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Cold Courage

Page 2

by Pekka Hiltunen


  ‘How did you know it was my birthday?’ Lia asked.

  ‘I was sitting near you and heard you all talking.’

  ‘You’ve been eavesdropping on us all evening then.’

  ‘Yes, but not only on you,’ Mari replied. ‘You seem to have lived in London for some time now.’

  ‘About six years. And you?’

  ‘Five, but it hardly seems it.’

  ‘I know the feeling. You wouldn’t… Would you like to join us?’

  ‘Thank you, I’d be delighted to.’

  ‘Boys, if this girl joins us, will you try to behave yourselves?’

  ‘Anything for you, Lia.’

  The waitress brought more drinks. Lia told them that Mari was from Finland. That was all it took.

  It was as if the party had started all over again. Having been able to provide her boys with a good conversationalist who was so easy on the eye gave Lia genuine pleasure. Mari brought out both the gentleman and the horny teenager in them. Bombarding her with polite questions, they devoured her with their beer-swollen eyes.

  Lia watched the revelling men around the table.

  My gallant fools.

  These five writers held in their heads an astounding amount of information about politics, sport, high culture and entertainment, and that was another reason Mari enchanted them. She knew all about the current events that came up in conversation. Through the noise of the pub, Lia listened to Mari talk about her background, picking out the words insurance company and personnel manager. The men didn’t ask anything more about that, but Mari’s political views piqued their interest.

  ‘Bloody hell, Lia, your Finnish friend knows local British politics better than I do!’ Sam said with enthusiasm.

  As was his way, the political reporter, Timothy Phelps, had to test the newcomer by debating with her. The subject he broached was the Tory chairman Brian Pensley, who had been in the headlines recently.

  ‘Pensley has a problem. Whenever he opens his mouth, all anyone can remember is the Tories’ wretched healthcare overhaul. He’s going to be carrying the burden of that failure for a long time,’ Phelps said as if giving a lecture.

  Mari shook her head.

  ‘I think Pensley’s problem is his diffidence. He doesn’t know how to appeal to any specific voting bloc. He never would have become party chairman if David Cameron hadn’t decided to elevate him for some bizarre reason,’ Mari said.

  ‘Pensley was chairman even before Cameron assumed office,’ Timothy objected.

  ‘No, he wasn’t,’ Mari said and then expounded from memory: Cameron had begun as leader of the Conservative Party a few years earlier, at the beginning of December. Pensley was promoted to chairman less than a month later, so it was clear that this was done with Cameron’s support.

  Timothy went quiet, clearly peeved.

  ‘C.Y.F.F.,’ Sam said with a grin and then explained the expression to Mari. Ambitious editorial offices valued three things: a feel for language, good networking skills so you could get the scoop on competitors and diligent background work. The last of these had its own acronym, which they used in emails to mock writers guilty of passing on bad information: CYFF, Check Your Fucking Facts.

  ‘By the way, we work at Level,’ Sam said proudly, but Lia was glad to see that this had no particular effect on Mari.

  ‘I gathered as much,’ Mari replied.

  Clearly she was intelligent and also capable of holding her own in a debate, which was the sexiest thing in the world to these men. Still they remembered to treat Lia like the star of the show.

  Lia had worked as a graphic designer at Level for nearly five years, and she got along with the male-dominated staff of the magazine precisely because she held her ground and never let a quip go unanswered. The staff of Level were a clever bunch. Founded in the 1960s out of the idealism of a group of young journalists, the magazine had initially focused on politics. Gradually it had added arts and entertainment coverage. Producing astute commentary on the latest right-wing party platform and engaging reviews of hot new pop albums was no trifling task. Circulation had waned of late, but Level still remained a small but influential voice.

  Sometime after eleven o’clock, Mari asked the waitress to bring a jug of water to the table. Lia realised she had forgotten her strategy. You had to tend inebriation like a campfire.

  ‘And here I was thinking Finnish girls knew how to drink,’ Sam said teasingly.

