The Letter
IT WAS NOT EASY TO SAY PRECISELY when the change had occurred, but Jonna was different. Very clearly, something had happened. It wasn’t something you noticed right away, not even enough to make you ask if she was feeling well or was upset about something. No, it was imperceptible, impossible to put your finger on. But it was there. No irritation, no depression, no pregnant silences, but Mari knew that Jonna was brooding about something she didn’t want to talk about.
They saw one another only in the evenings, because Mari was making sketches for book illustrations, a big commission that made her both happy and anxious. When she came over to Jonna’s, dinner was ready, they ate as usual with books beside their plates and watched television later. Everything was calm and exactly normal, but Jonna was somehow distant, far away somewhere. Mari had set the table with the wrong plates and forgotten the napkins, and Jonna said nothing. The man next door played scales on his piano and she didn’t notice. Johnny Cash came on the radio and she didn’t put in a cassette. It was frightening. When the film for the evening was over, she didn’t say a word even though it was Renoir. They were sitting in the library, and to have something to do Mari started leafing through Jonna’s mail, which lay in a pile of the table. Very quickly, Jonna reached for her letters and took them into her studio.
And then Mari dared say, “Jonna, is anything wrong?”
“How do you mean?”
“There’s something wrong.”
“Not at all. I’m working. I’m working well. I’m really getting into it.”
“Yes, I know. You’re not angry at me for some reason? No one’s been mean to you?”
“No, no. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jonna turned on the television and sat down to watch a stupid programme that was trying to be humorous, one of those programmes with an audience that laughs all the time.
Mari said, “Do you want some coffee?”
“No, thank you.”
“Or a drink?”
“No. Make one for yourself if you want.”
“Maybe I’ll go home,” said Mari and waited, but Jonna said nothing. So Mari made herself a drink, and, when she’d thought about it for a long time, she said as nicely as she could that Jonna meant so much to her that it would be completely impossible to get along without her.
But it was wrong, totally wrong. Jonna leaped up and turned off the television, and all her elusiveness and reticence vanished and she cried, “Don’t say that! You don’t know what you’re saying to me! You’re driving me to desperation. Leave me in peace!”
Mari was so astonished that she could only be embarrassed. They were both embarrassed. And then they both got very polite.
Mari said, “I think I’ll do the dishes tomorrow, unless you’re going to work very early.”
“No, it’ll be sometime after ten.”
“I won’t call, because I suppose you’ll unplug the phone.”
“Yes,” Jonna said. “Do you have juice?”
“Yes, I’ve got juice. Good night.”
“See you.”
Mari didn’t think she’d be able to sleep, but she fell asleep instantly before she even had time to realize how unhappy she was. It was only in the morning when she began to remember that she started feeling really, really bad. She had to repeat endlessly every word Jonna had said, the way she’d looked, the tone of her voice. And, mercilessly, how could she have said the things she’d said? Why, why, why? She wants to be rid of me.
Mari rushed across the attic and into Jonna’s studio, and without the least consideration or diplomacy she cried, “Why do you want to be rid of me?”
Jonna stared at her for a moment. Then she said, “Read this,” and handed her the letter.
“I don’t have my glasses,” said Mari angrily. “Read it to me!”
And Jonna read. She’d been awarded a studio in Paris for a year. The studio was meant for her use alone. The rent was very low. It was a great honour. Reply within ten days.
“Good Lord,” said Mari. “Is that all!” She sat down and tried to rearrange her fears as best she could.
“So, you see, I don’t know what to do,” Jonna said. “Maybe the best thing would be to turn it down.”
Any number of possibilities and impossibilities ran quickly through Mari’s head — sharing the studio secretly; renting something nearby; coming to Paris later when her illustrations were done, which would only take a few months. She looked at Jonna and suddenly she understood. Jonna really wanted to work in peace, a whole year, now that she was working really well.
“The best thing is probably to turn it down,” Jonna repeated.
Mari said, “Don’t do that. I think it’ll be all right.”
“You do? You really think so?”
“Yes, I do. I’m going to need a long time for these illustrations. They have to be good.”
“But I mean,” said Jonna, quite confused, “illustrations…”
“Exactly. They have to be good, and that takes time. You may not realize how important they are for me.”
“Of course I do!” Jonna burst out, and she launched into a long, earnest discussion of the importance of illustration, the painstaking labour, the concentration, the need to be undisturbed if you’re going to do your best work.
Mari was hardly listening. A daring thought was taking shape in her mind. She began to anticipate a solitude of her own, peaceful and full of possibility. She felt something close to exhilaration, of a kind that people can permit themselves when they are blessed with love.
Other Tove Jansson titles published as eBooks by Sort Of Books
The Summer Book
A Winter Book
Travelling Light
The True Deceiver