The Winter War (17 page)

Natalia opened the door and came in. She was wearing a dress and trailed a cloud of perfume. She was tall, beautiful, happy. Eva thought she was probably the least neurotic person she'd ever met. Natalia seemed supremely comfortable in her own skin, as if every day she acknowledged with gratitude the pleasure that her body gave her.

Eva had tried to explain to Natalia that the Occupy protests were primarily of symbolic significance. Even though political decisions were required to regulate the markets, it was the people who worked at the Stock Exchange who were the face of capitalism.

‘But they're talking about the one per cent,' Natalia had replied. ‘And that's not us! We don't earn especially high salaries. If I did, I'd buy my own flat and I wouldn't need to have a flatmate – no offence intended. The wealthiest people don't work in some office in the City. They probably don't work at all.'

Eva had told Natalia she was right about that, and later they both agreed that the protests would undoubtedly fade away, since the demonstrators didn't seem to have a list of realistic demands. Eva still had no idea what Natalia actually did at the London Stock Exchange, but she seemed to go out a lot with people she called her ‘clients'. Right now she was again all dressed up to step into that world.

‘Eva, is something wrong?'

‘No. What do you mean?'

Eva shouldn't have been surprised by the question. Her hair felt lank – when had she last washed it? – and she was lying on the bed, wearing her dressing gown and staring at the ceiling. Her room was a mess.

‘I wasn't going to say anything, but you spent Christmas here alone instead of going to be with your family. And when I got back, you hadn't taken out the rubbish and the fridge was completely empty. When we went to Harrods you seemed depressed. After the holidays, all I found in the kitchen were four empty wine bottles.'

Eva wanted to say something, she wanted to explain how hard it was to work out what she should be doing – how impossible it was when all her life she'd heard her parents say that she needed to accomplish something, but she'd never understood why. And how insecure she felt about what she was doing. How depressed she felt about life.

She tried to look as lively as she could. ‘I'm just a little stressed out right now. I've got a lot of work on at college.'

‘But you're not doing anything.'

‘How do you know that?'

‘We live in the same flat, so of course I know what you're doing. I've seen you lying in bed all day. And I know it's none of my business, but you really should eat something besides pistachios.'

Eva sighed. She would have preferred to sleep the whole month away, but there was something about Natalia's puppylike loyalty that made Eva feel she needed to reply.

‘So what do you think I should do?' she asked.

Natalia tilted her charming head to one side.

‘Come with me.'

‘What? Where?'

‘Come to dinner with me. Wash your hair and put on something nice. I'm going to a cocktail party, and there'll be lots of people, including some cute single guys. It would do you good.'

‘You want me to go to a party with a bunch of bankers? No, thanks.'

‘Oh, come on. There'll be all sorts of people. Fun people. Not everyone who works for the Stock Exchange is stupid, you know. On the contrary.'

So Eva agreed to go. She let Natalia choose what she should wear, pay for the cab ride and introduce her to lots of people whose names she would never remember. As Eva moved through the crowd at the party – it was held in an enormous flat – she thought she recognised a few people from TV. And after a few glasses of the drink that was served from a big punch bowl in the middle of the main room, she slowly started to feel life returning. Just past eleven o'clock, she was invited to have some cocaine in the kitchen, and she decided she might as well say yes. After that, she talked to an interesting American man about the Occupy movement, listening to herself spout opinions that she didn't even know she had. (‘England may be a class society, but at least we dare to talk about it, as opposed to you in the US'; ‘I don't think I'll ever have any children. Don't you agree that it's irresponsible for people to have children?')

She had a wonderful feeling in her body. At times it seemed like the rush was better than anything else – to be totally ‘in character' and focussed, to be the person that everyone expected her to be, sociable and extroverted, an individual with an interesting perspective on life. It was so easy in this state.

When it was almost one in the morning, Natalia wanted to go home, but Eva didn't. Not now, when she was finally enjoying herself. She couldn't bear the thought of going back to their flat; she wanted to keep partying, and it didn't matter where. But Natalia said she had to work the next day. So when several people in the kitchen suggested going to a nightclub around the corner, Eva chose to join them instead of taking the cab home with Natalia.

