“A nap at the neighbours’,” Aino explained, without looking at him. “Anyway Lauri has a sore throat. He can’t go swimming today, and maybe not tomorrow, either. It was a nice idea, though. Some other time.”
Olli went into his office and opened Facebook. He had a message from Greta Kara.
Hi, Olli. I’m still in Jyväskylä. Did you want to discuss the manuscript? Shall we meet today at 10 p.m. at the observation tower?
18
OLLI SPENT TWO HOURS on Facebook and sent a lot of messages about the Frankfurt Book Fair. When he went back downstairs he met Aino in the kitchen, sitting at the table eating Marie biscuits. She said the boy had come home from the neighbours’, eaten dinner and gone to bed.
“He told me to tell Daddy goodnight and sweet dreams.”
Olli said he wanted to read to the boy from a new Book Tower children’s book just off the presses. It was called A Day with Daddy. In the book a kitten learns all about peoples of the world from his father while his mother is at home making fruit compote. But Aino shook her head.
“No. It’s a nice idea, but he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Some other time.”
Olli shaved, took a shower, got dressed and flipped through the Magical City Guide manuscript one more time, adding more edits.
When he left with his briefcase in his hand, Aino was watching television.
On the western slope of Harju Ridge there was a summer theatre stage and behind it a narrow wooden staircase, which Olli climbed. The evening breeze rustled his clothes rather pleasantly. Halfway up the stairs, however, he had to stop and rest so he wouldn’t sweat and spoil his clothes. Olli adjusted the knot in his tie. The last time he’d shown himself to Greta in a dirty shirt, and this time he had given special attention to how he was dressed. When the outside’s taken care of it’s easier to keep the inside under control.
He was wearing the jewel of his wardrobe, a high-quality Dolce & Gabbana suit made of thin virgin wool. Thus attired, Olli believed he could behave in a businesslike manner and not like an inmate off his meds the way he had the last time.
When he got to the top of the steps he turned left towards the observation tower with its neon clock. The Swedish city of Eskilstuna had presented it as a gift and installed it in the tower in 1953, when no one in Finland knew how to construct one, and they couldn’t buy one from Sweden due to currency problems.
Olli had a habit of checking the time by this clock on his way to work. The clock had become familiar and beloved to him over the years; it sort of belonged to him.
It was five minutes to ten.
As he approached the observation tower, Olli looked up. He saw a person standing at the railing on the restaurant level. Possibly a woman. Perhaps the woman he was going to meet.
He passed the raised gun barrel in front of the tower entrance. It was a memorial to the bombings and the anti-aircraft guns that had protected Jyväskylä during the Winter War, and a regular stop on the Suominen family’s Sunday walks.
Olli crossed the lobby to the elevator and rode up to the observation deck with a young couple.
Inside the restaurant a wedding party was gathered. The bride, radiant in white, was surrounded by champagne glasses. Olli walked out onto the terrace. Every outdoor table but one was empty. Next to the striped ice cream awning sat a slim woman. Her left hand was resting on the table; her right held a cigarette. She was looking down at the city. Her golden hair was pinned up. Her pale-green pear-print dress set Olli’s heart pounding in his chest.
The manner in which she smoked her cigarette could only be described as reverent. Her slow motions were pure dance.
A Guide to the Cinematic Life had a whole chapter devoted to the art of smoking.
Thinking ordinarily, smoking is a vice that is hazardous to your health, and is thus limited, regulated and censured by society. In spite of that, or precisely because of that, it is also an indispensable part of the cinematic way of life.
What would the films of Wong Kar-wai, Godard, Truffaut or Kaurismäki be without scenes of smoking? How successful would Irving Rapper’s melodrama Now, Voyager have been if someone had cut the scenes where Paul Henreid lights two cigarettes and hands one to Bette Davis! It’s easier to imagine Charlie Chaplin without a moustache than it is to imagine Humphrey Bogart, Tony Leung or Matti Pellonpää without cigarettes. A lit cigarette is an aesthetic element comparable to music, with a power of expression when used in dialogue that should not be underestimated. Like any tool, however, it takes practice to learn to use it correctly so that the effect created is the one intended.
The following pages discuss various smoking techniques and situations, and examine how smoking can be used as an indicator of your persona and message.
(Smoking photo spread: Tony Leung in In the Mood for Love. Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall in The Big Sleep. Bebe Daniels in My Past. Lauren Bacall in Confidential Agent. Ida Lupino in Road House. Bette Davis and Paul Henreid in Now, Voyager.)
As he approached the table, Olli examined the woman’s profile. He noticed now that from a certain angle she resembled the silhouette of the smoking umbrella vendor. If he could commission a painting of Greta Kara and hire any artist, living or dead, Gustav Klimt would have been the best choice.
Greta Kara didn’t otherwise look familiar to him. Her hair was gold blonde, as he had thought—the same colour as Maura’s at Jyväskylä Umbrella. Her dress also corresponded with his expectations. But in a crowd, he wouldn’t have recognized her face. He dreamt about it every night, but now that he was actually seeing it, it was the face of a stranger. He was both saddened and relieved.
Now he was close enough to smell her perfume and trailing cigarette smoke. He was close enough to see her clearly. But he still hesitated, afraid he might be confusing her with someone else. Which was ridiculous. Who else could it be?
The woman was still looking at the view. That was how he knew that she was Greta. She wanted to punish him one last time. If it were someone he didn’t know, she would have already glanced up to see who was approaching. Olli said hello.
The woman’s head turned slowly.
Their eyes met.
“Olli.”
A cloud of smoke escaped from between her lips.
She put out her cigarette in the ashtray and smiled. Olli sat down, leant his briefcase against a leg of the table and smiled back. It was hard to look her in the eye.
“A pleasant evening,” Olli said.
“Yes,” Greta answered. “A good evening to sit together and talk about books and cities. And a good place for it.” She paused, then added dramatically, “The city is at our feet.”
She smiled ironically. Olli sensed that she hadn’t yet forgiven him for his earlier bungle. She was probably waiting to see how this meeting would go. Olli gathered his thoughts, ready to behave as he was expected to behave.
First of all he had to be an adult, dignified and self-confident, like the head of a publishing house, which was what he was.
Second, he should be a polite, friendly, respectful person; an editor who was meeting with a writer important to the firm, aware of his responsibility to make sure that she stayed with them, and aware that her sales could assure the daily bread of a large number of people.
Third, of course, was to be warm and attentive—they were, after all, old friends.
Olli remembered that they hadn’t hugged, or even shaken hands. It left an uncomfortable distance between them. It was too late to correct it. The next natural moment for it would be when they parted.