one-eyed Jack
Tuuli asks for implements and Svensson puts bowls (red plastic) and a knife block on the table. She chooses the smallest and tests the blade with her index finger, then she sharpens it and Svensson refills our wine. The passing thought of asking my questions now without warning into the silent room and waiting for clear answers (the sound of the blade on the stone). I lay my book and pen on the table quite conspicuously, but then I don’t ask after all. Instead I watch Tuuli filleting the fish: her fingers trace the creatures’ bellies, they open the backs, lay bare the hearts, gills, liver, intestines. Even Svensson stops talking (when no one replies, there’s nothing to say). Tuuli is adept, she has no inhibitions, she doesn’t hesitate, she first wipes the blood with a towel and then brushes her blonde hair from her face. She shows the dead fish to the boy, Svensson and I follow her explanations. May I have the heart, Äiti? asks the boy, but Tuuli throws it in the plastic bowl with the other remains, wipes the blade clean, and lights a cigarette. Hearts are not for people, she says, hearts are for the dog. Besides, Svensson adds, the fried egg is ready (may I serve, sir? one-eyed Jack?). Over the lake the heron is flying slowly, farther out is a steamer with strings of lights. Tuuli says she’s going swimming now, it will be dark soon and she doesn’t like swimming in the dark, could we manage without her for a little while?
Yes.
Of course.
Minä en pelkää.
She kisses the boy on the forehead and stubs out her cigarette. You smoke too much, says Svensson, serving the boy his dinner. By the time I get cancer, Tuuli replies, we’ll have found a cure. Then she leaves (Tuuli believes in the future).
to celebrate the occasion
First the fried egg, later a basket of bread, the bowl of salad, a plate of fruit. Svensson sets the table. The boy stands on his chair and eats with his fingers, we’re again or still drinking wine, red and white, Barolo and Lugana, the boy gets apple juice in a wine glass. Svensson stands at the stove like a television cook, he tosses gnocchi in butter and sage, he praises the boy, he cuts his one-eyed Jack into suitable pieces, occasionally he wipes the boy’s mouth with his apron (the boy’s not afraid).
Interview (Dirk Svensson, television cook)
MANDELKERN: Can I help you, Svensson?
SVENSSON: With the cooking?
M: Yes. Maybe chop something, cut? Anything.
S: You can open another bottle of wine to celebrate the occasion.
M: Where do I find a corkscrew?
S: In my pants pocket. Here.
M: My wife loves Barolo.
S: You’re married?
M: For two years.
S: I’m not.
M: But it’s not that I regard marriage as the only true life plan.
S: What?
M: Sorry. Do you live completely alone here?
S: I’m not lonely.
M: Did you write and illustrate your book here?
S: The glasses are up there in the cabinet.
M: The pictures in your book, are they…
S: Yes?
M: In the seclusion of this house, do you even take notice of the success of your book?
S: I don’t read newspapers, Mandelkern, I don’t own a television.
M: You live alone with Lua? An unusual constellation for a children’s book author.
S: What?
M: I just mean — if I may — that such reclusiveness is somewhat unusual. For a children’s book author. What one imagines when one thinks of a children’s book author. And Lua is no ordinary dog, if I may say so.
S: Lua and I get along with each other.
M: How old is Lua actually?
S: I don’t know, Mandelkern, German shepherds sometimes live to be fifteen years old. Lua is older, Lua is a memory animal.
M: How long have you had him?
S: Lua was already here long before us, Mandelkern. He was Claasen’s watchdog, his pack animal, he pulled his children’s sled in winter and the wagon in summer, he has barked from San Salvatore and from Monte Cecchi, he has howled at Napoleon’s Iron Crown of Lombardy, he has bitten the Habsburgs and peed on Mussolini’s leg, he has slept under Klingsor’s balcony and brought Herr Geiser over the mountain. But those are other stories.
M: Herr Geiser?
S: Mandelkern! You’re supposed to be a cultural journalist!
M: And Lua’s leg?
S: I’ve never seen his leg.
M: But yesterday you said…
S: Let’s drink, Mandelkern, the wine’s been breathing long enough. Chin-chin!
M: To Lua.
S: To Felix Blaumeiser.
To the old days!
he says, but Tuuli doesn’t respond. She drinks without looking at Svensson and stubs out her cigarette in the sink (her wet hair combed back). Then the heavy pan and the fragrant fish between us (the eyes now murky), we eat without a word, only the boy asks sporadic questions and gets selective answers. (Why’s it called a one-eyed Jack? Do dogs like cold fish?) Tuuli cuts an apple for him, later the boy climbs from his chair onto his mother’s lap, lays his head on her chest, and closes his eyes (words fail me). Tuuli enfolds him in her arms and hums the Finnish song that I heard through the wall last night, she removes his shoes and holds his little feet, she herself eats with her left hand (their shared calm, my unexpected emotion). The fish is perfect, the wine a little too warm (Elisabeth would send it back). Svensson and I listen to Tuuli’s singing until our plates are empty too, until the boy has fallen asleep, then Svensson gets up and strokes the sleeping child in Tuuli’s arms on the cheek. He could teach the boy how to fish, he says, pointing to the yellow fishing rod, which is leaning, still in its plastic, in the corner of the room.
the demotion of the Fiat
Svensson rekindles the light. Tuuli has brought the boy into the room next to mine and left the door wide open, I wash the plates as if I belonged here. Tuuli is watching me as she smokes my cigarettes (Muratti 2000). These candles, says Svensson, are the last light of the day. He speaks with proud enthusiasm of his house, of the chickens and dogs and chairs, of the view of the opposite shore, he tells about Claasen and Claasen’s wife and Claasen’s sorrow, he talks about the seasons and fishing grounds and plant cycles, about the access road that’s been overgrown for years (the extension of the Via San Rocco into nothingness). He laughs about the demotion of the Fiat from small car to a pen for small animals. Svensson is a feverish storyteller, his stories intertwine, his punch lines flare up in unexpected places, our glasses clink (even Tuuli smiles occasionally). I enjoy listening to Svensson, and he seems to have been waiting for listeners. He pours wine into each of our glasses, he speaks of the local birds and trees and water snakes, there are vipers here too, he says, raising his glass with every joke and then at every sad turn (I’ve given up resistance). If the boy wouldn’t wake up, if the candles wouldn’t burn down, if the next day wouldn’t come, if I didn’t have 3,000 words to write, if Tuuli didn’t have to sleep too (a gap in her teeth when she laughs) — we could sit here forever, I think, why not? But Tuuli downs her glass in one swig and Svensson gets up. He asks for a cigarette, then he leaves. Tuuli refills the boy’s juice glass and pushes it across the table to me (succo di mele). Let’s conclude the evening by drinking something sensible, Manteli, she says, or else tomorrow will be a disaster.