The Dedalus Book of Finnish Fantasy

by Johanna Sinisalo (Translator

I’m sure I need not point out that Boman was anything but a well-behaved dog. Being too well-behaved would have become tedious after a while and Boman could certainly not be accused of that. Now that we were on a level pegging, so to speak, she began to take ever greater liberties. She would pass the time by chewing at my slippers or lounging in my favourite armchair leafing through my books. She flicked the pages over with her long tongue, often complaining that the paper and ink tasted foul. This made Boman almost as uncomfortable as the bad style of certain writers.

  The duality of Boman’s life gave rise to many amusing games. When in other people’s company she very much enjoyed pretending to be a normal dog. Whilst walking outside I would let her off the lead and she would walk by my side, behaving impeccably. I lived in a small residential area on the outskirts of Helsinki and only a few steps away from my garden there was a path leading to a quiet pond in the woods and beyond that to an uninhabited part of the coastline. This was our everyday route and we very rarely met other people along the way. On one occasion the lady from next door walked past us; Boman did not like her. The reason for this was perfectly understandable: the woman had once kicked Boman when she was a puppy because, despite her friendly smile, she did not like dogs. I greeted her politely, but Boman started to growl. She drew back her muzzle in a snarl revealing her great set of teeth – an imposing sight indeed. Boman then began to approach the woman and leant back on her hind legs as if preparing herself for an attack. The lady gave out a shrill, frightened cry and leapt off the path and into the woods with Boman barking frantically at her heels. What a sight it was! A sophisticated woman, dressed in a tight skirt, stumbling comically amongst the thicket. I laughed so much it echoed through the forest. After a while Boman appeared once again, winked mischievously and said:

  ‘I didn’t lay a paw on her, I just got a bit carried away.’

  After this incident the woman next door never said hello again and her husband would scowl at me every time we met.

  There were many other people whom Boman very much enjoyed winding up. On sunny days she would lie out in the garden and frighten debt collectors, the most malicious old gossip-mongers in the town and several of our neighbours who were known to be teetotallers. Boman did not hold any personal grudges against these people, rather she acted out of a sense of duty, knowing my natural antipathy. Over time she acquired quite an array of fervent enemies, and it would hardly have surprised me if someone had tried to offer her a treat laced in deadly poison. Boman would not have been tricked by such a thing. She never accepted treats from the hands of nasty strangers. Despite this Boman never turned general opinion against herself, because she could be as adorable as only profoundly mischievous creatures know how. Children were Boman’s sworn friends, so she had nothing to fear: children are the true rulers of suburbs like these.

  It was during this time that Boman first met Pertti, a schoolboy who lived on the other side of the woods. I never met the boy myself, and all I know about him is what Boman has told me. Pertti’s story was so appalling that it sounded almost like an old-fashioned fairytale, the kind that people nowadays find slightly trivial.

  Pertti’s mother had died and so his father had married a nasty woman, who became Pertti’s wicked step-mother, and who had soon filled their little apartment with children, Pertti’s wretched half-brothers and sisters. Even Pertti’s father no longer cared for his eldest son. That in itself was a sad enough story.

  Boman had first met Pertti down by the shore. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon and Pertti’s eyes had lit up as he stood looking out at the yachts, which seemed to be flying through the blue sky, as in the bright sunshine he could not tell where the sea and the sky met.

  ‘They’re flying,’ he said to himself.

  Boman sat down next to him and the boy continued:

  ‘Why don’t people have wings? Why can’t they fly too?’

  ‘Why don’t people just grow themselves wings?’

  Only then did Pertti notice Boman; he turned and looked at her reproachfully.

  ‘But they can’t.’

  ‘Have you tried?’

  ‘I’ve sometimes wished for them.’

  What followed was such a truly beautiful conversation about wings that only the most gifted poets would be able to repeat it. I listened in silence. When Boman told me about this encounter, I saw a romantic gleam in her eyes for the very first time, as she would not normally allow tears to cloud her intelligent eyes. Even now she seemed annoyed at how moved she was, and who else could she turn to to talk about such a thing if not to me?