Two hours later she was sitting at the bar in the forgiving dim lighting of the nightclub, just before closing time. She was glad that she didn't need to think about anything. All she had to do was listen to a long story that culminated in a description of the amazing consistency of the snow in the mountains of Japan – one of the Australians who was into extreme sports was telling the story. A few minutes later, Eva found herself moving closer to the guy until she was practically leaning against him, wanting nothing more than to feel his beard against her cheek.

When she woke the next morning, she looked out of the beautifully glazed window of the balcony to see the sun shining for the first time in three weeks, an utterly horrible sunlight. And she realised that she'd ended up on the other side of town. It would probably take her more than an hour on the Tube to get home. She'd had too much to drink, and they'd taken a cab to his flat. She remembered teasing him about the snowboarding posters on the walls. She still felt drunk, and she broke into a cold sweat as she stared at the posters. Why had she behaved so badly?

She got out of bed and turned to look at the man lying there. He was still asleep. What was his name? Brandon? Brendon? Something with ‘r'? And now she saw what he looked like in daylight: hairy, and shorter than she remembered. He was snoring loudly – the sound of a guy who had brought home plenty of women in his life and had learned that it never paid to be the first one to wake up. Eva looked for her clothes and found everything except her knickers. They were in the bathroom. She recalled with nervous gratitude that Brandon/Brendon had fumbled with a condom during the night. She wondered if she ought to leave him a note. But what good would that do? What would she write?

On her way home on the Tube, she thought about Russ.

nineteen

MAX WAS A REALIST WHEN
it came to infidelity. He had no illusions that there was some other woman out there who would make him happier. In fact, this was a thought that often occurred to him when he met women. He would think to himself: that laugh would be annoying after a while; that particular facial feature is something I couldn't stand for very long; or, it would be awful to have to look at that chin every day.

From a purely neurological point of view, it was said that the sensation of falling in love had a life span of twelve months. Brain scans of people at various stages of love showed wildly varying results. A person who has newly fallen in love displays increased levels of dopamine and lower levels of serotonin. Genuine affection – which occurs after a couple has been together for a longer period of time – is associated with oxytocin in women and vasopressin in men.

The percentage of dopamine in people who have fallen in love is comparable to the level produced by drugs such as cocaine. Love is also similar to drugs in the sense that the user continues to crave stronger doses, until finally the need can no longer be satisfied. One year of fire is followed by thirty years of ashes, as someone once said. But in reality, wasn't one year plenty? And well worth it?

Max had begun to understand why some people took up extreme sports. They could get the adrenaline rush they wanted and still be a good and virtuous person. It was so strange, when he thought about it. Risking your life by jumping off a cliff was considered acceptable within the realm of social conventions. Yet falling for a woman who was not your wife was deemed a cardinal sin. But loyalty was one of those things that was deeply ingrained in human DNA.

He had agreed to show his manuscript to Laura Lampela, even though he wasn't sure it would do any good. She sent him an email the very next day and invited him to come over to her flat to discuss the text. Max was surprised that she didn't suggest a more neutral meeting place, but he offered no objections. Instead, during the two days before their meeting, he played better tennis than he had in years.

Without mentioning it to Katriina, he had already sent Laura a big section of his manuscript: about three hundred pages from the beginning of the book, recounting Westermarck's first visits to England. There he'd made contact with many of the intellectuals in London, including the Couplands – who were Goethe scholars – and twenty-year-old James Sully, who moved in the same circles as Darwin, Huxley, Robert Louis Stevenson and George Eliot. During that same year the World Exposition was held in Paris. At the age of thirty, Westermarck found himself in the centre of all the major cultural events of the day. It must have been the very pinnacle of intellectual interaction, and yet England was also a dirty, grey and gloomy place. How was Max going to describe all of that? How could he make his readers fully appreciate that era?

‘I hope you like steamed mussels,' Laura said as she opened the door.

‘Hey,' said Max. ‘Are you planning to offer me dinner?'

