Antero said that as far as he was concerned it was mostly pseudo-philosophical pop silliness and the success of the book was proof of the book-buying public’s poor taste. “But we should take advantage of it as well as we can,” he added. “And people have a right to their bad taste. It’s probably mentioned in the UN’s Declaration of Human Rights.”
Maiju said that the translation rights had already been sold to dozens of countries. WSOY was celebrating Greta Kara as their latest goose to lay a golden egg. “Apparently Kara is already writing another book,” Maiju informed them. “She’s writing it in an apartment in Montmartre, in Paris, provided for her by her French publisher, just so the media won’t bother her. And she doesn’t give any interviews. Supposedly. It’s a good gimmick. Playing the mystery woman and letting the media’s curiosity swell to bursting, the requests for interviews build up, until she finally gives in and, bang, suddenly she’s on every channel and in every newspaper…”
Olli had heard enough. He stood up, waved his arms like he was swimming the butterfly stroke and roared, “Fine! Great! We don’t need to worry that WSOY is going to fail for lack of sales! Roll another stone over my heart!”
Then he calmed down, tapped on the table and said, “Now can we talk about Book Tower business? Would that be all right?”
The Book Tower staff gave each other furtive looks. Mr Suominen didn’t usually raise his voice. He was known as an extremely patient, deliberative and fatherly man.
Olli sat down and continued in a calm tone, “Speaking of best-sellers, how is the Emma Bunny book doing, Antero? Has there been much interest in the book or the author?”
“Surprisingly, no,” the young man answered, without looking up from his cup, where he had dropped a biscuit.
Olli noticed that Seija, their grey-haired office and accounting manager, was following the discussion worriedly.
“Well, there will be a few articles, mostly the usual children’s book outlets,” Antero continued. “Emma Bunny is a popular series, and I’m sure there will be reviews, and the ‘let’s play doctor’ aspect of the new book will arouse some interest, but we might as well give up waiting for a media circus. Amanda Vuolle is no Greta Kara, and Emma Bunny is no Guide to the Cinematic Life. Which doesn’t mean, of course, that the new Emma Bunny won’t sell well enough, if Maiju can just think of a catchy name for it. I Have a Fanny and You Have a Wee-Wee isn’t quite it…”
“Selling ‘well enough’ isn’t good enough,” Seija announced.
Everyone turned to look at her and Seija’s cheeks reddened. Her faced tensed. “As I’ve explained before, we’re not at any immediate crisis point. Nobody needs to start looking for a new job, at least not yet. But we need an increase in sales.”
The conference room emptied and everyone went back to work on their own projects. Olli went into his office, sat on the edge of his desk and began thumbing through A Guide to the Cinematic Life. He started to tremble. He forced himself to relax. It was ridiculous to get so worked up about a book.
There was the picture of a pear on the cover. Olli read the author’s name and whispered it three times aloud, first with disbelief, then tasting the words, as if saying a prayer. Then he opened the book. He examined the flap photo closely, close enough to smell the ink. It was a picture of Greta Kara.
The same photo was on his computer screen, open to a Facebook profile.
Lately Olli had been remembering his dreams more and more clearly, and waking up melancholy and restless. He already had 425 Facebook friends, but only one of them had been haunting him every night for the past several months.
View my friends (425).
Greta Kara.
Olli thought for a moment, then moved his mouse.
Send Greta a message.
Click. A message box appeared on the screen.
Send Message.
To: Greta Kara
Subject:
Olli wiped his lips and wrote:
Subject: To the girl in the pear-print dress.
Message: Hello!
Olli lifted his fingers from the keyboard and stared at the screen for a long time before continuing.
6
Most of the time, life is a pear left in a glass bowl to rot while we eat potatoes day after day.
The house is close to the river, at the edge of Tourula, his old summer neighbourhood. The trees and bushes hide it from passers-by. The window by the front door is broken. Inside the house is a fluttering sparrow.
Olli wipes sweat from his brow, sweat mixed with the dust from the dirt road. Climbs the stairs. Piano music from above. He recognizes the piece: Debussy’s Clair de lune. It’s beautiful. The door to the room is open. Inside is darkness.
He’s winded. It’s difficult to see. His pupils gradually dilate to adjust to the dark.
The piano player’s fingers lift from the keys. It’s quiet. Olli holds his breath and listens. Someone nearby is breathing quick breaths.
His nose is flooded with the scent of meadow flowers. The perfume is familiar. Thick curtains cover the windows. The light smoulders red; the day and the whole rest of the world are shut outside. Olli walks farther in. The floor creaks, the scent grows stronger, surrounds him.
A girl approaches him in the darkness. Olli closes his eyes, opens his mouth, breathes between his teeth and draws the smell onto his tongue.
“Why are you doing that?” the girl whispers in his ear.
“I’m tasting your scent,” Olli answers.
He opens his eyes and turns. The girl’s mouth is open. They breathe in the same air, and it takes turns inside each of them, growing hot. Olli looks at her lips and chin and neck and shoulders. He doesn’t yet dare to meet her eyes, lest his heart beat too fast.
He touches her dress, with its pattern of pears, and lets his eyes move over it. He feels heat through the fabric.
He’s terrified of the breath escaping from her reddened lips, scorching his skin, because it is palpable with a hunger greater than both of them.
7
GRETA KARA, THE AUTHOR, answered his message two days later:
Well, hello yourself, Olli! How delightful that you decided to write to me! And you remembered the pear-print dress, too! I’m flattered. I didn’t know if you would remember it, or even me, any more. I’m sure you’ve met thousands of interesting people since you knew me, and it’s been almost thirty years since we last saw each other.
Forgive me for the delay in responding. I’ve been very busy here in Paris. (I’ve had to spend some time in cafes, for instance, where the Années folles are becoming more and more palpable to me. Although Cocteau, Chagall, Miller, Beckett, Miró and the other big names who buzzed around here have of course been lying in the ground for a long time…)
You’ve probably heard that I wrote a book. It’s been doing quite nicely. My French publisher loved it so much that he gave me an office to use in Tour Montparnasse, on the condition, of course, that he will get the French rights to my next book. Actually, he wants the rights to the whole series, but more about that later—it’s still a secret! They even gave me a piano in my room; he knows I enjoy playing Debussy and Chopin to pull my thoughts together when I’m writing.