Light in a Dark House (2 page)

The violins struck up again. The black-clad quartet of musicians was sitting at the side of the broad terrace, three young women and one young man. Larissa came back, balancing a bottle of sparkling wine and glasses on a tray.

‘Plenty for everyone,’ she said.

Sundström laughed, Grönholm poured the wine, and Larissa sat down and was immediately deep in conversation with Sundström’s wife. If Joentaa got the gist of the remarks that he caught from time to time correctly, they were talking about summer fashions.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Nurmela coming towards them with his wife. Walking with a spring in his step, wearing a beige suit with a yellow tie. There were laughing, blue Donald Ducks all over the tie. Katriina moved fluently and gracefully, easily keeping up with his staccato pace.

‘Great outfit,’ said Sundström, as soon as the couple were in earshot. ‘The tie, I mean. And of course your wife’s dress.’

‘Thanks, thanks,’ said Nurmela. Katriina smiled, and Joentaa got the impression that something had changed in Nurmela’s face.

‘Hello there, August,’ said Larissa.

‘Hmm?’ That was Grönholm.

‘Who?’ said Sundström, and Grönholm’s eyes wandered off, presumably in search of August.

‘Oops,’ said Larissa, clapping her hand to her mouth, and Joentaa sensed that, beside him, Nurmela was swaying slightly as he quickly excused himself. Katriina was staring at Larissa. ‘Come along, darling, I must . . . must go and see to the guests . . .’ said Nurmela. He made off in the direction of the drinks table.

They all watched him go. Katriina tore herself away and followed him.

‘What was all that about?’ asked Grönholm.

‘Since when was Nurmela’s name August?’ asked Sundström.

‘His first name isn’t August, you know,’ said Grönholm, turning to Larissa.

‘My mistake,’ she said, with a wide smile for Kimmo Joentaa. ‘Who wants some more fizz?’ She picked up the bottle and refilled their glasses. Joentaa gratefully held out his, and drained it in a single draught. He suddenly had the sure and certain feeling that he could only spend this summery autumn day appropriately in a state of mild intoxication.

‘Cheers,’ said Larissa, and they all clinked glasses.

‘Is his name really August or not?’ asked Sabrina Sundström.

‘Not as far as I know,’ said Grönholm.

‘Nope,’ said Sundström.

‘Just a mistake,’ said Larissa.

‘Names don’t matter,’ said Joentaa.

He caught Larissa’s eye. She was giving him a glance that he couldn’t interpret. He went to find another bottle of fizz.

3

THE REST OF
the party passed in a soft, pleasant haze, with the clink and clatter of the cutlery, with lines of guests winding their way over the freshly mown lawns, going over to the buffet on tables covered by snow-white cloths. Larissa ate with a hearty appetite. She liked the eggs on salmon and the curried herring best.

‘Mm, delicious,’ she said several times, laughing, and Joentaa felt an urge to put his arms round her and hug her until they were both breathless. He had emptied his glass of sparkling wine eight to twelve times – he didn’t know exactly how often, because at some point he had lost count – and was vaguely aware of Sundström raising his eyebrows.

‘Er, Kimmo . . . everything okay so far?’ he asked.

Joentaa nodded. He felt curiously sober, apart from the soft veil of mist that had come down over his mind.

Larissa was in animated conversation with Sundström’s wife, and Grönholm was leaning back, relaxed, drinking beer after beer with a glass of sparkling wine or so in between, and seemed to be listening to them. Joentaa wondered why Grönholm never brought a woman to any occasions of this kind, and whether that accounted for Grönholm’s good humour and generally equable temperament, but rejected the idea, and for a while watched Nurmela talking to the guests surrounding him in the centre of the garden. Now and then he glanced at the table where Joentaa was sitting. Presumably he was trying to work out how the little blonde had found her way into his birthday party. Joentaa had a feeling that Nurmela’s eyes were lingering on his face more and more often, but he didn’t avoid them. His own eyes felt too lethargic, and the warmth of the evening too mild and gentle. He felt Larissa’s caresses brushing past him as she went to get a second helping at the buffet. Sometimes he held her hand tight, and waited for a few seconds before letting go of it.

‘I have to go to the buffet,’ Larissa told him.

‘I’m not stopping you,’ replied Joentaa.

He watched her go, and saw that, unusually for her, she was wiggling her hips ostentatiously. Putting on a show for the others. For August, maybe. Most of the men present looked her way; some laughed, others carefully did not react.

‘That woman is quite something,’ whispered Sundström, right beside his ear. He felt Sundström’s breath, and nodded.

‘What did you say?’ asked Sabrina.

Larissa came back, carrying a white plate of eggs and herring. Looking at her, he suddenly thought that he had never known anyone so cheerful before.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Hm?’

‘You’re looking at me in such a funny way,’ she said.

‘It’s nothing,’ he replied.

