by Diego Marani
Before going back to Saint Petersburg, I had to stop off here in Moscow to get Ivan a passport. It wasn’t easy. I had to pull strings and it all took several days. Ivan is completely at sea in a big city. The lighting and the crowds are what bother him most. He hates walking down a busy pavement, and finds the flashing shop signs particularly alarming. By day he stays in his hotel room, and by night I take him walking in the parks. He needs to take long walks in the darkness before he calms down a bit. The plane journey nearly did for him; another flight to Helsinki might really finish him off, so I thought of taking the Friday night train with him which arrives in Helsinki about 7.30 in the morning. But I shall have to stop off at Saint Petersburg because there’s a meeting of the academic senate on Saturday night, and after so many months away I can’t afford not to be there. So I’m asking you if you’d be good enough to meet Ivan at the station and take care of him for a few hours. I’ll be arriving by plane the same evening, on the 19.15 flight. There won’t be much for you to do. Leave the hotel booking to me. Your task is just to be with him and make him feel safe. Perhaps you could say something about him to the people at the desk, so that they’ll be more understanding. I do hope you can help me. I’ve talked to Ivan a lot about you. I’ve told him that you’re a dear friend, that you’re a scientist, like me, that you study the languages of the men of the tundra and that you wish them well. So he decided he wanted to make you a present – a pipe made from the bone of a falcon, the kind his people play when they go hunting and want to propitiate animal spirits. He’ll give it to you when you meet. I’m telling you this because it’s important that you show appreciation for this gift. This matters to him – it is a sign of trust.
I’ll telephone you on Friday 9th January to make sure that you’ve received this letter, trusting I’ll find you in your office. If I remember rightly, around six o’clock you always used to have a nip of cognac in front of the open window before going down to dinner. And I know you to be a man who doesn’t change his habits lightly.
See you soon,
Olga.
Professor Aurtova had just finished reading the last few words when the phone rang.
‘Hallo, Olga.’
‘Jarmo! Is it still cognac?’
‘Koskenkorva is for backwoodsmen and vodka is strictly for Russians. All that’s left for civilised people is cognac. One day we’ll be making an excellent cognac on the banks of the Pyhaharvi.’
‘Some people never change, eh?’
‘Change implies mistakes.’
‘Same old fighting spirit, I see. Is it my Vostyach who’s worrying you?’
‘It depends how Vostyach he is. He might just be a drunken Kalmuck who got on the wrong train.’
‘I see. You didn’t like the dig about the red-skins. Come on, I take it all back. Let’s bury the hatchet and light the pipe of peace.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m not on a war footing. Send me your Vostyach by all means. I’m eaten up with curiosity.’
‘You’ll see, you’ll be moved the moment you hear his voice.’
‘I’ll try not to cry. What time does the train arrive?’
‘At 7.48. Ivan will be in coach 16. You can’t miss him: he’s dressed like a trapper and he always has his drum slung round his neck.’
‘I hope he doesn’t bite. What does he eat?’
‘Very funny. Try roots and berries! But Jarmo, do you really not believe me?’
‘I believe you all right. I was just joking. Where will your wild chum be staying?’
‘I’ve booked two rooms at the Torni. I’m not asking you to entertain him. All you have to do is keep him company; above all, don’t let him go wandering around on his own. And remember that he doesn’t drink alcohol. One more thing: don’t talk to him in Russian. That might frighten him. I’ve assured him that there are no Russians in Finland.’
‘What language should I address him in? I warn you, I have no intention of learning Vostyach!’
‘I’m sure that if you speak to him in Finnish, but without inflecting the nouns, with the help of the odd gesture he’ll understand you. Unless you’ve still got a smattering of Nganasan.’
‘Absolutely not. But I’ll manage. Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of your noble savage. Indeed, for friendship’s sake I’ll come and meet you at the airport on Saturday evening.’
‘Oh, that’s sweet of you! It takes a Vostyach to drag a chivalrous gesture out of you!’
‘Well, at least he’s serving some purpose.’
