They started to chat about this and that, without really saying much. Natural talk. Light.
Good.
That was how this thing should progress. They both had their own lives, and new roles. This meeting was not between childhood friends and former lovers but between two middleaged, sensible professionals.
At the same time, it was a tragic irony that he could never tell this woman about the dreams he’d been having for months, dreams that had thrown his whole life into disorder.
You know, last night you were sucking me off and I came in your mouth and you said you would love me forever. We clung to each other and vowed that if anything ever separated us we would find each other again. And if in the meantime one of us forgot what we once meant to each other, the other person would make him or her understand by any means necessary.
The door of the restaurant opened and three people came out onto the terrace to smoke and look at the view.
The tall man suggested they climb the tower. The short man was excited at the idea. The woman laughed and said, “Don’t go up there. We can see well enough from here. Besides, I’ve been up there before. Going up again would show bad taste.”
“Let’s go anyway,” the tall man said, putting a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Let’s go without this guy. I promise I’ll be a gentleman.”
The woman took a flask out of her bag, uncorked it and sniffed the contents, smiling knowingly.
“What’s in there?” the man asked.
“Sulphuric acid,” the woman said, her voice husky and dramatic. “For the eyes of men who tell lies.”
The short man laughed and poked the tall one in the ribs. “Did you catch that? She’s turning into Catherine again. And you, I assume, are the unlucky Jim.”
The man who would be Jim shook his head. “Whatever. I don’t watch those old black-and-white French movies. Life is too short.”
The woman smiled slyly, pulled the tall man by the arm to the railing and shouted, “Jules, watch us!”
The short man laughed. “Our Jules might not follow you so meekly if he had seen more old black-and-white French movies. At least he wouldn’t get in your car until you had thrown that insane guide to life of yours in the trash.”
Olli asked if Greta would like some coffee or wine or perhaps something to eat. Greta lit a cigarette, took a drag and said, “To tell you the truth, I feel like I’ve got mud in my stomach. I couldn’t possibly get anything down until I’ve heard what you think of the manuscript.”
“There’s no reason to be nervous,” Olli assured her. He opened his briefcase and took the printed manuscript out. “The first part looks good. I think it’s going to be a fine book. Though it needs polishing, of course. Here are my comments. Don’t be frightened. These are just my thoughts and ideas. Just suggestions that can, and should, be discussed. The main thing I’ve been thinking about are the references to secret passages.”
Greta’s brow furrowed. “Oh?”
“Don’t you think they might be a bit confusing for readers?”
“Confusing?”
Greta looked at Olli with such amused disbelief that he felt confused.
He thought frantically, hiding his struggle behind a professional smile.
The whole time he was sitting there he tried to find something familiar in the face he had watched, caressed, kissed thirty years ago. But the face remained that of a stranger. Not that the years had changed Greta—they had taken a toll on his memory. He remembered many things wrongly, including the face of his beloved.
“Yes, confusing,” Olli said. “It is a book of non-fiction, after all. A city guide. Everything but the secret passages is based on facts, a charming description of the city, which will help readers get to know Jyväskylä from a new angle. Why confuse them with this secret passage thing?”
Greta let her cigarette burn down between her index and middle fingers. She put it out, got up and went to look at Jyväskylä at dusk, where the lights were already coming on. She rested her left hand on the railing and lifted her right. She put her index finger to her lips.
The air had cooled. Olli went to stand next to her, thrust his hands in his pockets and waited for her answer.
Finally Greta closed her eyes, wiped her brow, and whispered. “How can you stand here beside me and pretend not to remember? Not to know that my heart is breaking for you? That your face is the wonderful light burning in all this darkness?…”
Olli stiffened.
Then he recognized the words. “Wuthering Heights. Heathcliff’s lines. Played by Laurence Olivier. Directed by William Wyler in 1939. I saw it at the film club. Very good movie. But Merle Oberon’s lines would suit you better.”
Greta’s mouth curled into a smile. “Did you know that they designed a new spotlight just for lighting Merle Oberon? She had been in a car accident in London and had scars on her face. Unfortunate for an actress. But the special lighting made it so that the scars didn’t show in the film. The cinematographer who designed the light was her future husband. It was true love.”
Then Greta turned and looked him in the eye and asked, “Have you forgotten Tourula?”
“Of course I haven’t,” Olli said.
A light blazed up in her sea-green eyes. Olli could see now that it was the same green that glowed in the eyes of the tousle-headed umbrella vendor.
“I do remember Tourula. The Tourula Five. Our game of secret passageways,” Olli said. “But let’s leave them out of Magical City Guide. It will be better without fairy tales.”
Greta looked away, as if she heard distant music.
Olli didn’t know what she expected of him. Before he could organize his thoughts, she took the manuscript, kissed Olli on the cheek and asked him to call her a taxi. “So. We’ll think about it,” she said, and shot him a strange look.
Olli’s stomach hurt as they rode down in the elevator and exchanged a squeeze of the hand at the anti-aircraft gun. Greta’s hand felt cool.
The taxi came.
Greta got in and rode away.
Olli walked home.
He ate some supper, brushed his teeth, went upstairs, put on his pyjamas and crawled into bed.
A disturbing feeling. Olli’s eyes open. Adrenalin starts to seep into his body. He raises his head and sees that a painting has appeared on the bedroom wall.
The Sleeping Girl.
Olli looks for an explanation. Maybe Aino has bought a copy of the Sleeping Girl as a surprise for him. Quite a coincidence. She also bought A Guide to the Cinematic Life without knowing that her husband and the author were once lovers.
Then Olli thinks of a better explanation: he’s dreaming. The girl in the pear-print dress herself steps out of the dark, takes his hand, pulls him up and leads him away.
His body follows hers as if weightless.
He looks behind him. The bedroom recedes. Aino is sitting on the edge of the bed swinging her feet and waving happily. She yells, “See you later, dear! Have fun!”
The soles of Olli’s feet lightly touch a wood floor and he realizes he is in the room in the old house next to the Touru River. Their secret meeting place. There’s the dusty piano and the bed.
Greta is still holding his hand. Olli can smell her perfume and the cigarette she just smoked. Every detail is precise and vivid.
“I couldn’t wait any longer,” Greta says. “Were you thinking you might not come?”
She flirts with him, circling him, touching and examining him, teasing, gathering impressions like seashells on the shore. The floorboards creak under her steps. Her dress rustles. Olli can see the pores on her face and the little cinnamon-coloured nuggets in the green of her eyes. Nothing could be more real. Her face and his feelings trace themselves into his consciousness as if the memories were drawn with a tattoo needle.