Olli didn’t say anything. Anne gave him a peck on the cheek and whispered, “Now don’t be a sourpuss. Guess who’s on her way to the secret passages?”
For a moment Anne Blomroos looked like the young girl who years ago happened to take a ride on the same carousel as Olli. She flashed him another smile and went into the house, where the person Olli had known first as Karri, then as Greta, the person who had now become someone else, was waiting for her.
Olli watched the snowflakes fall, got into the taxi and rode to Mäki-Matti. He went into the house, climbed the stairs, turned on the computer and looked at his wife’s Facebook profile.
Aino Suominen and her son are on their way home.
Then he opened his own page. His status was empty.
What’s on your mind? Facebook asked.
56
AFTER THEY MAKE LOVE they are overcome with a weariness as big as the universe. Greta is falling asleep. Olli’s still awake.
At some point Greta lets go of his neck, turns and sighs. She is pale but calm. Her breath is fairly steady now, though shallow and quick. The marks of Olli’s teeth are distinct on her pale skin, just as she wanted. Olli, too, has deep, bloody scratches on his back and sides. I hope that at my funeral the marks of my fingernails will remind you of one thing: the most important part of our love story won’t be that I died, but that I lived, through you, and for you…
Greta smiles in her sleep. Olli smiles at the sleeping woman. For a little while everything is all right.
After a moment’s hesitation, he puts on his slippers and goes downstairs. He uses the toilet, drinks a glass of mineral water, eats a pear, sits down at the dining room table and turns on the computer. He can spend a few minutes on Facebook while Greta gets some rest.
Aino’s profile has a new travel photo. Aino and the boy look straight into the camera, sunburnt and exhausted. Their eyes ask: Why can’t we come home?
The M-particles ease Olli’s guilt. They show him in a filmic light. Enthralled to the mission he’s been given by the kidnappers, Olli Suominen may be a selfish cinematic character, in some sense even a traitor, but it’s all for the sake of a larger-than-life love, and there’s nothing a cinematic person can do about a sequence of dramatic events once it’s set in motion. All’s fair in love and war.
Then he notices that he has a new Facebook alert:
Karri has confirmed you as a friend on Facebook.
A chill goes through him. His hands feel numb and he sits there for a moment. He goes to light a cigarette, takes a drag and goes back to the computer to look at Karri Kultanen’s profile.
The profile photo is a sculpture of a naked youth. Olli remembers seeing it in person when he was at the Louvre. It’s called Sleeping Hermaphroditus. It was sculpted by Bernini sometime in the 1600s, on a commission from a cardinal. The sculpted figure had a woman’s breasts and a penis. When Olli noticed this at the Louvre it gave him a start, which made the French publishers and the Swedish literary agent he was with burst into laughter.
Olli looks at Karri’s information, which doesn’t mention his birthday, gender or hometown. All that’s there is his favourite quote, which Olli recognizes. It’s from Ovid’s Metamorphoses:
Karri’s profile has a few status updates, though not many comments. But then he only has five Facebook friends: Olli, Aino and the Blomrooses. The most recent post is from a week ago, written at night:
Karri Kultanen just woke up and is trying not to wake the man beside him and his little nymph.
Underneath it says:
Anne Blomroos likes this.
The next most recent post is from more than a year earlier, in the spring:
Karri Kultanen took two jacks out of the game, but spared the blonde Queen of Spades.
Under that one it says:
Anne Blomroos and 2 others like this.
The two others are Riku and Leo Blomroos.
There’s also a comment from Anne:
I don’t think my dear brothers would mind my bringing them along on this little cinematic project of ours (which I think of as a romantic comedy, although it does perhaps have hints of black). It’ll make them look a little less small-minded than they really were, in at least one person’s eyes.
Olli’s cigarette has fallen on the table. He picks it up, brushes the ashes onto the floor and takes a long drag, trying to comprehend it all.
Now a little chat window with a tiny image of the sleeping Hermaphroditus and Karri Kultanen’s name opens up at the bottom of the screen; Olli is so frightened that he shouts a curse.
Of course, he’s aware that it’s possible to chat through Facebook. He’s just never had any reason to try it. Email is modern enough for him.
The message in the box says: Hello, friend.
Olli feels like screaming. And turning off the computer. But instead he writes: Karri?
Answer: Yes. We should talk.
Olli shakes his head. No, no, no, he really doesn’t want to talk; he doesn’t want to know anything about Karri. With trembling fingers, however, he writes: Where are you?
Then, answering his own question, he mutters aloud, “Where do you think, Sherlock?”
Without waiting for an answer, he gets up from the computer, runs up the stairs and bursts into the bedroom.
Greta is sitting on the edge of the bed, in the dark. She’s naked. The laptop is open on the bedside table. The screen illuminates her pale face.
She looks at Olli and says, “My dear old friend, it’s just about time for the closing scene.”
The voice doesn’t sound like Greta. The posture and gaze are wrong, too. There is something in the eyes that is both strange and distantly familiar.
Olli feels sick.
57
OLLI FLINGS A ROBE into Karri’s lap and tells him he could at least cover the woman’s body that he’s had the nerve to hijack. Then he ushers him downstairs—he doesn’t want to spend any more time in this room.
Karri has difficulty walking on Greta’s feet; they’re still stiff and numb. Olli has to help him down the stairs. It feels awkward. He’s grateful for the powerful M-particles in the house that make the situation feel at least slightly less insane than it really is.