  ‘Drinking,’ Lia said emphatically as she raised her water glass, ‘is only one of many things at which Finnish girls excel.’

  This rejoinder received whoops from the men and a smile from Mari.

  The growing intoxication was beginning to show in repetition in the conversation. Timothy even dredged up the Brian Pensley argument again.

  ‘Mari, all credit to your knowledge of politics, but you can’t really explain Pensley’s unpopularity based on his lack of charisma. Have you ever seen him speak in person?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, I have,’ Mari said.

  ‘And you still believe the Tory platform has nothing to do with his problems?’

  ‘Of course it does. But when I saw Pensley speak, I knew his speeches were never going to convince anyone of anything. At most the bedridden residents of an old people’s home in a Tory area.’

  Everyone waited to see what Timothy would say, but Mari beat him to it.

  ‘Timothy, what if I told you I thought you could know anyone, be it Brian Pensley or any of us, simply based on their speech and bearing? I don’t know Lia; I just met her tonight for the first time. But if you ask me something personal about her, I bet I can give you an answer.’

  Silence fell over the party. The men eyed each other, and Lia thought, I like this woman. There’s something different about her.

  ‘Right,’ Timothy said. ‘Give me just a second to think up a question.’

  Mari stood up.

  ‘I’m going to the toilet, and while I’m gone you can come up with three questions. If I can’t make it through them, I’ll buy the next round. If I get them right, you buy my drinks for the rest of the night.’

  From the men’s faces, you could see that their drunken brains were struggling to understand what this strange game was all about.

  ‘Challenge accepted,’ Timothy said. ‘Are there any rules?’

  ‘Well, let’s agree that they have to be something that Lia could answer herself,’ Mari suggested.

  Lia laughed.

  What an odd fish. But there is something considerate about it, since the game is about me and it is my birthday. And she also wants to give Timothy a rap on the knuckles.

  After Mari left, the men conferred feverishly.

  ‘Where did you find her, Lia?’

  After a hushed consultation, they settled on their questions, announcing that the subjects would be travel, money and sex.

  ‘So, basic human needs,’ Timothy explained.

  When Mari returned to the table, the atmosphere was charged. Timothy stood up.

  ‘Tonight’s performance is entitled: “Everything you always wanted to know about Lia but were afraid to ask.” And the first question is… We all know that Lia likes to travel. What is her favourite foreign destination?’

  Lia smirked. Everyone at Level knew what city she had visited three times. Travelling was one of the few personal things she talked about at work. But there was no way Mari could ever guess.

  ‘That’s a hard one. Bad luck for me. There are so many possible options,’ Mari said.

  Everyone expected her to take a long time thinking, but Mari gave her answer right away.

  ‘I’d say a small town in the south of France. Somewhere in Provence.’

  The drinking party stared at Mari in shock, Lia most amazed of all.

  ‘That’s right! How did you know?’ Lia asked.

  ‘From a lot of little things,’ Mari said. Lia was probably interested in Europe, and she couldn’t travel far on a graphic designer’s salary. Lia had
used a few words of French during the evening, pronouncing them with a southern accent. Her skin was pale, which meant she didn’t go in for beach holidays. During the evening she had talked about her fondness for wine, food and culture.

  ‘And a lot of other little details like that. So what city is it, Lia?’

  ‘Carpentras. In Provence, like you said.’

  ‘Good guess,’ Timothy said. ‘Impressive deduction. Or a lucky guess.’

  That wasn’t just luck, Lia thought.

  With that, Timothy asked his next question: ‘We don’t even know the answer to this one: what is the most expensive thing Lia owns?’

  ‘This should be easy,’ Mari replied. ‘Most people don’t have very many really expensive things. But I’ll have to think.’

  Everyone waited in silence.

  Ludicrous, Lia thought. She can’t guess that. Even I would have a hard time saying what my most valuable possession is.

  ‘Lia could have an inheritance. But I think I’ll say that the most expensive thing she owns is an investment holding,’ Mari said.

