by Diego Marani
Villa Suvetar soon came into view. He left the car behind the hedge which served as a windbreak and carried his load into the lumber room. The first thing he did was to remove the protective covering from the generator and link it up with the mains. In winter there was no one in the cottage, and the electricity was turned off, so a petrol generator had to be used to produce electricity. He cleaned the spark-plugs, filled the tank to the brim and cranked up the starting handle. The filaments of the bulb on the wall began to glow, then the light came on in the lumber room. Aurtova picked up the shovel and freed the cottage entrance of ice, just enough so as to be able to open the door. He sprayed the padlocks with the antifreeze and went into the house. There was plenty of dry wood already on the veranda, but Aurtova went to get some more from the lumber room anyway: the sauna stove was going to have a long night of it. He lit the fire, took the provisions into the larder, fitted the gas cylinder to the stove, spread the biscuits with the reindeer pâté, uncorked the cabernet, laid the table for two and put the candlesticks in place. He made up the bed in the spare room, but also the double bed, laying his silk pyjamas on the left-hand pillow. Then he went to hang up the bathrobes near the sauna door, hung one of his suits in the cupboard in the entrance and put on the other, the smarter of the two. Then he took off his shoes and threw himself down on the divan, to catch a few hours sleep. But he was awoken by dreams of ferocious Pecheneg horsemen, encamped some distance away, around huge bonfires. They were massacring the prisoners they had taken in Finnish villages, tearing limbs from still living bodies and roasting them on the flames, their shrieks audible amidst drum rolls and cruel laughter. Their horses were grazing peacefully some way off, unmoved by all that horror, dragging their hooves insistently over the ground in search of edible roots.
At last, beyond the deafening pit across which yellow and red lights darted in merciless succession, he could see darkness. He had been wandering around the city for hours, trying to find some way out. He had crossed the railway and fetched up in an unending stream of stationary cars, surrounded by great lit-up signs which came and went, one colour vanishing to be replaced by a dozen others. He had been pursued by threatening men who had shrieked at him and lobbed bottles and debris in his direction. But the worst thing was that light, all around him, those dazzling, intrusive headlights. Ivan grasped the wire fencing and sniffed the air. Between the whiffs of diesel he could smell seaweed, and mud. He threw the sack over the fencing, but not the drum. He bound it tightly to his waist. Then he climbed up and jumped down the other side. Dozens of lorries, like those at the mine, were roaring over the asphalt, sending the snow skittering off towards the roadside, where it piled up and immediately hardened under the lashing wind. Ivan shook himself down, tensed his muscles and sprinted off. Lorries hooted their horns, wet tyres skidded over the slippery asphalt, cars came to a gentle halt beside the piles of snow. Then the traffic would set off again in a more orderly fashion, the horns would fall silent and the roar of the engines start up again as before. Ivan had thrown himself down, stomach first, into the blue snow. Now he made off towards the open spaces, turning round every so often to look nervously in the direction of the ruddy embers of the lights as they frizzled in the driving snow. Before long, he found himself facing the silent, open sea, a violet light throbbing overhead. A sudden breath of wind would send the snow whirling up into the air, then settling down again like glass on the petrified surface of the waves. Just as it had done on the waters of the frozen lake where his father had taken him fishing as a child. When they went home, the darkness would follow them as far as the first birches on the beach. It would roll silently among the trees, white totem poles against a pitch-dark sky, while in the distance the ice would close up again with an alarming snapping sound. The string of fish they’d caught would glitter as they made their way along the path, silvery scales catching the dying light. Then all that was left was the dull reflection of the snow. Once they were over the hill, though, they would see the glare of the fire. Inside the yurt, all faces would glow red, so many carvings gashed with long black furrows, like the masks hanging from the ceiling. Ivan remembered how he would test the temperature by collecting a ball of saliva in his mouth, spitting it up into the air and hearing a slight thud as it fell to earth. That meant the coots would not be flying; the fire no longer had the air it needed to burn, and animal droppings would give out no smell.
