They tried to talk me into choosing Helsinki, or even Tampere, if the capital didn’t inspire me for some reason. And the French publisher got even more nervous when he heard what it was I was writing. He promised that I could keep my room and my piano and my view of the Eiffel Tower for another year as long as I focus on large European cities as soon as I finished the book on Jyväskylä. It seems the potential magic of Jyväskylä is only of interest to Jyväskyläns. As far as France is concerned, Jyväskylä doesn’t exist.
Olli answered that publishers, of course, have their own interests, and it was understandable that a publisher in Helsinki or Paris wouldn’t share her interest in a small town in central Finland.
You’re in a strong position at present because your first book is bringing in money. As a publisher myself, I understand your publisher, but don’t make any compromises that don’t feel right to you.
Greta responded:
The easiest, safest thing would probably be to give in to all their demands and forget my own whims and be a good girl and continue working with my present higher-ups. But you understand me better than anyone else in the world. You know that I’m loyal above all to my feelings and whims—what else does a person have! It’s wonderful that you support me! Hopefully I won’t burden you too much with my problems. You’ve got heaps of your own urgent publishing matters, especially now that you’ve got to find yourself some new non-fiction.
The next four messages dealt with everyday trivialities. Olli described his activities in the parish council and the publishing house, and briefly talked about his home, family and Sunday walks. He mentioned that he belonged to a film club and for that reason particularly enjoyed Greta’s book, which he was reading as his schedule permitted, and sometimes on the sly during busy workdays. Greta, for her part, had described her own walks in Paris and reminisced about her time in Jyväskylä.
What I’ve been thinking about writing is mostly based on what I remember from twenty years ago. The old Tourula neighbourhood isn’t there any more, and many places must have changed. It’s clear that sooner or later I’ll have to get to know Jyväskylä again and update my knowledge for the book.
Immediately after this came the pivotal message:
Olli, I just had the craziest idea! Or actually a really brilliant idea! How could I not have thought of it earlier?… What would you say if I offered my next book to your publishing house?
9
YOU LOSE FEWER UMBRELLAS in rainy weather, because you need your umbrella all the time. In June it rained constantly, so Olli only lost one, although it was one that had served him well for a long time.
It happened at Sokos department store. He had the umbrella under his arm, bought three shirts on the second floor, went downstairs with his shopping bag in his hand and walked through the cosmetics department, where pale sales assistants catered to customers amid clouds of perfume.
As he stepped out onto Kauppakatu he realized that he no longer had his starry-sky umbrella with him.
He went back inside and asked about the umbrella at the men’s clothing department. The assistant looked under the counter and called someone. Then she said that unfortunately no umbrella had been found but if it was they would certainly call him.
Olli knew that no call would come. Missing umbrellas stay missing. He thanked the clerk and went to buy a new one. That night he dreamt that he went back to the store to look for it.
He peers between the shelves, enquires with the staff, eventually is crawling around on the floor. He has to find the umbrella. It’s important. It must be here somewhere. He just has to look everywhere.
All around him are women’s legs—thick, thin, bare, covered in stockings. The women are walking around him with their skirts rustling. They smell good. Each one has her own smell. No smell of sweat, just flowery scents, enchanting perfumes that can make a man forget his purpose if he’s not careful.
The women cast suspicious glances at him. Some wonder aloud at the gentleman from the parish council creeping around on the floor, looking up parishioners’ dresses to peek at their underwear. A high heel treads on his hand. There are angry hisses. He feels a kick to his backside. The women start to talk all at once about how degrading this must be for such a fine gentleman, speaking with mock sympathy, giggling. A family man, crawling on the floor looking for an old umbrella. Can you imagine…
Their teasing voices press down on him. There are several among them that he’s thought of as his friends, but he knows the rules: if he wants to find the umbrella he has to debase himself and take whatever comes.
The scents grow strong, burning. Olli starts to feel faint. The flowery smells muddle his mind. It’s hard to think, to remember, to act. He falls on his side, panting, can’t make out his surroundings. Did he just come down the escalator? Did he already look here or not? What floor is he on? It’s hard to see very far. The air is thick with clouds of perfume vapour and dark, flitting figures.
Then Olli sees, to his delight, the umbrella, on the floor in front of him. As he reaches to take hold of it a cocker spaniel appears out of the mist, snatches up the umbrella and runs away. Olli yells after it, but the dog doesn’t listen.
He sits up, frightened. He’s lost in the cosmetics department.
From somewhere far away he hears someone humming. A woman’s voice. Beautiful, positively lilting. Gradually the hum turns into singing. Olli knows that he has to leave, to get as far away from here as he can.
So he’s going to leave.
In just a minute.
But first he wants to hear the singing just a little longer. He can’t make out the words, but he understands that the song is speaking to his spirit, asking him to stay a little longer, forever, to forget everything else. Now there are many singers. The song is alive and changing all the time and it holds his attention so that he won’t notice the quick, rustling footsteps approaching through the clouds of perfume.
Then it grows quiet and Olli realizes the danger too late, and tries to get away.
But the saleswomen are already upon him. They look at him, smile ingratiatingly and whisper, Hello. How may I help you?
Olli tries to smile.
It would be so easy to fall for the sweet-smelling, carefully made-up women’s faces, their hair, their breasts, to surrender to their services, just for a little while at first, and then forever. The only problem is that they seem to be part bird.
From under their fashionable skirts sharp-clawed bird’s feet protrude, and although they’re trying to hide the truth of their nature, Olli can see that they also have folded wings with slashing talons.
Every town has its own styles of businesses. There are large department stores, little speciality shops and market halls. Every place has its own unique atmosphere. In Paris’s famous Lafayette department store, for example, one encounters refinement, history and decay—the ancient floors of the building slope and sway, making the shelves look as if they might fall over at any moment, although they’ve stood in the same spot for decades. It’s a place with an enchanting, dreamlike magic, in all its frightfulness, a wonderful place for cinematic encounters.
Jyväskylä’s analogue to the Lafayette is the Sokos department store, opened in 1962, which is not particularly historic as architecture, nor is it aesthetically dilapidated. But its magic is perceptible, particularly at the cosmetics counter, which has been tended for many years by saleswomen slender as birds who are charming but by all accounts chillingly cool when they are at their worst, and who have in years past been famous for their choosiness about their customers—many a simply dressed girl has not failed to notice that she doesn’t receive the same level of service as wealthy ladies in furs.