‘Sure, if you're hungry.'

She was dressed up more than was usual for a casual first meeting to discuss work. Max was glad that he'd worn a blazer.

‘Is that saffron in the sauce you're making?' he asked. He had noticed the honeyed and spiced aroma as soon as he entered the stairwell.

‘A little saffron, a little white wine, some shallots and parsley. It's a recipe I learned from my mother,' she told him.

He paused in the doorway to Laura's tiny kitchen – it was more of a kitchenette – and wondered whether he ought to sit down.

‘Do you like garlic?' she asked.

‘Who doesn't?' replied Max, looking around the room as he discreetly rubbed his calves with his feet. His muscles ached from all the tennis games he'd been playing. Laura's place was a cramped flat in the Rödbergen neighbourhood, dimly lit and slightly dreary, with walls that had been carelessly painted. Max hadn't expected her flat to be so unattractive, considering her age. This was more like a student's lodging than a flat where a woman would invite men to visit.

A mobile lying on the table began to ring. Laura didn't seem to hear it as she continued to cook.

‘Your phone is ringing.'

She looked up in surprise.

Max nodded at the mobile. Laura put down the ladle she was holding and came over to look at the display to see who was calling. Then she switched off the phone.

‘Okay, now we won't be disturbed.'

Laura was wearing a white blouse that was so sheer it was almost transparent, and Max could see the white bra she had on underneath. She had pinned up her hair, loosely, using some sort of clip, and it looked as if it might come undone at any second. And she wore red lipstick. It was all a bit too much. Did she always dress up like this when she cooked on Friday evening?

Max knew there was something in the social contract that prevented him from asking. He had been invited here on her terms, so he was not allowed to make any demands. All he could do was follow Laura's lead and try to interpret her signals. Right now she was signalling self-confidence and sensuality, as if she was in charge, and she seemed to relish that role.

‘So, have you had time to read any of my text?'

‘Of course I have. But maybe we should have dinner first. I didn't know if you'd be hungry, but I made enough for the two of us. I've printed out your manuscript and made a few notes. We can discuss them later.'

‘Whatever you like.'

She didn't seem to be in any rush to get to the text. Does that mean she thinks it's good or bad? Max wondered. Maybe she was offering him dinner in order to lighten the shock when she later tore his work apart with her criticisms. He went into the small living room that also served as a bedroom. It was clean and tidy, but equally simple and minimalist in appearance, as if Laura had neither the budget nor the space to acquire anything that might make the place more pleasant. Or as if she were on the verge of moving away at any moment.

‘So what's your wife doing tonight?' asked Laura from the kitchen.

‘She left for the Philippines yesterday.'

‘Oh. Will she be there long?'

‘Two weeks.'

Two weeks, thought Max. Two weeks that he could spend working with Laura every day. Two weeks that he could use to get closer to her. Provided that was something she wanted. Was it such an unreasonable idea?

‘All right then. Dinner is ready,' said Laura, inviting him to sit at the kitchen table.

There was a brief, awkward moment later in the evening when Laura went to the bathroom and Max was left sitting at the table. He wasn't sure whether he should make a motion to leave or not – had he already stayed too long? She hadn't said anything to give him a clue as to what might happen next, and she hadn't said a single word about his manuscript. They'd talked about other things instead. And he had enjoyed himself; he found it easy to talk to Laura.

When she came back to the kitchen, she turned on the lamp in the corner and suggested that they sit on her bed since she didn't have a sofa. A TV and coffee table stood in front of the bed.

Max noticed that she had touched up her lipstick.

‘So,' he said, raising one eyebrow.

‘So,' she replied and smiled, showing her dimples. ‘I've never done this before. Shall we get to work?'

Neither of them spoke for several seconds. Max was trying to think of something sensible to say, but his cheeks were bright red – probably because of the wine. He felt like a fumbling seventeen-year-old. And he couldn't for the life of him remember what his manuscript was about. Had he actually written something?