Ivan was walking cautiously, breaking the crust of the snow with his heels so as not to slip. He did not know where he was going, but some deep instinct seemed to be guiding him. A strip of blackness was approaching from among the clouds which were flying off towards the open sea, making a sound like timber shattering. Soon he found himself among the marble trunks of a birch wood. Above him, the branches cracked like whips at every gust of wind; then they would wave around without touching one another, crackling in the air as though they were about to catch fire. Ivan came to a stretch of coast lit up by faint lights which trembled against the sky. Trapped in the ice, a landing-stage ran from the water’s edge, only to disappear into the snow-covered dunes. Inside the wood, beyond the black posts of an enclosure, he could hear something moving. He bent down, sniffed the air and moved into the lee of the wind, to find that the posts had wire netting attached to them. He went around it, without touching it, until he came to the trunk of a big broken pine. He climbed up it, sat down on the thickest branch and observed the landscape below him. It had stopped snowing, but the wind was now blowing harder, dislodging lumps of snow from the pine branches. The thuds they made as they landed sounded like the footsteps of some huge, mysterious creature crashing around in the dark wood. To the west, the cowl of smoke obscuring the sky was lifting, revealing gritty-looking clouds. Then suddenly a red gash rent the horizon, sending out a glancing light which broke against the trunks of the birches. In the enclosure, the wolves’ eyes glinted briefly in the sunlight. Then the snow was once more engulfed in sooty shadow, and the wood sank back into darkness. It had all happened very quickly, but Ivan had had time to glimpse the white breath thickening beneath his tree, to hear the wolves whining, then curling up below him. He put his drum on his knee, picked up the bone drumstick and began to play. Quietly at first, brushing the bone against the still cold skin, bound tightly to the fir-wood frame. Then more loudly, allowing his whole body to be taken over by the powerful rhythm which seemed to issue from the earth itself, locked beneath its crust of snow. The animals in Korkeasaari Zoo had never heard the men of the tundra playing the drum. They had been born behind bars, had fed on lumps of frozen meat tossed into their enclosures by the zookeepers; yet that compelling, full-throated beat drew them all from their lairs. They peered around them, nostrils aquiver to catch the scent of the being who was calling them. Then the bear turned in its sleep and let out a roar, the wolves began to howl, scratching at the bark of the viburnum bushes, the reindeer cantered nervously around their pen, sending their manger flying; there on their perches, the arctic falcons spread their wings, the lynxes gnashed their teeth and dug their claws into the stakes of the fencing and the owls, their feathers ruffled with alarm, peered with blind eyes into the gathering darkness.
Hearing life rustling around him, Ivan played more and more loudly. He was sweating now, his whole body was shaking and he heard a deep sound of song welling up from within his body, becoming louder still as it floated clear of the trees. Still as statues, the animals listened to its ancient words. They were in awe of the being which knew all their names, whose drum could mimic the mysterious beat which came from the depths of the earth. After a time, his arms aching unbearably, drunk with exhaustion, his head swimming, Ivan climbed down from his tree and stretched out in the snow. The only sound now was the wind as it soughed through the wood. Then, in the gathering darkness, Ivan saw the child again. It was a long time since he had paid him a visit. How had he managed to follow him all that way? Ivan would have liked to ask him. But he knew that spirits cannot speak. You have to look at them
for a long time in silence in order to understand what they have to say. Ivan thought of his distant forest, of the stony track above the mountain stream, of his own people, imprisoned in another world. He should never have abandoned them. They needed him. Olga had promised him that she would take him home. But where was Olga? Why had she left him in that evil city? And where was that great and ancient tribe which was his own? Ivan felt that the path leading up from the woods, beyond the lake, into the tundra, was lost to him forever; as were the stumpy shapes of the Byrranga Mountains, which reminded him of a deer’s head, and those two pointed rocks like a hare’s ears. That land where, for a little time, he had been happy, where the shade of his father was always at his side, taking the form of a tree or a silent bear, whose voice spoke straight to his own heart. New gusts of stronger wind were now blowing in from the open sea; it was one vast wilderness, but on occasions the glassy crests of the waves would give out a liquid light. The child had disappeared. Now Ivan knew what he had come to tell him. He must go back: before it was too late, before the voice of his people vanished forever and became one with the howling of the wolves.
