The Rabbit Back Literature Society (26 page)

P
ROFESSOR KORPIMÄKI
called the next morning, wished Ella a good day, and, without waiting for a response, started to comment on the coffee klatch stories she’d sent him.

“Very interesting. Very interesting indeed. Those are just the kind of anecdotes that let you see Laura White’s work and the work of the writers in the Society in a whole new, more exciting light. I’ve already incorporated several of them into my lectures. I hardly need to tell you that the lecture hall’s filled to the rafters these days. Laura White always draws them in. But what about your earlier finds? Have you dug up anything new?”

“Definitely,” Ella said. “I’m finding new stuff all the time. But…”

She raked her fingers through her hair and tried to gather her thoughts. She’d been up most of the night.

“Yes?” her professor said expectantly.

“Um, d’you think we’d have any use for… um, what should I call it… inappropriate material?”

The professor whistled. “Do you mean material related to Ms White’s sexuality? Have you come across any revelations? Or scandals?”

“I’m talking about ghost stories,” Ella said, and immediately thought she ought to have used more academic terminology. “Yesterday one of my informants had an attack of illness during an interview. Probably a stroke. Before it happened, she told me
an anecdote about Laura White that… um… had many of the characteristics of a miracle narrative or ghost story.”

The complete silence on the other end of the phone chilled her. She could hear the professor breathing. This was what she had been afraid would happen—even attempting to work non-standard puzzle pieces into official literary history could destroy her research career before it started.

“Well, we’re trying to form as complete a picture of Laura White as we can in order to get a deeper understanding of her oeuvre,” the professor said thoughtfully.

Ella could hear a ballpoint pen scratching on paper on the other end of the line. He was writing something down.

“We’ll have to see. Part of the research has to address Laura White as a person, so we should look at her personality and human relationships. Your anecdote may serve nicely as material for that aspect of it. Another part should relate her life story, from childhood to her disappearance, as comprehensively as possible. We have some general facts, but we definitely need to get more details, so keep that in mind as you gather
information
.” He coughed and continued. “The third, most important part is the analysis and interpretation of Laura White’s literary output. Your thesis will serve as a wonderful starting point for that, not necessarily for the project in its entirety, but as one possible direction to take. Naturally, it’s appropriate to include biographical particulars in relation to her work. You may find something valuable in it.”

He clicked his ballpoint pen.

“We must remember, though, as we look at all of this
personal
information, that the most important thing is what Laura White wrote. We should, of course, gather all the information
we can about her life as well, by all means. It’s our duty to
literary
history. But when you look at the big picture, Laura White’s life isn’t terribly important. In the end, from a literary point of view, it hardly matters what the person who wrote the books did, or thought, or felt, although such things naturally arouse our human curiosity.”

The scratching of his pen ceased for a moment.

“As far as these ‘ghost stories’ you mention,” he said, “perhaps they could be attached as a small footnote to the biographical section.”

After talking to her professor Ella drank some coffee, looked up a couple of things on her phone, then called the other eight writers.

Although the members of the Society didn’t enjoy each other’s company, long friendship weighs heavily, and every one of them agreed to go the next day to the university central hospital to visit Aura Jokinen—particularly since Ella told every one of them that all of the others had already agreed.

Ingrid Katz, who Ella called first, put a stop to her idea of renting a minibus.

“Just getting everybody to agree to come is an achievement. You ought to get a medal. But don’t overdo it. It takes a few hours to get there. Let’s do this: We’ll reserve seven taxis to pick us up in front of the library at ten o’clock. We can meet there. You, Martti and I can go in one cab. The others can each have their own.”

The following day dawned mild and partly cloudy. The members of the Society arrived in front of the library and
exchanged polite, distant greetings. No one came closer than two metres to another except for Ella, Ingrid and Martti Winter, who stood together trying to look unconcerned.

“The snow will start to melt soon,” Ella said.

The three of them turned momentarily to marvel at the shrinking snowdrifts.

“Yes, it will,” Ingrid said.

“We’ll see,” Martti Winter said. “The ground’s frozen so hard in my garden that I doubt it will melt all summer.”

Ella and Winter looked at each other.

“Would you like some liquorice?” Ingrid said, bending over her bag.

They ate liquorice, and then the taxis came and the members of the Rabbit Back Literature Society got in.

Three hours later, Ingrid Katz was conferring with the nurses.

“I understand—the patient shouldn’t be needlessly disturbed and she’s scheduled for more surgery and only family is allowed to visit. Do you understand that we were once an extremely close-knit group? Good friends. Family, even, literarily speaking. Believe me, Aura Jokinen, alias Arne C. Ahlqvist, would
definitely
want the authors Winter, Saaristo, Seläntö, Kangasniemi, Oksala, Holm, Kariniemi, Katz and Ella Milana here at her bedside. It can only be good for her recovery that we’ve come to visit her. We came straight here. We got here even before her blood relatives showed up.”

Naturally all of the nurses knew who Laura White was and were to some degree aware of the nine members of the Society. In fact, two of them proved to be fans of Martti Winter’s work, and a third confessed that she enjoyed Silja Saaristo’s mysteries
and had once bought one of Ingrid’s books as a Christmas gift for her children.

“You mean one of our patients is a writer, too?” one of the nurses said. “You don’t say. I’ve never met a writer, and suddenly the hospital’s full of them. Show me one of their books in the hospital library and I’ll be more interested. What did you say your name was?”

It was eventually agreed that each of them could visit Jokinen’s room separately and spend a maximum of one minute each.