  ‘Why do the bourgeois insist on having pets?’ she asked. ‘Animals have an imagination of their own, they have fantastic, wild dreams, and all the bourgeois offer them are sweet pastries and a warm home. In return they expect their pets to whimper as their master leaves the house and to jump with joy when he returns, because people like that do nothing for free.’

  There was something very endearing about Boman’s outburst, and I did not have the heart to remind her that she too was especially fond of sweet pastries and more often than not demanded that I procure them.

  I had to admit, however, that Boman’s position as my dog was far from easy. I believe the majority of my friends to be moderately intelligent, but they too have their limits. Those of my friends who considered it a great merit to have been born a human put me in a very awkward situation. With them, it was human-this and human-that from start to finish: ‘We humans … human rights … humanity … humane … super-human’. Only rarely did the word ‘animal’ interrupt this stream of humanity, and at this the speaker’s voice would become tainted with disgust. Once in a while I would become indignant on Boman’s behalf, but this was in fact unnecessary. In her intellectual independence my dog did not require the help of others. Boman proved this convincingly to me and a guest of mine, who thought himself a genius as he proclaimed that dogs do not understand the meaning of words, rather they respond to the speaker’s tone of voice.

  ‘And is that then less praiseworthy?’ I asked. ‘Many humans only understand the meanings of words, but they don’t listen to the tone of voice. Tone is also a part of speech.’

  My guest listened neither to my words nor to my tone of voice, so excited was he over his revelation.

  ‘Let’s see,’ he said. ‘I’ll demonstrate that I’m right.’

  He bowed down to Boman and very softly said:

  ‘Go to hell. Go to hell.’

  Boman had dozed off during our conversation. She looked my guest up and down, but after noticing my warning glance, she decided not to resort to violence. She got up, stretched, trotted over to my guest and lifted her hind leg at his shin as if it were a lamp-post. This of course was merely a harmless gesture, as Boman was a bitch, but my guest failed to understand the joke, despite being an intelligent and well-read man. He put on his jacket and left, and I have not seen him since.

  ‘Training humans is very hard work,’ Boman complained. ‘They never seem to learn anything from their experiences.’

  She gave me a friendly look and added: ‘Still, with some perseverence one can achieve astounding results. Sometimes I almost forget that, for instance, you are a human. And I haven’t completely ruled out the possibility that one day you might even begin to think.’

  It was not often that Boman in any way complimented me and I felt flattered. I was grateful for any attention Boman showed me, because her life had begun to fill up with other matters. More and more often she would spend entire days and nights out on her own. I was worried about her, but I also knew she would not put up with any infringement of her freedom. There were many times she would come home and tell me astonishing things. She had talked to many different people, and I wondered how it was possible that the newspapers were not running stories about a mysterious talking dog. Clearly a talking dog was not considered an appropriate topic of discussion in our society: it was one of those things that everyone was aware of, but that no one dared talk about.
This, of course, was very convenient for both me and Boman.

  A suicidal young man was one of the many people Boman had met on her lonely treks. There was a time when it seemed that hanging oneself was something of a national pursuit. Local legend and numerous folk songs are testimony to this. Whenever I have travelled through the beautiful Finnish countryside, the locals have always pointed out some protected tree growing by the side of the road, saying: ‘That’s where John So-And-So hanged himself in the year such-and-such by the full moon in autumn’. Any story beginning like that is then told in full, the speaker revelling in every detail, and often ends with the fact that the lost soul in question has never found lasting peace, but to this day haunts the cowshed behind his old house. On the whole they are young men or men in the prime of their lives. I have seen young people abroad, all of them brimming with vitality, and I felt envious on behalf of the young people back home, whose duty it seems is to at least attempt to commit suicide. Over the years hanging has made way for sleeping pills, gas and other modern methods, but Boman’s story revealed that the old tradition is still going strong.