Aurtova hung up. He downed the last drop of cognac and walked over to the map of the world by Ibn Al-Idrisi, the first geographer to have described the lands inhabited by the Finno-Ugrians in the Middle Ages. He scratched his beard thoughtfully, his attention fixed on the regions occupied by the speakers of Ingrian, Votic, Vogul, Mordvin and Udmurt, each with their different colours, stretching from Karelia as far as the Laptev Sea. At the bottom, in the margin, a dotted blue line indicated the lands supposedly occupied by the mysterious Vostyachs. ‘Two thousand wasted years,’ he thought. His people had spent two thousand years emerging from the darkness of the steppe. They had struggled, suffered, been in danger of being swept aside by brutal enemies. With admirable persistence they had at last won themselves respect among the European nations, indeed they were gaining a sphere of influence in the lands peopled by their backward linguistic cousins, and Finnish was gradually becoming the lingua franca of the Arctic Ocean. But now ‘someone’ was trying to throw Finland into the dustbin of history, together with the other conquered peoples who have no future. Aurtova was not having that. He looked away from the map and towards the portrait of Marshal Mannerheim, the hero who had twice saved Finland from the Russians. Now it was up to him, Jarmo Aurtova, to save his country. From those same uncouth Vostyachs, no less! The professor clenched his fists. His eyes lit up, and a brief dizzy spell caused him to lose his balance. Suddenly Ibn Al-Idrisi’s great map seemed to be positively awash with Finno-Ugrians: speakers of Veps, Ingrian, Nenets and Karagass seemed to be marching over the parchment like so many ants, forming endless black columns which soon scored the entire Siberian plain. The Hungarians were headed directly westwards, leaving speakers of Mordvin and Cheremis behind them. Speakers of Veps, Votic and Permic fanned out along the rim of the Arctic Ocean, while the Sami and Karelians carried on as far as the White Sea. Even the Finnic peoples lingered for a time beside the Pechora before heading firmly southwards towards Lake Ladoga. Samoyeds, Komi and Voguls crossed the Jenisej en masse and spread throughout the upland plains, pushing eastwards in ever-dwindling numbers. Only the Vostyachs never moved away from their Byrranga Mountains. Nervously watching all the others leaving, they wheeled round, clustered together on the shores of the Laptev Sea, and then withdrew into their forests. Peering more closely at the map, the professor saw hunters dressed in skins, hiding behind rocks, bows at the ready. Dark-complexioned, their skin chapped by the wind, they had deep-set narrow eyes and wore necklaces of wolves’ teeth around their necks. The women were huddled behind them, their babies wrapped in furs, their sledges, laden with household goods, standing beside reindeer kneeling in the snow. In the distance, a group of yurts had clearly been set on fire and armed horsemen were pillaging the smoking ruins, apparently emitting blood-curdling yells. They must have been Pechenegs or Khazars, who had left the steppe to follow the rivers down to the Arctic Ocean, sacking and slaughtering as they went. Blinking owlishly, Aurtova roused himself from his torpor and suddenly the vision faded, the human anthill disappeared. Now the map was as silent and motionless as it had been before. In his fine wooden frame, Mannerheim was now looking glum. His chest laden with medals, he was gazing into the distance, eastwards, towards the dark Karelian Woods from which the Slavic hordes had once emerged. The sound of his heels ringing out on the gleaming parquet, the professor honoured the marshal’s portrait with a military salute, stuffed Olga’s letter in his pocket, took his coat from the hatstand and ran down the stairs, forgetting the op
en windows in his haste, setting the old furniture creaking in the chill night air. A gust of freezing wind sent the curtains billowing and blew the candles out. Outside, it was beginning to snow.
When Margareeta woke up, the first thing she saw in the thin light was the dog. As usual, he was sleeping curled up on one of the small armchairs in her bedroom. He was snoring, his body twitching as he dreamt; his eyelids were fluttering and his front paws quivering. Since Jarmo had left, Hurmo had refused to sleep in the wicker basket under the basin. He would sniff it, whimpering, then pace around it but refuse to go in. It was as though he were afraid that people were leaving the house one by one, abandoning him to his own devices. Each time she looked at him, Margareeta was amazed at how much that dog resembled her husband. It was incredible that a man and a dog could look so alike. Their expressions were similar, they even walked the same way, and when he barked Hurmo would twist his neck in the same irritated fashion that Margareeta had always found so annoying in her husband. She shuddered at the thought that in fact her husband had never left her, but had somehow wormed his way into that snarling ball of matted fur, to carry on tormenting her even after their divorce, just as the Lapp sorcerers befuddled the Lutheran pastors sent to convert them. They would suck their souls from out of their bodies and replace them with evil spirits who drove them mad.
It was now ten days into the new year, and Margareeta was beginning to look forward to a clean break with the past. Hurmo was now all that remained of her husband; he too would have to go, back to his master, together with his fleas. That day would be the last time he would sleep on the little armchair in her bedroom. On waking in the morning, Margareeta no longer wanted to see her husband’s canine double snoring at her feet and spreading his stink of ageing fur throughout the house. It was still dark, but Margareeta got up and switched on the coffee percolator. Outside it was snowing. The radio informed her that the recent cold dry snap would be followed by a blizzard. She dressed, gulped down a cup of coffee, put the dog on the lead and dragged him outside. As a matter of fact the dog was a bitch, but no one had been aware of this fact until she had produced five monstrous little mongrels. Or perhaps the creature was both male and female at the same time, somehow fiendishly enjoying the advantages of both sexes. There was no knowing what kind of animal she had coupled with. Like Margareeta’s husband, when she was on heat she would go with whatever came to hand: Margareeta thought disgustedly of the big mangy mud-bespattered sheepdog she’d seen sniffing around Hurmo one afternoon in the park. It had been staring vacantly into space as it mounted the bitch, just as her husband probably did when he thrust himself upon his female students, lustful and brutal, bathed in unpleasant male odours.
Frozen and motionless, the city was now emerging from the dawn mist. The odd empty tram rattled along the snow-covered avenues, lights ablaze, bearing gaudy advertisements for tropical holiday destinations. Margareeta felt that she would have to have the dog problem solved before the day was out.
