“Happy anniversary,” she said again.
The wrapping paper fell to the floor. There was a picture of a pear on the cover of the book.
“Since you’ve been going to the film club, I thought… It came out last summer and I heard that the first printing was sold out by Christmas. But it’s in the shops again now. They’ve got a huge marketing campaign for it. Big best-seller. There was an ad for it on television yesterday and I thought you might like it…”
Over the top of the pear was the title: A Guide to the Cinematic Life. The author’s name was Greta Kara. Olli opened the book. Aino had written across the title page in her familiar scrawl For Olli from Aino on our anniversary.
“I do like it,” Olli said, happily surprised. He hugged his wife, who let out a chuckle and started watching the television again. Olli turned to the first page, which had a dedication:
For the love of my life, from the girl in the pear-print dress!
2
ON THURSDAY OLLI was on the phone making arrangements for the book fair. Outside the window the old park was covered in snow. Inside was work that kept accumulating on desktops and computer screens. The work they already had was still for the most part unfinished. Olli could only spare an hour for working late today because he had a parish-council meeting at six o’clock.
At 5.55 he tore himself away from publishing and hurried to the parish house, just a few streets away. He stopped at the entrance and opened and closed his umbrella three times quickly to shake off the snow.
The swishing shadows made him think of a dream he’d had when he was elected to the parish counciclass="underline"
He’s on his way into a meeting on a summer evening when he sees an angel ascending from the parish house roof into the air. Its wingbeats are so powerful that for a second the air is filled with feathers. The angel flies towards the Ridge and lands halfway up the Harju Steps, then points to its feet and gives Olli such a meaningful look that it frightens him, and he wakes up.
Olli looked up. There were no angels, just a lot of falling snow. He smiled and walked inside. In a place like Paris or Rome or Budapest, under the right circumstances, you might even believe in angels, but not in present-day Jyväskylä. The city had become a monument to dull ordinariness.
About forty people were gathered in the conference room. Greetings were exchanged. Olli talked with two recent appointees about cemetery maintenance and with three other members about the next meeting of the organizing committee. Olli Suominen—sweating the details. That had been his slogan in the parish elections.
During the opening hymn Olli started thinking about his umbrella, which he had left on the coat rack. It was the only one he had left. He had to remember to take it with him. He had forgotten his umbrella at the last meeting and he’d never seen it again. A brand-new one. Maybe somebody had pinched it.
Olli liked being part of things, but he got bored during the slow bits. While the others sang, he amused himself by putting his thoughts in the form of a prayer: Merciful God, ruler of the universe, who art in heaven: would you mind making sure that the most absent-minded of your creations—publisher and parish-council member Olli Suominen, who sweats the details—remembers to take his umbrella with him when he leaves, because lately he’s been spending altogether too much money on umbrellas?
It crossed his mind that if he converted to Catholicism he wouldn’t have to bother God himself about the umbrellas: he could ask for help from St Anthony, who was, according to at least one theologian, pertinent to Olli’s umbrella problem. It seemed that Anthony of Padua had once lost his book of commentaries on the Psalms. Because of that deed he was proclaimed the patron saint of lost things. Which was the sort of saint Olli could definitely use.
When the hymn was over the pastor cast his pious gaze over the assembled and reminded them that people should be grateful for all the good they received because the Lord worked in mysterious ways and what the Lord giveth the Lord can taketh away and so on.
Olli dutifully began to feel grateful. After all, he had a steady job, in a position of responsibility that motivated him. He had his health, a family and a home whose faults really did seem to be starting to put the kibosh on his gratitude.
Olli forced his thoughts away from remodelling and found himself thinking that if the Lord taketh away all sorts of things, could he be the one who had taken the umbrellas?
As the pieties were nearing their end, Olli started to feel embarrassed at his childishness. He tried to get in a more businesslike frame of mind by thinking about his grandfather the notary and imagining the man scolding him, as he sometimes had when Olli was a child if he had done something inappropriate.
It was, after all, inappropriate to be disrespectful even in his mind when others took their devotions seriously. Notary Suominen had once said that you shouldn’t allow your private thoughts any special dispensation just because others couldn’t see them.
Olli genuinely liked the Church. It was a large, uncomplicated institution, which pleased him. He wasn’t particularly religious, but he wasn’t an atheist, either—he believed in God at least in theory, the same way that people believe in distant heavenly bodies, or in their own mortality, or in other things whose existence wasn’t in dispute. But he also didn’t let such beliefs disrupt his daily life.
The meeting was called to order and a quorum declared. The reasons for any appointees’ absences were discussed and their proxies identified. The agenda was approved. When they started to choose who should inspect the minutes, Olli adjusted his tie and straightened his back so quickly that his vertebrae audibly crackled.
When such roles were being delegated, Olli was usually recommended, and was often chosen. His manner was one that inspired trust. It ran in his family. He was a reasonably intelligent and capable man, just as his grandfather had been. The result was that he was needed in many endeavours, and when duty called, he didn’t like to refuse.
Aino sometimes tried to rein him in. “You’re not the only person in Jyväskylä who can get things done.”
Olli responded by quoting his notary grandpa: “A man has to carry out the tasks that fall to him with pride and humility. Otherwise someone somewhere might end up suffering in ways that he can’t predict.”
Olli was the first one chosen to inspect the minutes. The second chosen was Ritva Valkeinen, a mother of seven sitting a couple of rows ahead of him. She turned and nodded to Olli.
Olli had seen Marcel Carné’s Port of Shadows at a meeting of the film club a couple of months earlier. Before Ritva Valkeinen turned back around her face lit up. She smiled at him, and for a couple of heartbeats she stopped being the God-fearing mother of a large family and looked very much like Nelly, the character played by Michèle Morgan.
When the meeting ended the group emptied out into the courtyard. The snowstorm had stopped and snowploughs were rumbling down the streets. Olli said his goodbyes, exchanged a few words of conversation, laughed at the others’ quips, wished them a final good evening, crossed the street and started walking home. The snowy slope of the Ridge rose up on his right. Figures flitted through the shadows of the pines—joggers and dog walkers.
Olli gave a start when a black and white cocker spaniel came trotting down the hillside. It walked past him into the street, as if going to fetch something, then went back up the Ridge, kicking up snow as it went.
When Olli reached the Normal School he turned onto Oikokatu, then stopped in his tracks and shook his head.