Oneiron

  Now the Maimuna in the air is ready. She nods to the women and closes her eyes. She spreads her arms, spreads them back, straining her fingers wide. She expands her chest, bending her back like a swan flapping open her wings. Head raised, she sails in pulses to rest before the Maimuna lying on the ground.

  She can’t make this journey any more modestly.

  Wlibgis, Polina, Nina, Ulrike, Rosa, and Shlomith move to accompany her. They gather behind Maimuna, raising their hands protectively to her head. The yellow light condenses, beginning layer by layer to cover the violent picture beneath. The pulse is more powerful than ever. It roars in their ears like the ocean. It rattles their hands. It pumps auratic power from their fingertips into Maimuna’s head.

  Now, Maimuna?

  What’s happening?

  Be brave!

  Maimuna, Maimuna . . .

  We love you!

  But now one set of hands cringes and falls limp. One of the women breaks away, stumbling a little in front of the others. Nina sees something too familiar through the thickening yellow cloud, something wrong that does not belong in this picture. On the ground, next to Maimuna lying on her stomach, crouches Marcel, no one else but Marcel: Marcel Pignard. Jean-Philippe’s younger brother, who was planning another trip to Africa the last time they saw him. The posture is unfamiliar—the Marcel Nina knows never collapses. The Marcel Nina knows looks you straight in the eye, holds his head up proud, and stands tall. The Marcel Nina knows is never threatened or forced. Just like his brother, the man who saw it as his right to stay in a hotel with a strange woman on the night when Nina, Little Antoine, and Little Antoinette were in danger.

  But Maimuna is already on her way. In the dense, bright yellow light of compassion, under the protective shadow of Wlibgis’s, Polina’s, Ulrike’s, Rosa’s, and Shlomith’s hands, she stands up straight and then throws herself down. She plunges toward herself, toward the Maimuna on the ground.

  Goodbye, Maimuna!

  Goodbye!

  Farewell!

  One second.

  A shot.

  The image disappears.

  Maimuna, Yalla nako Yalla jox yirmandeem!

  SAMI SILLANPÄÄ

  HELSINGIN SANOMAT

  A Finnish architect’s two-anda-half-month ordeal ended yesterday in Northern Mali. Mikael Holmlund, 42, and his French colleague, Marcel Pignard, 38, were freed at eight o’clock Finnish time near the border with Mauritania. Malian army special forces troops met the hostages.

  In a statement released last night, Finland’s ambassador to Nigeria, Riitta Korpivaara, said both men are doing well given the circumstances and are currently recovering in a French hospital.

  Holmlund and Pignard departed for West Africa on October 18. The aim of their trip was to document the traditional buildings of the area for a joint exhibition in Finland and France. There were tentative plans for the Finnish exhibition to be held at the Helinä Rautavaara Museum.

  The friends began their journey in Benin, traveling through Burkina Faso to Mali. From there they intended to fly on to Casablanca, Morocco.

  However, their itinerary was cut short on October 28 in Timbuktu near the Sahara Desert when gunmen barged into the Amanar restaurant in which Holmlund and Pignard were eating, and forced them into a vehicle waiting outside. A local young woman who was in the architects’ company was also taken.

  The abductors’ vehicle, a two-door Jeep Wrangler, was found in the desert three kilometers from the restaurant. The kidnapped woman’s body was found beside the car.

  “Presumably, the woman was acting as a decoy, either knowingly or unknowingly,” said Foreign Ministry press secretary Marko Turunen, who spoke to Holmlund by phone. “Apparently the girl was from Senegal. According to Holmlund, she was working as a courier. We don’t know what happened, but something went seriously wrong.”

  An interpreter and driver were also with the men at the time of the abduction. Neither of them was injured, although eyewitnesses at the restaurant say several shots were fired.

  According to one Malian security official, interviewed by HS Mali correspondent Yamoussa Diabaté, the men were held prisoner by the Tuareg Islamist group Ansar Dine. Speaking on condition of anonymity, the official confirmed that the government of Mali bought the men’s freedom.