Squatting against the trunk of the pine, Ivan waited till total darkness fell. Perhaps he slept, perhaps he had fainted from exhaustion. He was awakened by the sound of icy fragments being swept along the ground. The blizzard had died down. The north wind had driven away the clouds and now the air was clear. In the distance, beyond the dark strip of sea, the city lights were causing the shadows to dissolve into a mass of green. Out in the open sea, the solid ice would catch the light and glint like quartz, then be swallowed up in even greater darkness. An abyss of fragile stars had opened up in the sky, and it was as though the icy breath which was keeping everything motionless came straight from them. Ivan followed the fencing round the enclosure and found himself by some hothouses. He rubbed at the glass, hoping to see inside, but it was pitch black. Further on was a restaurant. Blue lights on the walls lit up the chairs which had been piled on to the tables, and on the pile of sunshades and deckchairs heaped up against the veranda. Ivan followed the row of street lamps and saw a lighted window in the distance.
One hand in a packet of potato crisps, the watchman was sitting in an armchair and drinking a can of beer, waiting for the hockey match to start on television. He had taken off his shoes and was stretching out his feet in front of the stove, enjoying the sensation of rubbing one big toe against the other. Ivan crept past the window, avoiding the lamplight that fell around the entrance to the watchman’s lodge, and vanished into the shadow of a block of low buildings. He opened a door at random and found himself in a tool-shed. He selected an axe, a knife and some rope, put them into his sack and, on leaving the shed, also picked up the pair of cross-country skis which the watchman had put for safe keeping behind the door. Thus equipped, he went back to the enclosures, each of whose entrances was lit by a small lamp. The first he freed were the wolves. On hearing someone approach the netting, they all began to howl. But when they heard the bolt being drawn, they stopped howling and rushed towards the gate, stopping short in front of Ivan in some alarm, sniffing the air cautiously, as though they feared a trap. Lowering their ears, they trooped out almost furtively. They didn’t move off straight away, but paused for a moment to observe the Vostyach warily, snarling as they did so. Then their white breath disappeared into the darkness. The wild llamas moved in a pack, one serving as a lookout for them all. They did not discover that the gate was open until Ivan had reached the enclosure with the pandas. Then they ran out, stretching their necks in glee, ambling past the watchman’s lodge and hesitating in puzzlement before galloping off into the open. When Ivan broke the glass of their neon-lit monkey-house, the baboons started to chatter in unison, then rushed en masse to the top of the mangy tree growing in the centre of the enclosure. The little ones took advantage of the situation to leap on to the tractor tyre which hung from the tree on a chain, and stayed there, swinging to and fro, heedless of their mothers’ impatient cries as they came down to haul their infants unceremoniously upwards. Ivan watched in delight as those tiny, hairy, man-like creatures clung to the branches, sticking out their tongues at him and gesticulating, uttering uncouth squeals as they did so. His entrance into their warm, evil-smelling cage was met with a shower of excrement and rind. Ivan beat a hasty retreat and went to open the next gate. He had never seen black and white striped horses before. With a wave of his arm, he gestured to them to leave their pen, but they slithered hopelessly over the icy ground, lashing out randomly with their hooves and breathing nervously through quivering nostrils. The lynxes on the other hand shot out in a flash, following the arctic foxes and the chamois, which had sniffed danger in the nick of time. The Siberian tiger let out a fearful roar as it leapt down from the artificial rock into which its cave was set. Then it stood there motionless, jaws agape, staring at the expanse of sea before slipping silently into the darkness. The walrus, the mountain goats, the rabbits, the owls and the wolverines did not notice that their cage doors were open, some because they were in a state of hibernation, others because they had no idea that they could simply walk away. But, on what was recorded as the coldest night in Helsinki for fifty years, all the creatures in Helsinki Zoo had the opportunity of a lifetime.
