‘Or we could volunteer to do it ourselves. I might be rather good at it; I’d rap on the door and ask if there are any good dead boys or girls at home.’

  Irma emptied her handbag onto the porcelain table she had painted herself in a floral pattern, found her pack of cigarettes and had just managed to light her first nasal-opener of the day when there was strident throat-clearing at the door. Someone had entered Irma’s flat.

  ‘We’re alive!’ Irma crowed in her piercing falsetto, developed during the private singing lessons of her youth.

  A tall, slim woman appeared before them. Her age was hard to determine, because she was by no means young, but compared to Siiri and Irma she couldn’t be considered old. She had shiny hair, dyed black, large plastic spectacles, and beady eyes that scanned the apartment inquisitively.

  ‘Hi, I’m Sirkka.’

  Their visitor didn’t have a last name; no one did, these days. She was just Sirkka. Bewildered, they studied the intruder, who offered no explanation for popping by. She was wearing a blousy turquoise knit top, tight trousers cut from upholstery fabric, and bright green heels.

  ‘At least ten centimetres. How can she keep from toppling over?’ Irma said to Siiri, as if they were watching a television programme and not a living person.

  ‘Did you come to check if we’re dead?’ Siiri asked, hoisting herself up from Irma’s low sofa to greet their guest. Sirkka’s grip felt alarmingly cold and bony.

  ‘My name is Siiri Kettunen; I live next door,’ Siiri said, looking Sirkka warmly in the eyes. They had a peculiarly penetrating gaze. ‘How can we help you?’

  ‘If you’re collecting money, I don’t have any. I can’t find my magic button anywhere. All I have is a debit card, and I don’t know if it has any money, either,’ Irma added, still puffing away on the sofa.

  She was right of course. There was no point collecting money, even for a worthy cause, the Red Cross or the Disabled War Veterans Association, because no one carried cash, and one couldn’t even get it from the bank any more.

  ‘I understood an alarm went off here,’ Sirkka said in a high, reedy voice. Sh
e was wearing an abundance of make-up, and her carefully drawn eyebrows rose above her spectacles.

  ‘No, that was me,’ Irma said, waving the cigarette smoke out of her face with a jangle of her gold bracelets. Siiri loved the sound. She looked at her friend happily, who began explaining at length to their uninvited guest how shrilly she could squeal, or sing if necessary. She offered a couple of masterful samples of her vocal skills, and when she arrived at the Queen of the Night’s staccatos, the smartwall popped on, once again imagining that there was a fire in the kitchen.

  ‘Look! That wall has lost its mind!’ Irma pointed accusingly at the screen, which once again suggested three solutions to the problem: 1 Fire blanket 2 Emergency services 3 Maintenance company. Sirkka furrowed her foundation-caked brow, looking like nothing more than Snow White in ugly clothes.

  ‘Have you heard about the Holy Spirit?’ she then asked. That was the only option the smartwall hadn’t yet proposed that morning.

  Irma burst out laughing, but Siiri tried to be polite and look engaged, because she didn’t like judging people on the basis of their religion. Who knew, perhaps this Sirkka had something interesting to tell them? But Sirkka didn’t wait for their reaction. She had already reached into her green shoulder bag and pulled out brochures and pamphlets, which she now laid out on Irma’s porcelain table like lures to tempt them into conversation. Upon seeing the Prayer Clinic brochures, Irma got upset. She popped up angrily and announced that she was offended that someone would trespass on her home in this fashion simply because her singing was mistaken for a fire alarm and that someone was monitoring her life with espionage equipment of every description.

  ‘Are you the one who saw me raise my voice a little, cooped up in the bowels of the cellar monitoring us? I know you have a surveillance centre down there, where you spy on us more eagerly than the Stasi and the KGB put together ever dreamed of? Did my squealing bring you rushing up here with a handbag full of the Holy Spirit? Are you completely out of your mind?’

  Sirkka rose to a threatening height and ran a hand across her sleek hair. Siiri sincerely hoped she wouldn’t start asking them about the meaning of life. They were far too old to be interested in such poppycock.

  ‘I heal in Jesus’s name; I drive out evil spirits. When you receive the Holy Ghost as the wellspring of your life, you are reborn and no longer try to rule your own life. It’s that simple. In order to take yourself over to divinity, all you have to do is allow the Holy Spirit into your heart. It will be granted to you as long as you stay close to Jesus. I free you from the powers of Satan. I’m here to listen to you and pray for you. It’s that simple.’

  Irma took a step backwards so she wouldn’t be standing too close to the strange woman, who emanated strength and animosity. Siiri could see that Irma was on the verge of bursting with rage but couldn’t figure out how to address this creature. She looked at Siiri, eyes boiling with anger.

  ‘Maybe you could pray for us that the rats would leave us alone,’ Siiri said.

  This caught Sirkka off guard, even though she must have been a seasoned itinerant preacher. In all likelihood she had grown accustomed to hearing about violence, rape, alcoholism, insomnia, drugs, unemployment, loneliness and paedophilia, but no one had ever turned to her for assistance with rats. As she hesitated as to how to react, Irma had an inspiration.

  ‘We’re also fine with you praying for the rats and leaving us in peace. Feel free to pick a side depending on which of us is more possessed by the Devil, the rats or us. It’s that simple!’

  Irma walked into the hallway so Sirkka would take a hint and skedaddle. When she didn’t budge, Siiri took her by the elbow and escorted her to the door. Sirkka fidgeted with the strap of her shoulder bag but couldn’t find the right words for the moment. Irma winked at Siiri and gave the door a push. As the door opened painfully slowly, they spied a fat rat in the corridor, bathing in the autumn sun.