  Boman had just taken Pertti home, but decided to run about the woods out of sheer canine joy. All of a sudden she noticed a young man sitting in a tree placing a noose around his neck. Boman did not have time to intervene before the young man jumped from tree, but the jump did not go quite as expected. The rope was far too long, so the young man did not hang from the branch; instead he fell to the mossy ground with a thud. There he sat dejectedly and burst into tears. Boman carefully approached him and said:

  ‘What bad luck you’ve had.’

  ‘Yes, and this is my third attempt,’ replied the young man, sobbing.

  ‘Dear oh dear,’ said Boman. ‘Isn’t that too much? Maybe you should measure the rope before jumping.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Check that you can stand freely under the rope whilst it’s dangling from the branch.’

  Only then did the young man realise that he was talking to a dog. He hurriedly removed the noose from around his neck and backed off from Boman. He had stopped crying and with a shrewd and suspicious look in his eyes he said:

  ‘Why, you’re a talking dog, and you’re very keen to help me kill myself. I know who you are.’

  ‘Yes, I am a talking dog.’

  The young man was not listening; he continued speaking, his teeth clenched together the way bad actors often do: ‘You came here to wait for my demise, but it seems you’ve shown yourself too soon.’

  ‘Too late, I would say. You said this was your third attempt, and I sincerely believe that both people and dogs succeed in everything they do on the first attempt. Though it has to be said, dogs very rarely hang themselves.’

  ‘I’ll make the sign of the cross and you will disappear.’

  ‘I could disappear without it, but I could also stay. You might still need my help – in measuring the rope, perhaps.’

  ‘No, don’t go,’ said the young man. ‘I’ve never met the Devil himself before. I’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Boman replied. ‘I’ve always liked nicknames, but I don’t have very many. Devil sounds good.’

  ‘That’s it, I see you’re trying to be funny. Well, humour is the Devil’s work, I’ve always known that. But you still wish me dead.’

  ‘No I don’t, quite the contrary. Bodies hanging from trees are not a pretty sight.’

  ‘In that case you’re the first creature not to wish me ill.’

  The young man looked almost moved, but Boman interrupted him.

  ‘I don’t wish you good or bad. I don’t know you. Only a moment ago I didn’t know you even existed. I can only tell you what I wish you after we’ve got to know one another. So let’s get to know one another. You could start by telling me why you tried to kill yourself.’

  The young man readily began to explain; all he needed was a listening ear. He had committed a grave sin, a crime. He had stolen. The previous evening he had gone to visit his elderly uncle, an old sea captain who had sailed the seven seas. His uncle was as miserly as the Devil himself (at this, the young man glanced sheepishly at Boman), but still the young man knew that one day he would inherit his uncle’s wealth. This was not an insignificant amount, it would be enough for him to live happily for the rest of his days. That night they had sat up talking, as on many occasions before. Suddenly, over his uncle’s shoulder on top of the bookshelf, the young man had noticed a golden Buddha staring down at him. The statue, about a span high, had probably been there for years, but the young man had never noticed it before. Now he felt that the Buddha’s mysterious smile was meant for him alone, and the metal statue began to glow, its dazzling light filling the room. The young man was convinced that there was a secret power hidden within the statue, and that it would bring both wisdom and happiness to its owner. After all, did not his own uncle think of old age and his approaching death with surprising calm? This explained everything. And because the Buddha was clearly made of gold, it was surely priceless. So once he had pondered on these thoughts for a moment, it was not surprising that he began to covet the small golden statue for himself. Acquiring that statue became vitally important to him. So when his uncle was not looking he slipped the Buddha into his pocket, bid the old man farewell and hurried off into the night with his new treasure. As soon as he got home, he took the statue out of his pocket and spent that whole summer’s night sitting on the edge of his bed staring at the Buddha. Its smile had captivated him, and the night seemed to pass in a daze. It was only in the morning that the young man realised what a serious crime he had committed, and at his job in an office he spent the whole day on edge. He was convinced that there would be no way of making up for his deeds; there was only one solution. Death.