  Lia smiled.

  ‘Huh, you’re probably right. My parents started a stock account for me when I was at school,’ she said.

  ‘Jesus,’ Sam said. ‘How could you have seen that just by looking at her?’

  ‘I couldn’t,’ Mari said.

  What were people’s most valuable possessions usually? A flat, a car, maybe jewellery and investments.

  ‘A graphic designer for a London magazine, moderate salary, maybe thirty-five thousand pounds a year? You can’t buy a flat on that in this city. And there’s no point owning a car here. Lia mentioned taking the bus to work. And as for jewellery – if you owned a really stunning piece, wouldn’t you have worn it to your birthday party? Investments were all that remained. That was just the most likely option.’

  ‘Bravo!’ Sam said.

  Lia groaned. ‘That makes me feel so normal. And boring.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Mari said. ‘That’s just the safe, ordinary part of you. The rest of you is much more fascinating.’

  The men whistled.

  ‘Girl on girl action! It doesn’t get much sexier than that!’

  ‘We’ll see whether she can answer the last question as easily,’ Timothy said.

  ‘The sex question,’ Lia said, rolling her eyes.

  ‘The big sex question,’ Timothy announced. ‘We know that as a beautiful woman, Lia must have plenty of admirers. But how many sexual partners has she had?’

  ‘That’s a question an outsider could never answer exactly,’ Mari said.

  ‘That’s a pretty damn stupid, chauvinistic, revolting question,’ Lia said.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ Timothy said, ‘it’s also the most natural thing in the world. Mari’s probably right though that getting the exact number would just be chance.’

  So he rephrased the question: Was the number closer to one, five, ten, fifty or one hundred?

  Among the men the question received boisterous approval, but Lia shook her head. Not only did the inane voyeurism bother her but she also disliked the idea of defining someone by the number of men she had slept with.

  ‘It’s all right, Lia,’ Mari said. ‘Gentlemen, this question is beneath you. But it is within the rules, and obviously interesting to someone on a personal level. Although in a rather lowbrow way. Lia, if you agree, I’ll try to answer.’

  Lia nodded reluctantly.

  She knows. But I don’t know if I want her to say it out loud.

  ‘I think it’s clear that, like most young women, Lia has a prolific sex life. The closest number is fifty.’

  The boys went wild, clapping and hooting so loudly that the entire pub turned to look.

  ‘Fifty men! Fifty men!’

  Lia pulled a face at them. Stupid drunks.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Well of course,’ Lia said.

  Wolf-whistling, the men demanded to know the basis for Mari’s guess.

  ‘How can you tell? Was it her neckline?’

  Mari looked at Lia and said: ‘You can’t tell from anything directly. I just have an intuition about these things. And she has the look of an independent person.’

  ‘Shit, you guys are such children,’ Lia said.

  Leaving the men to their snickering, Lia went to the bar. Sam asked Mari what she wanted to drink after winning the bet, but Mari was not listening. She followed Lia.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mari said. ‘That was in poor taste.’

  ‘It isn’t your fault. When they drink, things always get dirty before too long.’

  The bartender looked at them expectantly. Mari shook her head and pulled on her coat.

  ‘You are really good at guessing things,’ Lia said.

  ‘Thanks. And thank you for including me in your birthday party.’

  An odd feeling came over Lia as she looked at Mari, who was preparing to leave. As though their evening ought not to be ending quite yet.

  ‘Are we leaving something unfinished here?’ she asked.

  Mari smiled.

  ‘Maybe,’ she said. ‘You want to go somewhere else?’

  4

  The night was clear, with a sense of impending cold. A faint wind brushed over Lia’s and Mari’s faces.

  Mari hailed a taxi, which took them to Greenwich Park.

  A high brick wall surrounded the park, and the gates were already locked for the night, but Mari was not headed for the park. Instead, she began walking along the wall, up the hill.

  At the top, Lia had to stop and look. The view was unreal. A magic city.