Silja Saaristo insisted on going first, because she had an urgent need to use the ladies’ room.

“I’m going to wet myself soon, and I want to get this out of the way. There’s something so depressing about friends dying. And that hospital smell. Ugh.”

Within six minutes every one of the old members of the Society had gone in, and now it was Ella’s turn. She walked into the room, which at the moment contained only Aura Jokinen. Jokinen lay in bed with dark circles under her eyes, a bandage around her head and intravenous drips in her arm.

The nurse had prepared them by saying that even if the patient were conscious she might be confused.

“We’ll continue The Game where we left off,” Ella said. “As soon as you’re ready to start prowling again. I asked the others and they said that of course you can postpone The Game when something like this happens. But until then, try not to think about large, complicated things. I guess they’re getting a chance to look inside a sci-fi writer’s head after all. I just hope they fix your head well enough that you can start writing about this reality instead of writing about everything else.”

Jokinen smiled, raised one eyebrow and murmured something.

Ella bent closer and breathed in the sharp smell that wafted from the bed and the patient lying in it. “What did you say?”

“Jansson,” Jokinen whispered, pointing to the door. “Just here. Went to the cafeteria. Ask about Laura.”

Ella stepped into the cafeteria.

People came and went. The clatter of dishes was swallowed up by the sound of conversation that flowed over everything. Ella walked slowly along the wall. She was looking for a table with a man who fit Doctor Jansson’s description—a thin, elderly gentleman with white hair.

The Society authors had taken over seven tables in various parts of the room.

Ingrid Katz and Martti Winter were sharing a table. The long deli counter was behind them. Ingrid bent her thin neck to drink her coffee. In the harsh light of the cafeteria she looked old and stressed.

Martti Winter was eating a large chocolate doughnut. On his plate was more food: a ham sandwich, a chocolate bar and two large pastries. He was dressed in a white suit. A chocolate stain on his silk tie was visible from a distance.

Ingrid noticed Ella and beckoned her to their table. Ella parried the invitation with a gesture the intricacies of which made Ingrid smile in bafflement. She continued her circuit of the room. Nervous looks were thrown at her, as if she were a leopard searching for suitable prey.

She thought wistfully of the photograph on Martti Winter’s wall of himself and Ingrid as children. Then she came up with an idea for a camera that didn’t just record people in a momentary flash, but captured their entire chronological existence.
Could
you
turn a little so that your childhood is in the picture? Right now your middle age is obscuring it
…

A mural of a gleaming mountain landscape inhabited with people and sheep was painted on the cafeteria’s farthest wall. Ella looked for a long time at a white-bearded, stylishly dressed older man sitting among the sheep.

Her lack of sleep was apparently starting to affect her vision; the mural seemed to swim and buckle before her eyes.

The old man moved, took a drink of his coffee. It was only then that she realized he wasn’t part of the painting.

She got herself some coffee and a biscuit. As she approached Doctor Jansson’s table with her tray, she did remember seeing him at Laura White’s party. He had been standing at the foot of the stairs right next to her when Ms White had started down the stairs.

“Doctor Jansson?”

“Oh, hello,” the old man said with a smile. “The lovely Miss Milana, of the Rabbit Back Literature Society. I remember you well. We unfortunately didn’t have a chance to introduce ourselves at that ill-fated gathering, but you were pointed out to me. Please sit down, if such humble company suits you.”

Ella put her coffee on the table and sat down next to him.

“I hope you won’t take offence if I say this at the very beginning of our acquaintance,” Doctor Jansson said, leaning towards her, “but you have unusually gracefully formed lips, if you ask this retired physician and art lover. Nature has its own whims and missteps, which in my profession one sees all too often. But your lips are evidence of nature’s gifts.”

Ella thanked him for the compliment, wiping her mouth and smiling awkwardly.

The doctor let his attention wander over the bright hospital cafeteria and Ella followed his gaze. The server behind the counter was refilling the pastry case, which Martti Winter had emptied significantly. A little farther off, Winter could be seen watching the activity at the counter, no doubt
pondering
whether to purchase anything else to nibble on. Ingrid Katz sat with her chin resting on her knuckles, explaining something to him.

“It seems the whole Literature Society is here,” the doctor said. “One is lying upstairs with an IV in her arm and the rest are here in the cafeteria. Do they still not speak to each other?”

“Not really,” Ella said.

Doctor Jansson shrugged sadly. “Well, it’s been that way for years. It’s not something an old man like me can understand, people remaining strangers to each other when they used to be so close. They did everything together for years—vacations and parties and studying their writing. Some of them even dated. Perhaps all they need is to get up from behind their keyboards. You never know.”

“It’s good that they came to see Aura, though,” Ella said. “I was with her the other day when she had her stroke. We, um, met to discuss some things, now that I’m a member of the Society.”

The doctor nodded. “Yes, I heard.”

“We talked about an incident that happened to Laura White when she was a child.”

As she tossed this bait to the doctor, she lifted her coffee to her lips to hide her face.

Doctor Jansson looked at Ella with watery eyes and raised his bushy eyebrows. “It’s good that Aura remembers that incident,” he said. “Very good. I’m glad. It was an extraordinary thing,
and a heartening example of what rehabilitation can do. It’s not surprising that people don’t talk about it here…”

Doctor Jansson’s demeanour changed as the memories revolved in his mind—he stroked his beard, tapped the table with a long index finger and started to speak:

“What a case that was! A ten-year-old girl who was angry