The Glitter Scene (39 page)

Was this romantic? “All of us were young once.” And that fumbling, clumsiness. Yes, he could think like that. But he has still never been able to listen to Gustav Mahler after that.

And will never—incidentally—listen to Gustav Mahler again. With Susette they do not listen to very much music, have never done so. Sometimes they go out dancing. Just the two of them, she and he. Tango, salsa, Latin. Transformed in the dance. Good together. And the nights afterward.

That night 1989, seventeen years ago, when they started being together again, for real, in reality, she had called him. He had driven through the darkness after her, the same time of year, the same darkness, as now. But in snow. Here, now, no snow, just black black on the ground, everywhere. An appalling whirl of snow then and she had said on the telephone that she did not know where she was, but was on a road, and had been very upset, he
had
to come after her. Had been difficult to find out exactly where she was, but he had not hesitated for a second. Borrowed a former classmate’s car—Peter Bäckström’s, incidentally, the one they are going to visit
now, and his family in Rosengården 2 where they are driving down the avenues to the right address—and yes, he, Tom, had found her in the end.

That night when he had picked her up in the snow, on the side of the road, in this area (as said, she was also from here, so that was not strange), and seen her, a small figure with a Fjällräven backpack on the side of the road in the snow, in the light of the headlights, he had known not only that she had been found, but he as well.

And not many words were needed after that, that had been clear. She had tried to speak, said, “I’ll do everything for you. I’ll—” Repay? No, she had not said it like that, not that word, there were no complicated words like that inside her, had never been, and also, for that reason, how he
loved loves
her.

But that had been her message, she was worn out: bloody, beaten, but appealed quietly and determined for a promise that he would
never
ask about it—but, she pointed out,
no one
had done anything
to
her. She would go to therapy, never talk about what happened, otherwise. Otherwise she would not be able to … live?

She had not needed to say that. He had promised, just as silently. And it had been clear. He had thought it would be good for her and for both of them to get away for a while. Thought about his aunt, in Portugal, who often wrote and invited him but he had not visited, had not had time; in and of itself had not had time then either, but he had been able to arrange the leave from work. The aunt was also sick, of course, needed help. “I know where we’re going!” he said to his fiancée Susette Packlén who was going to become a Maalamaa and have a child with him already that next year at the same
time and then they would be living in New York, his first lengthy foreign assignment. “We’ll go to Portugal!” And she became as happy as a child too because she had never been abroad really and the aunt had also sounded happy on the phone and immediately wired money for the airline tickets, and shortly thereafter Tom and Susette were sitting on a plane, flying above the clouds in the beautiful clear air, her pale skin, her tired eyes—but held his hand, as said, those attacks of sorrow and melancholy were not over, of course, it would periodically be difficult in Portugal as well. But the main thing was the direction, the will, the approach, and he had not needed to say it out loud like when he held a speech for work, lay out the direction, the approach—this was without words, she knew.
“Ja sieltä ei sit tuoda mitään ruumiita Kotiin
/ and then no corpses are brought home from there,” someone in the row behind them on the plane had said, vacationers in a vacationing mood who were describing how they had been let off by friends from their hometown when they were going on their first
charter
, country bumpkins among country bumpkins who had never been anywhere who clapped their hands when the plane took off, cheers!, in red wine and beer and sangria! No corpses. Ironic maybe, amusing, because it turned out that way when, roughly a month later, Tom Maalamaa and Susette returned to the homeland it was in connection with the repatriation of a corpse: the aunt who had died while they were there visiting her. A difficult time, a lot to take care of those final days in Portugal, so it had not exactly turned out as they thought it would. But Susette, his future wife, mother to his three children, had been invaluable, and still, also, as if the hardships
involved with everything that needed to be arranged down there in Portugal and later with the funeral in the homeland only brought them closer together.

•

And—this is becoming long now, when Tom Maalamaa is driving with his wife down the avenues of Rosengården 2, this November evening 2006, a Thursday.

“Courage,” he says to his wife, takes her hand in his, maybe thinks she is nervous about tonight, his old university friends … or maybe he takes that hand because he has a bad conscience because he has, the entire afternoon, earlier in the evening, up until now, been rather grumpy and cross. About the mess at home, and the new workplace, chaos there too: that is what it is always like arriving in new places, he certainly knows that, should be used to it after so many years. But he had shouted and carried on, and that is why they have been quiet the entire drive from their home to Rosengården 2. For example not spoken about any “dear” old memories that both of them, together, separately, could have from these places, the District, after all they are both from here. Here, where Rosengården 2 now exists, it did not exist back then. This striking, luxurious—almost absurd—development in the middle of what once was a wood where Mama Inga-Britta used to pick mushrooms and cloudberries, lingonberries, rowanberries with the Nature Friends. And possibly somewhat exaggerated this peachy keenness, but “architectural dreams are architectural dreams,” which, for example, is something that Tom Maalamaa under normal circumstances certainly might have said here in the car, with a small bitonality too, though well-balanced because the Bäckströms and
certainly many of the others who live here are his friends of course, if not now, then they will be; he has that kind of a job, lives a lot on “contacts.” Still, it is something grotesque, something almost frivolous, amoral. No, not because it would have been showing off—a lot of, as it were, too much of a good thing and Dallas, money&poortaste, but exactly because it is not that, PLUS the money that exists but cannot be seen cannot be seen cannot be seen … the style, all of the
good taste
, so perfect AND being enclosed, fenced in. Seen as a metaphor the irony of all this had of course not been wasted on him either. These people, these enclosures, these people inside their personally staked-out borders—people just like him, who always have the best, as well as education and class and taste and civilization and the best schools and universities and the power, on their side—how, for example, they can still carry out
good deeds
there, as he does in the service of mankind. And in contrast to those who have only money, he also has the power of language: can reason well, about almost anything, also their own shortcomings and this grotesqueness which, after all, it is. But with his own quick phrases he can also win people over so that it sounds not only plausible but also something worth striving for. “Here you can say anything as long as it sounds good.” That feeling.