  Over recent years 90 million dollars (70 million euros) in ransom money has been paid to West African terrorists. In addition to kidnapping, significant sources of terrorist revenue include drug running and human trafficking. “However you look at it, the fact is that jihad is mostly paid for with western money,” the security official said.

  The Malian newspaper L’Essor reported that Tuareg separatists armed by Muammar Gaddafi have been working in concert with the Movement for Oneness and Jihad in West Africa (MOJWA). This group has significantly increased the risk of kidnapping for foreigners in the Mali area.

  Both France and Finland flatly deny participating in ransom payments. “Finland does not pay ransoms. We are party to international agreements that prohibit the funding of terrorism,” said Foreign Minister Erkki Tuomioja. The French foreign minister, Laurent Fabius, also claims that his government did not make any kind of deal with the kidnappers.

  The chain of events leading to the men’s release remains shrouded in mystery. “The Mali government and army played a key role in freeing the prisoners, and we expect to receive a briefing on the operational details soon,” Tuomioja said. Responsibility for the investigation of Holmlund’s abduction now shifts from the Foreign Ministry to the National Bureau of Investigation.

  “Being held hostage is very stressful psychologically, especially if the abductee witnesses a murder,” says crisis psychologist Merja Matinmäki. “But through the help of therapy and rehabilitation, most people can recover from the trauma. Often, returning home to family and friends is the only thing that can bring enough of a feeling of security to make it possible to react and work through the feelings caused by imprisonment.”

  Adapting to normal life can still be difficult, though, Matinmäki explains. “A victim returning to Finnish society may feel like an outsider.”

  TURQUOISE: WHEN NOTHING IS WHAT IT ONCE LOOKED LIKE

  Au revoir, Nina!

  The metro train is covered in a transparent turquoise advertising wrap. H&M and Versace, the fall collection. The turquoise wrap has a rosette of leopard spots and features leather and studs, silk and bright prints, high heels, and large jewelry. Ten seconds remain until Nina will hit her head on the side of the train hurtling out of the tunnel.

  Nina walks down the escalator as fast as she can with her large belly. Aboveground it’s the morning rush; the tunnel has its own inexorable time, but even so, progress is too slow. The moving staircase travels at half a meter per second, one meter in two, one and a half in three, and Nina has to make the next train, which clatters along the red line toward Saint-Joseph Hospital.

  Nina pulls her mobile phone out of her jacket pocket to call her family doctor: Stéphanie has to help. Stéphanie has to assure her she’ll arrive at the hospital in time. Stéphanie has to say that it all might be . . .

  The phone slips out of Nina’s hand, and she kicks it toward the metro platform with the tip of her shoe; it launches down, bouncing twice on the escalator. Nina steps onto the platform but instead of bending to pick up the phone off the ground, she continues running. The metro rumbles in the tunnel. Nina runs as if she means to jump straight into the metro, to pass through the wall into the car. Someone yells, “Faites attention!” but Nina doesn’t stop. One second, two, three. She jumps, trips, tumbles, hits her head against the turquoise metro car coming out of the tunnel, and is tossed aside from the force of the blow.

  Shouts erupt on the platform. Dozens of hands reach for mobile phones and call the emergency number at once. Only one picture is taken. The man closest to Nina kneels, helplessly checks her pulse, and then even more helplessly puts his red scarf under Nina’s head. Madame, can you hear me? Madame does not
. Madam, CAN YOU HEAR ME? No, madam still cannot hear. Madam has fallen into a deep state of unconsciousness. Her heart is beating, her pulse is palpable, and she’s breathing. And the babies in her womb?

  It’s clear that Nina is in need of haste. If not for herself then for the twins.

  Aboveground there’s a traffic jam. The ambulance weaves past the queues of automobiles, through red lights, but the journey is slow. By the time Nina is finally in the ambulance, the situation has changed. Nina’s breathing has slowed. The paramedic applies a neck brace and laryngeal mask; ventilation begins. Once Nina’s breathing is taken care of, the other paramedic opens her eyelids and shines a light in. No reaction in her pupils.

  Is this how it happened?

  What about the children?

  The metro didn’t hit them!