Ivan stopped in front of the reindeer pen. He selected two young birch trunks and felled them with his axe. Measuring out two identical lengths of wood, he made them into runners, laid them on the ground and fixed them to the watchman’s skis. Then he cut six shorter crosspieces and tied them to the runners, to form a sledge. He fashioned a curved branch into an approximation of a yoke and attached it to the two ends of the runners. Then he opened the gate, selected the two strongest reindeer and yoked them to the sledge. He loaded his possessions on to it, picked up a long thin branch, made it into a whip and cracked it expertly over the backs of his reindeer-team. Slithering over the virgin snow, which parted with a hiss beneath his skis, the Vostyach drove out of the zoo towards the open sea, the better to see the stars.
Aurtova and the Laplander left at the same time: Aurtova from Vantaa airport, with a live woman seated in the back, the Laplander from a dismal street in Kallio, with a dead one, her body held in place by a rear-seat safety belt. Their paths crossed, though they did not know it, on the bridge at Kulosaari. How could they have recognised each other, amidst the frenzied traffic plunging into that dark sea?
‘It’s very good of you to meet me,’ said Olga, leaning her elbows on the seat in front of her, trying to catch Aurtova’s eye in the rear-view mirror. The front seat was still partly occupied by the sleeping bag in the plastic sheeting, so he had asked her to sit in the back. The professor leaned his head back a little to avoid her gaze, wrinkling his nose in ill-disguised disgust. That woman had always irritated him: by her ugliness, first and foremost. Aurtova found ugliness alarming, particularly in women. He was afraid it might be catching, like bad luck. Secondly, he loathed her total honesty in matters scientific, the implacable conscientiousness with which she went about her work and her modest way of proving herself right, made even more unbearable by the fact that she never wallowed in her triumphs. He thought back to the Russian student he’d known at the university when he himself was still a student in his final year. Kalle Holmberg, the Professor of Uralic Philology, had introduced her to him with much pomp and circumstance, asking him to take her under his wing during the academic year she was to spend in Helsinki. That shy, tubby girl had stuck to him like a shadow, failing to realise that his interest in her was in no way personal, but merely a result of his self-serving desire to do as Holmberg had asked. Her maddening self-effacement, combined with her very considerable grounding in every branch of linguistics, only compounded his dislike. For months on end Aurtova had had to endure the company of this pedantic swot, feign interest in her writing and endlessly discuss dry-as-dust matters of philology. It was only to please Holmberg that Aurtova in his turn had agreed to spend a term at the University of Leningrad, working on a
thesis on homo-organic fricatives in the Permic languages. If there was to be any hope of obtaining that longed-for post as a research assistant, the old luminary would have to be soft-soaped. So in Leningrad too he had had to put up with the company of a woman who was as devoted to science as a nun to her vocation. Aurtova was certain that his high-principled Russian colleague would milk her finding of the Vostyach for all it was worth, demolishing the theory of the evolution of the Finno-Ugric languages he’d built up so laboriously over years of study as she did so. She had to be stopped before it was too late. Aurtova had already devised a possible trap but, in order for it to work, he had to remain on good terms with his guest: he had to amuse her, distract her, gaze into her eyes as he talked to her; act in such a way that she felt completely at her ease, suspecting nothing; if absolutely necessary, even seduce her. He braced himself and glanced furtively at his watch: it was a quarter to eight. The Vostyach would be far away by now, somewhere in the Baltic Sea, on his way to Stockholm.
‘Duty, dear Olga. We are in Finland, are we not? So it’s me who plays the host, just as I did twenty years ago,’ he answered affably.
‘Well, you haven’t always been so welcoming,’ she observed sharply, immediately regretting what she’d said. She wiped the car window and stared vaguely out at the lights of the snow-covered city.
‘Where have you left Ivan? In the hotel?’ she asked after a brief silence, her voice betraying a certain apprehension. Aurtova had read the question in her eyes when she had come up to him in the airport lounge. Her expression had darkened visibly when she saw that the Vostyach was not there. She had offered her cheek to her colleague for a welcoming peck, but her eyes were seeking out the stocky little figure of her prize discovery.