More realistically, because he wasn’t hungry or too tired, Jack could try his luck with whomever he might pick up downstairs—in O’Malley’s—or he could call the waitress at Salve. But by the time Marianne got off work, Jack probably would be too tired. And the very idea of looking for a brave girl in O’Malley’s Irish pub was humiliating.
There was still some daylight left in the sky when Jack called Sibelius Academy, the music college, and asked if there was anyone who might be able to tell him the whereabouts of two of their graduates in the early 1970s. The matter was complicated. Not only did it take the college a little time to connect him with someone who spoke English; Jack didn’t even know the last names of the graduates. (Talk about taking a stab in the dark!)
“I know it sounds crazy,” Jack said, “but Hannele was a cellist and Ritva was an organist, and I think they were a couple.”
“A couple?” the woman who spoke English said on the phone. She had the doubting tone of voice of a knowledgeable bookseller who’s convinced that the title of the book you’re asking for is not the correct one.
“Yes, I mean a lesbian couple,” he said.
The woman sighed. “I suppose you’re a journalist,” she said. Her tone of voice was worse than doubting now; she couldn’t have made journalist sound any nastier if she’d said rapist.
“No, I’m Jack Burns—the actor,” he told her. “I believe these women were students of my father, William Burns—the organist. I met them when I was a child. They also knew my mother.”
“Well, well,” the woman said. “Am I truly speaking with the Jack Burns—I mean really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Well, well,” she said again. “Hannele and Ritva aren’t as famous as you are, Mr. Burns, but they’re rather famous in Finland.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” the woman said. “It would be hard for them to hide in Helsinki. Practically anyone could tell you where to find them.” Jack waited while the woman sighed again; she was taking the time to choose her next words very carefully. “It’s an awful temptation, Jack Burns, but I’ll refrain from asking you what you’re wearing.”
Later Jack called room service and ordered something to eat; he also called the front desk and requested more Hotel Torni stationery. He resisted both the faint impulse to explore O’Malley’s and the slightly stronger desire to call Marianne the waitress and ask to see her tattoos.
The next morning he got up early again and went to the Motivus gym.
He wasn’t at all sure how to approach Hannele and Ritva. The un-pronounceable church where the two musicians practiced every midday was called Temppeliaukion kirkko. The Church in the Rock, as it was also called, was more famous in Helsinki than Hannele and Ritva. It was underground, buried under a dome of rock—an ultramodern design, presumably done for the acoustics. There were numerous concerts there—these in addition to the Sunday services, which were Lutheran. (“Very Lutheran,” the woman from Sibelius Academy had told Jack—whatever that meant.)
Ritva was the regular organist at the principal Sunday service, but Hannele often accompanied her. Jack had inquired if much music had been written for organ and cello—he certainly hadn’t heard any—but the woman from Sibelius Academy said that Ritva and Hannele were famous for being “improvisational.” They were a most improvisational couple, Jack had already imagined. Indeed, if they’d both slept with Alice—yet they’d managed to stay a couple, as Ingrid Moe had told Jack—Hannele and Ritva were no strangers to successful experimentation.
Even their rehearsals were famous. People often went to the Church in the Rock during their lunch break just to hear Hannele and Ritva practice. Jack imagined that it wouldn’t be easy to speak with them in such an atmosphere; in those surroundings, Hannele and Ritva and Jack were too well known to be afforded any privacy. Maybe he should just show up at the church in the early afternoon and invite them to dinner.
Jack was finishing his workout on the ab machine in the gym when his thoughts were interrupted. About half a dozen sweaty women from the pregnancy-aerobics class had surrounded him; Jack guessed that their workout, their dangerous-looking bouncing, was over. Given his Michele Maher state of mind—not to mention his disturbing memories of the Schwangere Girls magazine—these pregnant women were an intimidating presence.
“Hi,” he said, from flat on his back.
“Hi,” the aerobics instructor replied. She was a dark-haired young woman with an arresting oval face and almond-shaped eyes. Because her back had been turned to him during the aerobics class, Jack hadn’t noticed that she was pregnant, too; he’d watched her lead the leaping women from behind.
“You look like Jack Burns, that actor,” the most pregnant-looking of the women said. Jack wouldn’t have been surprised to learn, later, that these were her last words before going into labor.
“But you can’t be—not if you’re here,” another of the women said doubtfully. “You just look like him, right?”
“It’s a curse,” Jack told them bitterly. “I can’t help it that I look like him. I hate the bastard.” It was the last line that gave him away; it was one of Billy Rainbow’s lines. In the movie, Jack said it three times—not once referring to the same person.
“It’s him!” one of the women cried.
“I knew you were Jack Burns,” the most pregnant-looking woman told him. “Jack Burns always gives me the creeps, and you gave me the creeps the second I saw you.”
“Well, then—I guess that settles it,” Jack said. He was still lying on his back; he hadn’t moved since he’d noticed them surrounding him.
“What movie are you making here? Who else is in it?” one of them asked.
“There’s no movie,” he told them. “I’m just in town to do a little research.”
One of the pregnant women grunted, as if the very thought of what research Jack Burns might be doing in Helsinki had given her her first contraction. Half the women walked away; now that the mystery was solved, they were no longer interested. But the aerobics instructor and two other women stayed, including the most pregnant-looking woman.
“What kind of research is it?” the aerobics instructor asked him.
“It’s a story that takes place in the past—twenty-eight years ago, to be exact,” Jack told them. “It’s about a church organist who’s addicted to being tattooed, and the woman whose father first tattooed him. They have a child. There’s more than one version of what happened, but things didn’t work out.”
“Are you the organist?” the most pregnant-looking woman asked.
“No, I’m the child—all grown up, twenty-eight years later,” he told them. “I’m trying to find out what really happened between my mother and father.”