  Nina, you’re in the hands of professionals. Surely they can do something!

  And can we help you somehow?

  What would you like us to do?

  The ambulance sets off for the hospital with sirens blaring. Shlomith, Polina, Wlibgis, Ulrike, and Rosa Imaculada are grouped around Nina. It’s crowded. Rosa and Polina are standing in the same place as the two paramedics, who are attempting to revive Nina as she lies on the stretcher. The left half of Rosa’s body is inside the right half of one of the paramedics, and Polina’s bare belly is submerged in the back of the paramedic leaning over Nina.

  We aren’t bothering them, are we?

  They don’t seem to notice anything.

  We don’t exist for them.

  Well, is now when it happens?

  It happens now. It happens in a different way than these things sometimes happen. Later the doctor spells out the situation to Nina’s tearful relatives. Why saving her wasn’t possible even though she wasn’t killed instantly. If the blow had severed the connections between the cranium and the cervical spine, tearing the spinal cord, nothing could have been done even in theory. Or if the blow had damaged the brain stem, stopping her lungs and heart, there would be no room for speculation now. The doctor is patient. Even though Jean-Philippe makes insinuations about malpractice, the doctor remains calm, showing pictures and explaining. Nina’s life ends due to serious problems in her brain stem, but, as so often in life, as a result of a series of unfortunate coincidences. The contact with the metro train and Nina’s impact on the platform together create an intracranial subarachnoid hemorrhage. Blood begins to drip onto the surface of her brain, then into the fourth cerebral ventricle through the cerebral aqueduct—there really is an area of the brain called an aqueduct—through tiny holes located in the cavity wall. From the fourth ventricle the blood finds its way into the other three cerebral ventricles, as a result of which the circulation of the cerebrospinal fluid, the liquor cerebrospinalis produced by the ventricles, is impeded. Because of the excess blood, the cerebrospinal fluid becomes trapped in the ventricles, the cerebral aqueduct is plugged, and intracranial pressure begins to build. Nina’s brain tissue starts to swell. Gradually it bulges toward the incisure of the cerebellar tentorium—yes, the brain also has a tent, although it’s a Latin tent. Part of the tissue protrudes through the hole, which in turn damages the brain stem.

  At no point does Nina feel any pain—that is one hundred percent certain.

  In order for the family fully to understand the impossibility of the situation, the doctor also tells them the following fact: if a neurosurgeon with a full operating theater and staff happened to be on the metro platform, he would have sawed off half of Nina’s skull and put it in a freezer to wait. That would have balanced the intracranial pressure, the brain tissue wouldn’t have swelled, the brain stem wouldn’t have been compressed, and Nina’s chances of survival would have been more than the ten percent they were.

  But even then nothing would have been certain.

  As is always the case in life.

  Watching resuscitation makes me sick . . .

  When will they realize?

  They’re still trying.

  What else can they do?

  Nina stands behind the Nina lying on the stretcher. She places her white hands on her white hair and makes gentle stroking motions. She tries to think of her babies, first dead, then alive, but can only catch hold of a nightmarish image. Two shriveled creatures inside a matchbox on a bed of cotton wool: Mademoiselle Red and Monsieur Transparent. One with black caviar pinhead eyes, the other with rich, swirling hair.

  Nina pushes the matchbox closed in her mind, leaving the unfinished beings there for others to worry about, and shifts her thoughts to Maimuna. To beautiful, lithe Maimuna, who a moment ago dove into her own death. Nina didn’t see that moment though. She was staring at her husband’s brother, who was there, on his hands and knees in the Saharan sand. A blink of an eye—and Maimuna was gone. A gun fired. And now her turn is next, in an ambulance with her dying doppelganger, with herself, accompanied by her five afterwordly sisters who are chattering nonsense on the verge of her death.

  Nina, did you see? That paramedic started to stroke your stomach!

  Suddenly the ambulance siren stops blaring. The medics stop rushing. One of them, a young woman with freckles on her nose, holds the laryngeal mask on the Nina lying on the stretcher and looks inconsolable. With her other hand she begins to stroke Nina’s belly.

