Rain splashes from the edge of the umbrella.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t let you go,” Olli whispers.
Greta freezes.
Then, realizing that she has got what she came to Jyväskylä for, she sinks her fingers into Olli’s hair and presses against him, trembling with passion.
PART THREE
37
Jyväskylä has preserved some buildings that are particularly cinematic, of which the highest in M-particles is architect Wivi Lönn’s city villa. The villa and its separate outbuildings were built in 1911.
On the southern part of the property is a large garden. The lot is bordered by rows of flower beds and birch, larch, and apple trees separated by gravel paths. On the Hämeenkatu side is a fence contiguous with the back wall of the storage barn. The fence terminates in a gate known as the Apple Gate for the decorative relief of apples that tops the rounded arch. Through it one passes into a pillared passage. The house itself is graced with such features as an attached glass conservatory with a fountain.
Many of Jyväskylä’s secret passages lead to the gardens and building foundations of Wivi Lönn’s villa. For this reason, the concentration of M-particles in the house reaches considerably elevated levels.
Olli sees a blonde-haired girl in a doorway.
“Good morning, lover boy,” Anne says, sizing up his middle-aged nakedness with amusement. “An amazingly clear day today. But hey, come on downstairs and see what sort of freak you’ve been messing with.”
He turns, and the dream fades.
Olli sits up, rubs his eyes and looks around.
He’s alone in the room. Someone who was just sleeping beside him is gone. He can still smell the scent of another person in the bed. Confused, he scratches his hairy chest and sighs as he remembers the fresh feeling of a cool hand on his skin.
He hears a piano playing, and realizes where he is.
Not in Tourula. There is no Tourula any more, not like the place in his dream.
And not at home in Mäki-Matti.
He gets up and puts on his dressing gown. Classical high windows admit the grey autumn sky into the room. He looks at the garden and farther off at the glimmering lake, then goes downstairs to where the piano music is coming from.
The stairs curve in a graceful arch. Everything in the house is flawless to the last detail.
The piano is in front of a window. Greta is playing. Olli lays a hand on her shoulder and smells her golden hair.
In a smiling voice she wishes him a good morning, while her hands continue their skilful rendition of Chopin’s Prelude no. 16.
She’s still wearing the sleeveless green dress, like Maggie Cheung in the film In the Mood for Love.
Olli has spent three nights now at the northern edge of Jyväskylä in the house Greta is renting—Wivi Lönn’s city villa.
His summer holiday ended five days ago. It only dawned on him yesterday while eating breakfast with Greta in the dining room, watching her make corrections to the manuscript of the Magical City Guide. Olli jerked upright and slammed his hand on the table: he had to get the book to the printers immediately! He grabbed the stack of papers from Greta, told her to send her final edits to the publisher’s by email, called a taxi, got dressed and hurried to the office.
He had forgotten to look at his phone or read his email for days. Both were filled with worried enquiries and reminders.
Olli apologized profusely for his forgetfulness, gave the manuscript to Maiju and delegated a large part of his other duties to her and Antero. He explained that unfortunately he had to dedicate some time to a personal matter, but would be into the office daily to check on things.
Antero smiled sourly. “Uh-huh,” he said, shooting Maiju a look which Olli took to mean Midlife crisis. Poor devil.
Maiju answered the look with a cold stare.
While Olli had been on holiday Maiju had traded her Felliniesque look and exaggeratedly feminine attire for the other extreme—now she was Catherine from Truffaut’s Jules and Jim, dressed as a man in an oversized checked cap, loose turtleneck, men’s trousers and leather walking shoes. She hadn’t, however, drawn a moustache on her lip.
“Olli, we’ve seen you with this ‘personal matter’ of yours,” Maiju said. She didn’t try to hide her admiration for the cinematic turn Olli’s life had taken. “You can see the park from the conference room. She’s beautiful. And so cinematic that it hurts to look at her. Who is she? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. You do what you have to do. It’s none of our business. Go and live your own story. We’ll keep the place standing and make sure the books get to market on time. And hey, Antero…”
Antero looked at her expectantly.
Maiju quoted Rhett Butler. “No, I don’t think I will kiss you, although you need kissing, badly. That’s what’s wrong with you. You should be kissed, and often, and by someone who knows how.”
Young Antero turned red.
The Chopin prelude ends.
“That was beautiful,” Olli says.
“Thank you.”
“This place is beautiful,” he says.
Greta, in half profile, turns to face him.
“Maybe you haven’t noticed,” she says, “or who knows, maybe you have—but this is the house we used to dream of in Tourula. Down to the last detail. There’s even a conservatory, and a Finnish cinnamon apple tree. I found it when I was researching my book, and I pulled some strings and managed to rent it for us.”
“Us?”
Greta closes her eyes, embarrassed. “From the very beginning I lived in the hope that eventually you would move in here with me,” she whispered. “But since I’m a sensible girl, I knew that would never happen.”
“Right,” Olli says. “Never.”
“You had your own life, a home, a wife and little boy—why would you up sticks and move in with me?”
“There was no way,” Olli says.
Greta begins to play a new, careful piece, then stops, spins around on the piano stool, and wraps her arms around him, laying her head against his stomach.
“Oh, Olli… You could have told me earlier that you were separated… Of course I’m sorry for the two of you, I pity your poor little boy, but at the same time I’m so immensely happy. Does that make me a bad person? It doesn’t matter. I don’t care if it does. I’ve been unhappy for so long that I just want to be happy, even if it means I have to start being an evil, twisted person…”
“You’re not evil,” Olli says, stroking her hair. “Just ever so slightly twisted.”
Greta laughs and looks at him with damp eyes. “You know me too well, Olli. Tell your twisted girl again when your wife and son are coming home from their holidays… And when you intend to tell your wife about us. Or no, you don’t have to. I know. You’ve told me many times. They’re coming back in October or November. And you’ll tell her about us when they’ve safely returned home, because you don’t want to spoil your son’s holidays by giving his mother a shock. I understand. I’m sorry I’m like this. Twisted and impatient. But I’ve waited so long already.”
They exchange a kiss.
Then Greta continues playing. She conjures Debussy’s Clair de lune from the keys.
Olli leans against the piano and lights a cigarette. The smoke and the music wreathe around the room in the clear light. To his surprise, Olli realizes that he’s having a pleasant time. He feels cosy with Greta. He’s at home. It feels like life is as it should be.