Aurtova walked into the station booking hall breathless and snow-covered. He’d spent a fortune, been punched in the face and had barely four hours sleep, but he had managed to make the necessary arrangements. He felt in his coat pocket to check that the money and envelope with the Silja Line ticket were still there, then ran his fingertips cautiously over his black eye. His steps echoed menacingly in the half-empty booking hall. He glanced at the arrivals board and hurried towards platform 1. The train had clearly arrived some time ago. Cleaners were going up and down it with yellow brooms and rubbish bags. The last passengers were walking towards the exit, pulling on their gloves and turning up their coat collars. He caught sight of someone who looked like one of the hunters he’d seen briefly emerging from Ibn Al-Idrisi’s map. Was that the Vostyach? Was that ugly mug the missing link between Finn and Redskin? Between the strong-willed race which had resisted Russian invasion and those primitive headhunters, with their painted faces? Aurtova clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. He would never allow the name of Finnish civilisation to be brought into disrepute by some tatterdemalion hominid. Sophisticated Scandinavian design, Europe’s most advanced social security system and communications technology could have nothing in common with peoples who had been defeated by history and were now penned into reserves, drinking themselves silly and sporting feather head-dresses in front of slack-jawed tourists. He approached his quarry stealthily, as though fearing it might escape him.
‘You Ivan?’ he asked quietly, trying to avoid attracting unwelcome attention. The strange figure had a drum slung over one shoulder, and now he drew it closer to his chest.
‘Ivan Vostyach!’ he shouted, taking his passport from his pocket and proffering it to Aurtova like a talisman. He gave out a strong smell of wild animal, a circus smell.
‘Me Aurtova!’ growled the professor, moving backwards a little so as to draw a breath of less polluted air. The cleaners were now peering curiously out of the train windows. They had had their eye on the outlandish fur-clad figure pacing the platform for quite some time. Who on earth could he be? A reindeer-breeder? A seal-hunter?
‘Aurtova!’ Ivan repeated tonelessly, staring at the professor.
‘Yes, Aurtova! Friend Olga!’ he agreed.
Ivan continued eyeing him from head to foot.
‘Friend Olga,’ he said flatly.
‘Yes, friend Olga!’ Aurtova held out his arms and smiled, hoping to appear well-disposed.
Then Ivan felt in his pocket, produced a leather package tied up with a shoelace and handed it unceremoniously to the professor. Aurtova opened it impatiently, to find it contained a curved piece of bone. Then he remembered the business about the pipe. He looked around him in embarrassment. There was no one else on the platform; only the cleaners on the train. They were spending more time than necessary cleaning the last two compartments, darting glances out of the window to see what was going on out on the platform.
‘Thanks! Nice work! Fine craftsmanship!’ said the professor, turning the object round between his fingers and slipping it into his pocket. But Ivan narrowed his bleary eyes and shook his head. Placing a finger in front of his mouth, he indicated to Aurtova that he should play it. Then the professor remembered what Olga had said about the need for a courteous response. He fished the bone patiently out of his pocket and blew firmly into the little hole. It gave out a piercing whistling sound, like birdsong. The Vostyach smiled and nodded in satisfaction.
‘Olga,’ he said.
‘Olga, yes. Olga say me take you hotel!’ said Aurtova, less patient now, stuffing the pipe back into his pocket. He set off towards the exit, indicating to the Vostyach that he should follow him. Ivan picked up his sack and settled his drum more comfortably on his shoulder. They walked through the snow to the underground car park, Aurtova leading and Ivan following, looking around warily and sniffing the air, nostrils aquiver.
He sat down on the seat and placed the drum firmly on his knee, then breathed on the window so as to be able to see out. His gaze was met first by the huge bronze statues on the station façade, holding their lighted torches, then the impressive outline of the Sokos Shopping Centre, standing starkly in the square like a black glass monolith.
‘Helsinki,’ he said, again flatly, though in fact it turned out to be meant as a question.
‘Yes, Helsinki! Suomi, Finland!’ was Aurtova’s prompt response, as he leant away from his passenger towards the car door in order to avoid contact with his stinking skins. Now the Vostyach was staring open-mouthed at the green dome of the cathedral, with its gilded stars. The professor was looking at Ivan out of the corner of his eye and trying to breathe out through his nose, so as not to have to take in the sickening stench.
‘Suuri, ikivanha heimo!’ exclaimed the Vostyach, pointing towards the buildings. They were the only three words of Finnish that he knew. Olga had taught him them.
‘Yes, great and ancient tribe...’ repeated an uncomprehending Aurtova.
In the distance, over the sea, there w
ere now glimmers of a hesitant white dawn. But over the city the sky was still dark, tinged greenish-yellow by the lamplight. The headlights of a snowplough came into view along a side street as the vehicle skidded from one side to the other, raising a cloud of dirty snow, which then fell back upon the car, causing Ivan to clutch the seat.
Even though it was early on a Saturday morning, and such few cars as there were, were proceeding with difficulty through the snow, wherever possible Aurtova was taking unfamiliar side roads, hoping to avoid being seen by anyone he knew. In order further to reduce this risk, he had hired a car from the airport. He drew up at the pavement somewhere in Kallio, in front of the unlit window of a run-down bar.