  Well now. So the moment has come.

  That’s how it looks.

  And what am I supposed to do?

  What do you mean?

  What do I have to do?

  You do like Maimuna, right?

  What did Maimuna do?

  Sometimes things go awry. Completely. Sometimes life’s most pivotal instant, the pregnant moment, as Shlomith would express it, goes all to hell. Suddenly none of the women understand how to proceed. With Maimuna, events had moved forward so purposefully and fearlessly that they had all been deceived into imagining: this is how it goes. Each would have her own turn, and how easy it would be! You just spread your arms and fall into yourself, and the end comes, as light as a feather, almost without noticing. Their task seemed ridiculously simple. They were there as Maimuna’s mental support. No one sacrificed even half a thought for the possibility that her turn would come too. This was about Maimuna. So they had to concentrate on Maimuna. And besides . . . how could anyone know if her turn would ever come?

  There they had been, spread out around Maimuna, truly supposing they were helping her. Then someone decided to place her hands protectively on Maimuna’s head! Everyone thought that was a good idea. The confusion evaporated, turning to a bustling energy, and they raised their hands and felt necessary again.

  Now everything is different. Nina is in a panic. Nina, who is known for her practicality, felicitous situational assessments, and rich imagination, stands behind the head of her worldly duplicate lying on a stretcher and stares at them in horror.

  No one remembers the significance of rhythm.

  No one feels the pulse.

  Suddenly everything is eerily quiet. The ambulance crew seem to have frozen in place.

  Nina . . . ?

  Oh little Ninjuška . . .

  What if you try to fall into it?

  Into what?

  Into it. Yourself.

  How?

  The same way as Maimuna . . .

  Maimuna spread her arms and sort of . . .

  Flung herself?

  Yes, she flung herself.

  Am I supposed to push with my legs and jump?

  Try.

  Or do I just fall?

  Do whatever feels best to you.

  Nina looks miserable. She buries her fingers in her hair that hangs over the edge of the stretcher. She looks at herself, almost a corpse, and gathers courage as if to climb into a frigid lake or to jump out of an airplane with a parachute. Then she makes a feeble push.

  It is a pitiful display.

  Hundreds of thoughts swarm in a thick cloud of terror in the air.

  No . . .

  Help,

  how do I


  . . . like this . . .

  Why don’t they!

  . . . can help . . .

  No!

  A common enemy always helps. When Ulrike thinks to turn their attention to the ambulance crew, the women’s thoughts automatically begin to coalesce around them. The shock takes on a shape, a direction, the accusations receiving a channel it is easy to pour the resentment into. For a moment.

  Those people are just waiting for the ambulance to arrive at the hospital . . .

  Where some doctor will declare Nina dead . . .

  Even though right now their help is what’s needed . . .

  Stop it! They don’t know what to do any more than we do . . .

  No one knows what to do.

  At least I don’t.

  Nina, little Ninjuška . . .

  What if we take you by the hands and pull . . .

  Or lift your legs?

  Or maybe you could all shove me in the back!

  Don’t get angry now.

  This isn’t our fault!

  Nina, if I were you, I’d close my eyes and let go.

  Let go . . . ?

  Don’t think too much. Just let go.

  So you know what I should do. Is that it? Well, would you like to come over here and take my place?

  Stop it, Nina.

  Come on and jump for me! Since you know so much!

  Wlibgis and Nina, stop it both of you.

  At this rate, Nina’s going to miss her moment . . .

  Nina, little Ninjuška, what if we sing to you?

  Polina, don’t promise too much. Do you have a song in mind you think is appropriate for this situation?

  That we all know how to sing?

  Does everyone need to sing?

  I don’t want to sing at least.

  Then Rosa Imaculada squeezes her eyes tight shut. She reaches back into her memory for a tune and the low, slightly wheezing voice that is her own. The song rasps and skips, coming to Rosa’s mind as if drawn by a steel needle from a 1940s shellac record. This is the lullaby that her grandmother sang to her when she was small, fatherless and motherless; this is the lullaby that she sang to her own small son as she lay in her bed recovering with her new heart.