Bent pointed toward the dim hall. “Suit’s in there,” he said.
Lennart helped his grandfather undress. Then he knelt, held Bent’s pants open and still as Bent sat on a kitchen chair and maneuvered each foot into each leg. Bent stood. Lennart fastened Bent’s pants, helped him with his jacket. When Bent was dressed, Lennart helped him back to his chair. He turned the television back on, poured his grandfather a fresh beer, and lay on the couch to watch the snow.
At a quarter to seven, to the sounds of a loud and confusing television game show in which it appeared contestants were asked first to deny and then to reveal embarrassing personal information to a jeering audience, Lennart got ready to go. He tied his tie and put on his jacket. In the hall mirror, he watched himself flex his shoulders and cross his arms, trying to stretch the fabric of his suit coat so that it fit less snugly. He always gained weight in the winter and it hadn’t come off yet. He settled for not buttoning the jacket. Then he called for a taxi.
The cab was idling in the street when they emerged from the entryway into the light snow. The apartment building was at the top of a short hill. Lennart was careful to hold his grandfather’s elbow tightly. “Well,” said Bent, “it’s snowing.”
“It is,” Lennart said.
Bent looked up at the cloudy sky. “We’re moving into lighter days,” he said. Marie sometimes used these old-fashioned expressions.
“We should be in them already,” Lennart said. “But I like the snow.” The driver got out of the car and opened the front and back passenger doors. Lennart helped his grandfather into the back and fastened the seat belt. In the front seat, Lennart and the driver looked at each other, smiled hello.
The drive from Bent’s apartment to Moderna Museet was short, but dull, and Lennart tried to persuade the driver to take a meandering route over two bridges and back up into the city from the south — he enjoyed the views of Stockholm from all but two of its bridges, especially in the snow — but the driver only chuckled at the recommendation and took Norr Mälarstrand instead. In no time, they’d arrived.
There was a red carpet leading up a pathway to the entrance of the museum. In a diffuse shadow behind one of the exterior lights, two men stood poised with brooms to sweep the collecting snow from the red carpet. A young woman in a black coat and white hat gestured toward the museum and said, in English, “Welcome to The Winter War.” Lennart smiled. Inside, he and his grandfather shared a hanger in the coat check. The fee was sixty kronor. Lennart didn’t leave a tip for the attendant. The lobby of the museum was lit much like it normally is — bright lights, shiny marble floor, stainless steel handles on tall pine doors. One of the doors was open. Lennart heard voices and music from out of the dark inside. He and Bent entered.
Men in shorts and tuxedo jackets roamed the room, serving drinks and offering appetizers. Lennart considered taking one but didn’t. He recognized a television actor and one of the newsreaders from TV4, whose voice he’d always found attractive. A woman in a long white dress stood in a corner, offering a dramatic vocal performance in which she produced no sound. “This is unusual,” Bent said. In the far corner, a group of people in all-white clothes danced beneath a black light.
Lennart led his grandfather into a room that was set up to resemble a theater. Rows of chairs faced a wall of thick curtains. White ribbons had been attached to the heating vents on the walls. In the warm air, the ribbons waved a pantomime of a winter storm. Lennart listened to the murmuring of conversations coming to an end and the clinking of glasses being placed on the floor. A glass or two toppled over. There was some distant laughter. The room was humid with late winter. Lennart helped his grandfather up the center aisle. They took seats near the front. Almost immediately, the room grew darker. The curtains parted to expose a projection screen and on the screen appeared the image of a summer cottage. It was a traditional Swedish summer cottage with white trim and Falu-red planks running vertical to the ground and a small garden surrounded by a short, white fence. The camera stayed fixed on this image.
Lennart saw light reflected on the screen from an opening door at the back of the theater. Then a man in a tuxedo walked in front of the screen and tapped a microphone pinned to his lapel. A faint light was directed at him from above. He introduced himself as the artist and thanked the audience for coming. The audience applauded. “The footage you’re about to see has been manipulated, but much of it was first recorded during the Winter War and can be found in its original form in the national archives.” He pointed at the screen. “The cottage you see behind me is my summer cottage in the archipelago, and the film comprises a single year, compressed into seventy-five minutes.” There was more applause, and then the artist continued. “This is called The Winter War.” He walked from the stage and sat down in the front row. The scene irritated Lennart and he crossed and uncrossed his legs twice.
Nothing appeared to be happening on the screen. Soon Lennart saw movement. Wind rustled the bare branches of two tall birches to the left of the cottage. A bird landed on one of the trees and immediately flew out of frame. It was night. Then it was day. This happened slowly at first and then very fast until he was unable to determine which was day and which was night. A single flower in the garden bloomed. Others soon followed. The grass up against the cottage grew long where it would have been difficult to trim. There were blurs of movement across the frame, the artist, he assumed, coming and going. Everything moved fast. Then, as suddenly as they’d bloomed, the flowers wilted and died. The leaves on the trees turned yellow and red and fell to the ground. It rained and then it cleared. The brightness of the sunlight shone out into the room, illuminating faces in the first two rows. Everything slowed down. A storm moved in above the cottage. It started raining again. The rain turned to snow. Snow covered the grass, the roof, the windowsills. The garden disappeared. There was only the white of the snow and the red of the cottage. Icicles reached for the ground from the rain gutters. The sky was gray.
In the foreground a group of soldiers appeared. They were crouched in a trench. He counted at least a dozen. They moved with unsteady motion about the trench. Beyond them the cottage loomed. The trench stretched the length of the bottom of the frame. The camera angle and contrast of the two scenes flattened the perspective, removed the image’s depth. Lennart blinked against the light. The soldiers were dressed in white capes that blurred the falling snow against the dirt of the trench. Some of the soldiers stood and looked over the edge of the trench at the cottage and the violent storm engulfing it. Others faced the audience. Their rifles leaned against the dirt. Snow collected on heads. He watched the screen to see what was going to happen next. The sound of a distant plane grew louder. Soon the whistle of falling bombs filled the room, and there were several explosions in front of the cottage. The room lit up orange. People in the audience flinched. He heard the rustle of their clothes. Snow and dirt rained down on the soldiers, who all crouched low and covered their heads. Smoke hung thickly, obscuring the cottage and the soldiers. When it cleared, the cottage appeared to be undamaged. The soldiers stood, one by one, their backs to the audience, and rested their rifles on the lip of the trench, watching the cottage. This lasted so long that Lennart’s left leg fell asleep. The opening door at the back of the theater opened wide rectangles of light on the screen several times as people streamed from the audience.