  She had never seen the city she lived in from this angle. Below glittered the meandering Thames, behind it the old Isle of Dogs harbour area, then Mile End, Whitechapel, Wapping. The high towers of the City. Behind them the classical districts of Bloomsbury, Covent Garden, Marylebone, Mayfair.

  Even if London felt too big for her, it was beautiful for a large metropolis: instead of disturbing the ambience created by the older buildings, the skyscrapers blended with it perfectly. And somewhere there in the darkness was Hampstead, the streets she now called home.

  She wiped her eyes, which were watering from the wind.

  Mari continued on. Next to the wall was a small building that looked like a groundsman’s shed. There the chilly wind dropped.

  Along the wall of the shed was a bench. Mari sat down. From here they could see the dark silhouette of the city and lights, so many lights.

  Mari took a small bottle of cognac and two glasses out of her bag.

  ‘Just the essentials, I see. Do you always carry those in your handbag?’ Lia asked in amusement.

  ‘Only when I need them,’ Mari said.

  She poured the cognac and extended one of the glasses to Lia. The silence was almost complete as they watched the city at night.

  ‘OK, now this is starting to feel like a birthday again,’ Lia said.

  Mari motioned towards the green swathe of Greenwich and talked about the park, an area Lia didn’t know well. Behind the trees, out of view, was a famous vantage point, the Royal Observatory. Mari commented on how quiet it was in this spot in the evening and at night. There were none of the people who wander the ungated parks, the drugs and sex trade. Many of the buildings nearby were valuable national treasures, and the police carefully patrolled these streets.

  The conversation turned to the thing that connected them. Finland.

  ‘A serious country,’ Mari said.

  ‘A very serious country,’ Lia agreed, and they toasted Finland. The warmth of the cognac reignited Lia’s pleasant buzz, which had begun to peter out during the taxi ride.

  Quickly she recognised that Mari had the same complicated relationship with their homeland as she did. Some things they loved, some things they hated, and nowadays their lives were disconnected from it for the most part, and with indifference came a feeling of relief.

  Perhaps that was a typical feeling for people who have left their homeland
s of their own volition.

  They talked about Finland, because that allowed them to sound each other out.

  ‘Finland’s problem is its need for self-aggrandisement,’ Mari said. Like so many other small nations, Finland had taken a few historical events and forged them into an illusion that it had a great past and culture too.

  ‘But the real value of Finland isn’t in its uniqueness but in the stability of its society, which makes its citizens good people.’

  ‘Bloody well said.’

  ‘That just came to me once. Whenever anyone asks what kind of country Finland is, that’s what I always say.’

  Mari spoke about her family in Pori on the western coast and inland in Häme. Lia noticed how Mari spoke of everything with exactness, as though her thoughts were never half-formed.

  Mari’s second name was Rautee. Two things united the family: leftist politics and a conservative lifestyle.

  ‘You might imagine a conflict there, but they actually combine quite well.’

  The family’s leftist leanings had faded somewhat, but basically everyone assumed everyone else voted red. At the same time, they always worked to amass more wealth.

  ‘My family are social democrats with big houses.’

  Mari seemed to be up to date with current events in Finland. Lia herself didn’t follow the Finnish news. Of course she’d read the few stories that passed the test of newsworthiness in Britain. They were usually depressing or idiotic – major disasters, political sex scandals or strange village festivals.

  Lia spoke about her family, who had moved to Helsinki from Kajaani in the north when she was small. She didn’t remember anything about living in the Kainuu area, an economically depressed region just south of Lapland, other than the winters, which were proper, cold ones, not the months of drizzle Helsinki usually had.

  When she had to wake up for school on winter mornings, the world was always pitch black. Lia always went straight from her bed to the window. She pressed against the radiator and dressed herself. The radiator was too hot to stay next to, but the room was too cold. She would try to find somewhere between the two to stand and look outside.

  ‘In the dark all I could see were the tiny, red beacons on the factory chimneys looming in the distance. On the street, little dots moved. Human dots plodding towards the points of light at the factories.’

 

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