  As he recounted his story the young man had taken the fateful statue out of his pocket and was now staring at it fixedly. He had clearly forgotten all about Boman, and gave a start as she said:

  ‘Can I have a closer look?’

  The young man held the statue out towards Boman; she inspected the Buddha carefully and asked to see underneath it.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said finally. ‘In its own way it is a very beautiful statue. I can see it has enchanted you. It’s impossible to explain that smile; I don’t think there’s anything there, but I can imagine how it might contain a secret I can never reach.’

  ‘It does contain a secret,’ he replied instantly. ‘That smile doesn’t just hold the key to life, but to existence itself.’

  ‘I believe you,’ Boman agreed. ‘If there is a secret, its key may just as well be hidden in that smile as anywhere else. The key to your secret is, however, hidden right here.’

  The young man clutched the statue tightly against his chest and shouted half sorrowfully, half rejoicing:

  ‘Think how unhappy my uncle must be. He has lost the meaning of his life, the key to his existence. I don’t believe he will ever recover from this blow; he’ll die soon.’

  ‘Oh I don’t think so. I rather suspect that this statue only holds special significance for you. Your uncle probably hasn’t even noticed it’s missing.’

  ‘That’s impossible. Even if he hasn’t understood the statue’s significance, he’ll still be frantic, out of greed. He’ll be thinking of the money he could have made by selling the statue, and now he’ll think it’s lining my pocket.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed,’ Boman replied. ‘But as far as I can see you have overestimated the value of this statue. This metal isn’t gold, it’s brass. Bite it and see; it’s an old method for identifying gold. In addition, the words “Made in England” are printed on the statue’s base. You know what this means. To anyone else your treasure is just junk, but this doesn’t matter to you. What’s most important is that for you it is the key to existence.’

  At first the young man did not understand Boman’s words, then he began to shake as if he were consumed with a terrible fever. His hands trembling, he turned the statue
over, squeezed it and finally let it fall to his feet.

  ‘I’ve been cheated, cheated,’ he shouted, hopping up and down with rage. ‘I’ve been terribly deceived.’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean. Surely you’re not angry at yourself.’

  ‘You damned cur, get out of my sight,’ shouted the young man. ‘You’re the Devil himself and this is all your doing.’

  In his rage the young man tried to kick Boman, though naturally he missed as Boman was able to move very nimbly indeed.

  ‘And here I thought I was doing you a favour,’ said Boman feigning innocence. ‘I’m sure your uncle would gladly give you that statue, or at least he would sell it to you for next to nothing. Just think – once you owned the Buddha of Secrets you would be both wise and happy. You would be able to think more calmly about death, as it draws closer every moment, though you’re still so young.’

  Boman uttered those final words to herself, as the young man had bounded off deep into the woods and would not have been able to hear Boman for the gnashing of his teeth. The brass Buddha lay on the ground. Boman would gladly have taken it home with her, but carrying a metal object in her mouth would have been most unpleasant. There was also nothing she could do about the noose still hanging from the branch above.

  ‘I do hope it doesn’t prove a fateful discovery for some other desperate chap,’ said Boman solemnly as she rounded off her story.

  Boman spent the vast majority of her time with Pertti. He had nothing to do during the long summer months and people at home were glad the longer he stayed out of their sight. I am not sure quite what the two of them got up to, but I am certain that a little boy and a dog see far more on their walks in the woods than adults. Pertti and Boman were both so close to the ground that nothing could escape their notice amongst the trees, the bushes and the moss. And they both had a very similar imagination. I knew that Boman dreamt of running through great forests, across open fields and along high cliffs. At times like this her paws would tremble restlessly and her nostrils would sniff around for strong new scents arising from the depths of her dream.