‘I … er … I mean … all those pages I sent you, well, that's not the final draft, but I thought it might give you some idea of where I'm going with the book …'

‘Yes, it did,' Laura said. ‘Very impressive. I think what you've written is really good, particularly about Westermarck's personality, if you know what I mean. He seems nice. Spoiled and clever and perhaps a bit boring, but nice. I especially liked the part about how he was forced to give up his piano lessons because of all the croquet games he'd been playing.'

Max tried not to show how relieved he felt.

‘It's funny you should mention that, because I thought that was amusing too. These days mothers worry about their sons playing too many computer games. But in Helsinki in the late nineteenth century, they were afraid their boys would get addicted to playing croquet.'

She laughed and touched his arm. Max didn't know what to do with his hands.

Laura had placed the manuscript on the coffee table. He looked at the words he'd written and suddenly they didn't look as shabby as he'd thought they were. All those sentences that he'd agonised over for so long now seemed to have come alive.

‘That's really nice to hear, Laura.'

Without thinking about it he'd said her name, but now it hovered in the air, as if laden with significance.

‘To be honest, I don't know why you would need my help. This is essentially a finished book. It might need to be tightened up a bit, but otherwise I think it's fine the way it is. It's not supposed to be a scholarly treatise, is it?'

‘Not at all. That's not my intention. But I've just … I don't know. I've been working on it so long, and I know that Westermarck is a major figure, a real giant – and how do you write about someone like that? How do you do him justice?'

Laura ran her fingers through her hair. She leaned forward so that her necklace hung over the manuscript pages like a pendulum.

‘I've made a few notes that might interest you. Not a lot, but they may be of some help. Shall we have a look?'

Max nodded with a contradictory feeling of relief and indifference. Now that she had given his book her blessing, he didn't think he needed any more help. He would have much preferred to kiss her.

Two hours later, Max strolled home along Mannerheimvägen. The street was deserted, and the wind blew the snow across the black asphalt; the snow piled up in small drifts against the lamp posts and traffic markers. The whole area looked like a tundra landscape.

He had decided against getting a cab, since he felt the need to walk and sort out his thoughts. He slipped and slid. He wrapped his coat tighter and hunched his shoulders, feeling the cold shoot like rays straight across his scalp, since he wasn't wearing a cap. He hadn't thought he'd need one when he left home to go to Laura's place.

The weather had a sobering effect on him. His teeth were chattering, so he clenched his jaws and thought about making a decision, although he didn't know what that entailed. The more he tried to formulate it, the faster it slipped away. Maybe he didn't want to formulate it. He could have been twenty, or even nineteen. Seventeen. Not sixty. Once again he had that feeling, that obstinacy in his mind, an attempt to steel his consciousness, partly because he wanted to think about her – yes, he did want to think about Laura – but also because he was freezing, and it was easier to withstand the cold if he kept his thoughts focussed the way a marathon runner did as he approached the finish line, doing his best to fix his gaze several hundred metres ahead.

Off in the distance he could see the Opera House and the huge crossroads where the wind was blowing from all directions. A taxi drove by, a tram screeched past. All he had to do was turn left and he'd soon be home, so now he was able to direct his attention to one topic: Laura.

What did it mean? Where would this lead? He tried not to let his thoughts wander too far ahead, since that would soften his brain and then he'd again start to freeze; then he'd become aware of the raging winter weather all around him. Finally, he blotted out all other thoughts and focussed solely on her image, the way she looked. He pictured her breasts, her bum, her lovely bum. And with that picture in his mind – her bum, now bare – he trudged through the tundra-like Helsinki night until he came to the door of his building and stepped inside the stairwell. It was quiet in the flat. Katriina was far away, and Edvard was asleep. He took off his blazer, went into the kitchen and drank a glass of water. Then he went to the bedroom and sank on to the edge of the bed to take off his socks. The heat in the room burned on his icy hands and on his cheeks. Then he crawled under the covers, stretching out to take up nearly the whole mattress, and felt asleep, with Laura's naked bum still in his thoughts. During the night he dreamt of Edvard Westermarck and Marrakesh. But this time, Laura was there.