The holy cinematic trinity is beauty, hope and pain. A beautiful story has a beautiful beginning and a beautiful ending. The illusion of happiness makes the beginning beautiful, but the ending draws its beauty from pain.
In order to live with cinematic depth, you must surrender completely to the story that has become true at a given moment, even if it demands morally dubious behaviour or, as some would call it, sinfulness. Morality is one of the lower orders of aesthetics, and is ultimately subordinate to beauty. Morality changes—today’s sin is tomorrow’s beautiful dream—but the aesthetic is eternal. Even cruelty, betrayal and ruthlessness can, in some situations, be aesthetically justified and even unavoidable choices, and categorically avoiding them can lead to slow continuum attachment and the death of life feeling.
Olli touches Greta’s face and whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m just a little sleepy.”
Greta answers, “Don’t. Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”
Love. The word, carelessly tossed off, startles both of them.
Olli knows the quote. It’s from Love Story. Some love story this is. He almost breaks character, but manages to pull himself together, nods with soldierly charm and genuinely believes in M-particles when a fitting line from Sergeant Bruce, in W.S. Van Dyke’s Rose Marie, comes instantly to mind: “Well in that case… Your dream prince, reporting for duty!”
They get up and continue talking as they walk through town, listening to each other’s voices, but not the words themselves. Their thoughts are trapped behind their words, and the unspoken seeps through between their sentences.
When they come to the compass embedded in the pavement at Compass Square, Olli’s fingers feel their way down her arm and their hands join, as his instructions directed. It’s pleasant walking down the warm street. Olli’s step is light, and Greta moves with him, as sweetly as a dream, more gliding than walking.
The streets are full of racing fans, and of course people he knows from the parish council and publishing circles also walk past. Some of them slow down and turn to look at him. But Olli doesn’t look at them. He gazes into the distance, smiling fixedly and squeezing Greta’s hand so that he won’t lose his hold from sheer weakness. This is no time to wonder what people are thinking when they see publisher and parish-council member Olli Suominen out and about with a pretty, golden-haired woman who is clearly not his wife. His wife, after all, is the one who could suffer if he started to hesitate or lose his nerve, and he wishes he could yell this at acquaintances who stare at him, overcome with righteous shock, but of course that, too, could cause Aino to come to harm. So he will just have to worry about his reputation later, if he’s able to fix things such that it even matters.
Olli doesn’t venture to look Greta in the eye until they reach Are Square, which is packed with people.
They’ve all come to look at the eighth wonder of the world, brought to town for the occasion: a rally car on a stage with a famous French driver sitting in it. Children peep at the car and the man from atop their daddies’ shoulders; adults shove each other out of the way to get closer. Only two of the people present aren’t looking at the car. They’re looking at each other.
Greta opens the green of her eyes at Olli. No games now. No teasing.
Just complete openness, which is at the same time a question that shows her own vulnerability.
Olli looks deep into her and thinks that it would be easy to allow himself to sink so deep into that green that he forgot everything else.
They have left many things unsaid, but at that moment they stand facing each other, their souls bared, intertwined, although their bodies are not touching. This moment in a crowd is more intimate than a physical touch or nakedness could ever be.
Then Greta remembers that she has an errand to take care of and Olli says that he should get back to the office.
Before they each go their own way, they exchange a kiss. The touch of their lips is quick and light, an airy goodbye between friends that attracts no attention from anyone around them.
Olli crammed himself into a cab that had just dropped a passenger off in front of the pharmacy, and gave the driver his home address. It sounded strange and unfamiliar as he said it. He repeated it to make sure he hadn’t got it wrong.
When he got home, he opened the refrigerator. He was looking for mineral water, but he got some juice instead. He felt like something sweet. The neighbours’ lawn mower was yelling outside. He felt like his blood pressure was rising. He took off some clothes, went to the sofa, shut his eyes and forced his body to relax.
Sleep came quickly.
He dreamt about his family.
Olli is lying naked on a towel. Aino is on her own towel next to him. The whole family is spending a holiday on the lake shore at Tuomiojärvi.
His son is building a sandcastle. The towers are surprisingly tall and the whole structure is truly a masterpiece of sand architecture with unbelievably precise details.
Olli is proud of the boy. As the castle grows more and more fantastic, Olli’s angst is also growing—he left the camera at home. Maybe he should go and get it and take as many photos as he can while he has the chance.
It’s Sunday and there’s no one else on the beach. They’re all at church. The bells at Taulumäki Church are pealing. Aino sighs guiltily and mumbles that next time they should go to church, too, no matter how beautiful the weather is.
Olli reminds her that because he’s in the parish council he’s ineligible to go to the services when they’re handing out tickets to heaven. “Unfortunately my position of trust prevents the two of you from getting into heaven as well, but somebody has to do this job. And spending eternity under the ground won’t be so bad. Even God himself is there, at the intersections of all the secret passages, watching movies.”
“Yes, that’s what you always say,” Aino sighs, and starts spreading suntan lotion on her legs. “And if that’s what they said at the parish-council meeting then I guess it must be true.”
The heat of the golden sand reaches their skin through the towels. Olli’s towel is blue and Aino’s is red. Olli wonders what it would be like to lie down with Aino on the red towel. The thought of it makes him feel aroused. Aino notices it and sits up. “Oh, no.”
Olli looks at her questioningly.
Aino takes a syringe out of her beach bag. “Maybe we should paralyse that, just to be safe,” she says, looking between Olli’s legs and smiling uncomfortably. “You know what I mean. So nothing inappropriate happens. Since you are having your midlife crisis.”
“No, thanks,” Olli says.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Olli assures her. “Look, it’s already shrinking again… You can hardly even see it now. No need for an injection.”
Aino nods and lies back down again. The waves lap. Gulls float across the sky. The wind has a salty smell. Olli informs Aino that Tuomiojärvi isn’t a lake any more; it has turned into a sea. There was a long article about it in the newspaper.
“I know that,” Aino says. “I can hear the mermaids’ song.”
Olli notices that Aino’s skin is a lovely brown and her physique is statuesque and beautiful. It attracts him and arouses him again. He puts his hand between her legs.
Aino stiffens and looks at the sky. “We shouldn’t,” she says sadly, glancing around them meaningfully. “You know why…”
“They’re not here right now,” Olli says. “Besides, we still have one intercourse left in our marriage. If it’s all right, I’d like to use it now.”