The irony naturally also applies to what he sees in his job: the other, “the other side,” those lacking legal rights. So too, him personally. And in contrast to what his sister Maj-Gun once thought, he takes his job seriously, what he does—the difficulty then is that it always becomes pompous when you are talking about it. He actually does not like hearing his own voice at all, going on and on
about justice and equality in the world. But he likes what he gets accomplished, what he does.

•

Well, philosophers. He, Tom, can get carried away too, like papa Pastor in the church when he gets started and talks, talks. As luck would have it, his wife Susette Packlén does not have a predisposition for philosophizing, either to philosophize or to listen to the outlays of others. So it has therefore always been nice to come home, to her, the kids, the family, and just be something else, turn things off. And sometimes, as said, the two of them go out dancing.

But this day in particular he, in other words, became furious when he came home—or had already been before, at work, but he lost his self-control first at home and quite simply made a racket. And therefore, as a result of just this mess, Tom Maalamaa has, this afternoon, this evening in particular, not had his telephone on and not been able to take the phone calls, the phone calls from his sister Maj-Gun who tried calling many times—and who is now, without his knowledge, right here in the area, exactly right now, this evening, at this point in time. In the Winter Garden, or on the field, or in the woods. The Boundary Woods—below Rosengården 2, its large enclosures, at the edge of the woods, below the Glitter Scene, with her daughter, which he also does not know she has, her name is Johanna.

On the other hand: if he had the opportunity to speak to his sister, then you can ask yourself, would anything have been different as a result of this conversation in particular? Highly unlikely, because his sister Maj-Gun would not have been able to say anything about everything she
needs to say to him on the telephone. They would most likely have arranged a meeting, later. Met for example the following day—it is important but too terrible to speak about on the phone—at some café. As soon as possible, but not soon enough. Because then, in any case, everything that will happen this night would already have happened, it would already in all ways be too late.

His sister will know that as well, certainly. Because what she has to say almost takes her breath away, it is so great.

But as said, Tom Maalamaa has not had his telephone on. He usually always has his telephone on. But earlier that day there was something with the telephone lines at work: the new telephone system, the computer integration in it—one big chaos there and chaos when he came home: moving boxes, cardboard boxes everywhere. Of course these urgent phone calls for work are not directly connected to his own separate private telephone but the problems today have certainly affected his attitude toward telephones in general so that he, after a day of working, in one moment of fury and complete frustration, angry at his phone, turned it off at home in his own bathroom.

After he has, in other words, yelled at his wife, screamed at the aupairgirl Gertrude and even at twelve-year-old Elizabeth Ida, who
unlike
his wife does not answer back, just looks at him with her big eyes, in contrast to Gertrude, who produces long shrill harangues in French, German, and with assistance Italian as well, if
she
gets insulted. Which she has been this late afternoon and develops a cacophony of everything, and Tom
Maalamaa from his Service of Mankind stood there and battled with the Swiss she learned at the nice private schools and secretarial institutions (oh no, there aren’t any Sri Lankan domestic servants in this household) with complete self-control. And
handle things with great care
, it does not say
things
or
great
on the boxes with the sherry glasses that he fumbles down from the dining room table,
craaasssh;
it says
HANDLE WITH CARE
, but he sees the sentence in his head in that way, for some meaningless reason. Well, glass like glass, sherry glasses, wineglasses, china cups,
a fine china
, can always be bought new but then it has already been way too much, over the edge, and he felt ashamed inside like a dog on the one hand, on the other hand he still barked like the same dog on the outside. For a while. So.
Away from here:
such an impulse and he went to the bathroom. Where the telephone in the pocket of his blazer started ringing and the name on the display was not the name of one of his golf buddies (he does not like golf, but sometimes you have to play golf, go and
bond
, he has golfed with cannibalistic dictators and played cricket with terrorist leaders in India; well-brought-up boys from good schools too, besides)—rather from the Head Office! Not the one that is his superior in this country, but another one, the
only
other one—the Head Office that was and is the entire goal and direction of his career, that
level
, which he thought he still had a ways to go to get to, now wanted to get in touch with him. But he stood in the bathroom in his own home, overwhelmed by his own rage, and looked at that, stared at it,
damned telephone
, angry angry at it because he suddenly understood not only that he should answer but that he WANTS to answer but cannot due to
the fury still pounding at his temples, it is too great, he is not capable of getting himself together, which rarely happens, he is usually always able to get it together. So he did not answer, it stopped ringing, he turned it off, put it in the pocket of his blazer, and then first calmed down, took care of business, and carefully washed his face with ice-cold water for a good while.

Ashamed like a dog and mellow mellow. But that energy inside him: if there had been a
fresh
brush set out ready in the bathroom, which there had once been in the rectory and the Coral washing powder in a glass jar “Goes for Tom too!” he certainly, out of regret and frustration, would have scrubbed and scrubbed the sink shiny with it.

But, the avenue now, Rosengården 2, they are almost there. “Courage.” “I’m not afraid.” Her hand. In his hand.
Handle things with great care
. This turned out to be long.

But it has to be, long, this. And still, these thoughts, ideas, maybe only a distillation of an
entire story
too long to fit into the few minutes between an entrance gate to a large house in a fantastic location just a third of a mile away. Of everything possible, everything, he had wanted, wants, should have said to her. Which he will always think about, the rest of his life, afterward.