  ‘Cock-a-doodle-doo!’ Irma crowed. It came instinctively from her repertoire, and in this instance was rather appropriate. The rat dashed off, the smartwall in the living room came on, and Sirkka the Saver of Souls collapsed to the floor.

  Chapter 3

  The swooning volunteer preacher attracted well-deserved attention in the lobby of Sunset Grove as she was escorted over to the sofa, still in a state of discombobulation. Looking dignified in her black dress, as straight-backed and august as ever, Anna-Liisa wasted no time placing pillows under Sirkka’s neck. Then she posed the patient a few questions the others found puzzling and to which Sirkka the Saver of Souls did not respond.

  ‘I am going to survey your neurological status,’ Anna-Liisa announced. ‘Can you stick your tongue out? Make a face? What is your favourite colour?’

  The sudden appearance of a meaningful task vitalized Tauno. Back hunched and cap teetering on his head, he rocked about, hands fanning at his sides, and commanded the troops as effectively as only a front-line officer accustomed to wartime exigencies could.

  ‘Water! Bring water! Lift her legs – make way; I’ll take her pulse.’

  Tauno couldn’t find a pulse, which didn’t surprise anyone. Sirkka gave off such a frigid air when she was in full fettle that her pulse must have been nearly imperceptible after major athletic exertion, let alone on the brink of consciousness.

  Margit attempted to abort her session in the automated massage chair, but to no avail. She spent time every day in the ugly black artificial leather contraption; its iron fists pounded one’s bones and muscles so brutally that Siiri felt like she’d been dragged off and beaten from head to toe after her one and only treatment. Each mauling cost five euros, paid for with a wave of one’s fob, but Margit wasn’t one to count her pennies when the chair’s vibrators were kneading her vast carcass. She let out such moans that the others couldn’t help but be reminded of her dear departed husband Eino’s virile years and the echo of the couple’s afternoon lovemaking down the corridors of Sunset Grove, now but a distant memory.

  Sirkka the Saver of Souls started coming round. ‘Holy Spirit . . . Gift of the Spirit . . . God’s strength in me . . .’ Tauno slapped her pale cheeks a couple of times, prompting her to open her eyes.

  ‘I’ve been touched by the Holy Spirit! The moment of clarity has come!’ Sirkka rose to sitting, an entranced look on her face, and no longer seemed the least bit frail. ‘I was reborn Tuesday, 29 April 1997. My prayers have finally been answered. Thanks be to God!’

  Then she returned to earth, scanned the crowd of concerned nonagenarian faces surrounding her, and was overcome with a girlish shyness. ‘Tell me . . . How did I . . . Did I speak in tongues?’

  Sirkka the Saver of Souls didn’t seem to grasp that she had fainted. She believed a gift of the spirit had been visited upon her due to the steadfastness of her faith, that her loss of consciousness had been a sign of some sort of anointment – the sort that, among neo-charismatic revivalist movements, was anticipated more feverishly than death was in retirement homes.

  ‘You didn’t speak any Swedish, I can tell you that much,’ Irma said. ‘You just fainted. This time your Holy Spirit was a rat, a very plump and healthy specimen. I’ve seen much skinnier. The ones that overran cellars and rubbish bins in the 1940s were often terribly malnourished, seeing as how there wasn’t enough food for humans at the time, not to mention rats. They had mangy fur and funny tails longer than the poor rats themselves. But this rat of ours was very handsome; its fur had a beautiful sheen.’

  Sirkka didn’t hear any of what was said to her. She lifted both of her hands and raised her voice to a dreadful volume.

  ‘And these signs shall follow them that believe: in my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover. The Gospel according to St Mark, chapter sixteen, verses seventeen and eighteen.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, drink!’ Anna-Liisa ordered Sirkka the Sav
er of Souls so brusquely that the other woman stopped blathering, lowered her hands, and accepted a glass of water. She downed it in one swig without looking at the contents. But she believed she was immortal, and took superhuman courage from the fact.

  Anna-Liisa fixed her flinty gaze on Sirkka. With her mourning wear, dark, flashing eyes, and hand clawed around her cane, Anna-Liisa was a spooky sight, and not only to the volunteer. Since her husband’s death, Anna-Liisa had dressed exclusively in black, refusing to compromise on this principle in even the most scorching weather. It was insanity, but Anna-Liisa was resolute. Black drained the colour from her face, making her look pale and frail.

  Sirkka handed the glass back to Anna-Liisa and wiped her mouth on her sleeve, leaving behind an unpleasant smear of lipstick. Siiri knew the stain would be hard to get out in the wash.

  ‘Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits. Psalms, chapter one hundred and three, verse two.’

  ‘No need to involve anyone else; I’m the one who brought you the water. Now perhaps you can walk out of here on your own two feet, as, to my understanding, we no longer require your assistance,’ Anna-Liisa said, pointing her cane at the main door. Sirkka ran a hand across her black coiffure, tugged at her loosely knit top until it offered some semblance of coverage for her shoulders, rose briskly, and exited with a clack of her high heels.

  ‘God bless you all,’ she intoned upon arriving at the door. Her smile was beautiful, as blissful and happy as only that of a bride of Christ who has witnessed a miracle could be.

  ‘Did we get rid of her yet?’ bellowed the tattooed drunk of a doctor who always wanted to go to the Ukko-Munkki for a pint and sit on her balcony in the sun without any knickers. During the renovation, every apartment at Sunset Grove had been outfitted with an external glass cubicle that served as a balcony, and from hers Siiri could see everything the doctor and the other residents did in their display windows. It was far from pleasant. Ritva Lehtinen, that was the doctor’s name. Now Ritva walked over in sandals, ripped dungarees, and a summer top. She always went around in a sun visor these days, rain or shine, and lately it had been shining. She smelled powerfully of tobacco after having fled the swooning saver of souls for a smoke in the courtyard.