Never known anyone so cheerful before, he thought. Or anyone who cried so often in her sleep.

Then she ate eggs and herring, and Sundström’s jokes began to border on the smutty. Evening came on, darkness fell, lighted torches in holders gave warmth and a little light, and when it was too cold and dark to stay outside, the remaining guests moved into the brightly lit house. Joentaa felt weak at the knees. He was vaguely aware of Nurmela drawing him aside.

‘Come here a moment, Kimmo,’ he said.

‘Hm?’

The two of them were alone on the lawn. Laughter came from inside the house. Behind them, there was the clink of china as waiters cleared what was left of the buffet away.

‘Did you bring her?’

‘Hm?’

‘The . . . woman you arrived with.’

‘Larissa.’

Nurmela stared at him. Seemed to be having difficulty in getting words out. Seemed to be focusing on some point in the distance. Joentaa watched the ducks in their sailor suits. On Nurmela’s tie. In the flickering light of the torches.

‘Are you out of your mind?’ asked Nurmela.

‘Hm?’

‘Showing up here with a . . . a tart . . .’

‘Ah, I see,’ said Joentaa.

‘Yes, you do.’

‘Yes.’

‘Exactly, yes.’

‘Larissa also has a job selling ice cream. Part-time,’ said Joentaa.

Nurmela did not reply. His eyes were almost popping out of his head.

‘Those ducks are dancing,’ said Joentaa.

‘What?’

‘On your tie.’

Nurmela looked down at himself, then up again.

‘I didn’t know that you knew each other,’ said Joentaa.

‘What?’

‘I didn’t know that you and Larissa . . . that you . . . well, knew each other.’

Nurmela’s hands shot out and grabbed Joentaa by the throat. He felt a pain in his chest, and heard himself breathing with difficulty. Looked at the blue ducks.

Nurmela’s breath smelled of alcohol, his voice sounded clear and sober. ‘Arsehole,’ he said.

Then he let go of him again. Joentaa followed his eyes to the windows at the front of the house. Katriina in the middle of the room, in the light from the chandeliers. Tall and slim. A smile for every guest.

‘I’m sorry if Katriina . . .’ Joentaa said.

Nurmela let himself drop on to a white folding chair. Joentaa fetched another for himself. Sat down.

‘I’m sorry if Katriina . . . was annoyed . . .’

‘She didn’t notice anything,’ said Nurmela.

‘She didn’t?’

‘No. Well, yes, but I can smooth it over,’ said Nurmela.

Smooth it over, thought Joentaa. Soft, gentle rain was falling, the first in a long time. Inside the house, no one seemed to notice that their host was missing.

‘I’ll tell her some kind of shit,’ said Nurmela.

Joentaa nodded.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Nurmela.

Joentaa nodded again, and saw Larissa on the other side of the windows. Deep in animated conversation with Nurmela’s wife. They were laughing together. Nurmela stared into the darkness. He had begun to stumble over his words.

‘None of it matters,’ he mumbled.

‘No,’ said Joentaa. He saw Larissa beyond the windowpane. Larissa. With Nurmela. He found it difficult to give distinct outlines to the image.

‘Half-time,’ said Nurmela.

‘Yes,’ said Joentaa.

‘Time for the next half.’ Obviously in an attempt to put this statement into practice, he stood up wearily and marched towards the house. ‘Come on, Kimmo, let’s have another drink,’ he called.

Joentaa followed him.

‘Are you two . . . together?’ asked Nurmela as they walked on.

Larissa beyond the windows at the front of the house. Dancing to the rhythm of soundless music.

Joentaa nodded.

‘Mhm. Mhm,’ said Nurmela, and it struck Joentaa that maybe Larissa was about to lose one of her best clients. Although why should she? Now that everything was adequately explained.

Nurmela, Larissa.

Nurmela nodded to himself. The blue ducks laughed, a peal of laughter like Larissa’s on the other side of the windows.

When Nurmela opened the door, and at last they could hear the music to which Larissa and Katriina were dancing, Joentaa thought that there were two questions he must ask him some time.

Why his house had soundproofed glazing.

And why . . . why August?

4

‘WHY . . . WHY AUGUST?’
asked Sundström, either because no more risqué jokes occurred to him or because Grönholm had just gone to fetch another beer.

He leaned over to Joentaa, who was sitting at the other end of the sofa. There was a red-haired woman whom Joentaa didn’t know between them, and Sundström for one seemed to take no interest in including her in the conversation. His head hovered in the air just above her lap as he made the question more specific. ‘What was all that just now about this August?’

‘No idea,’ said Joentaa.

‘Larissa’s been trying to kid me that she never said anything about any August. But you heard her too, mentioning August. And she seemed to mean Nurmela.’

‘No idea,’ said Joentaa again.

‘But . . .’

‘Doesn’t matter. A misunderstanding,’ said Joentaa.

‘All I mean is . . . well, Nurmela’s first name isn’t August. I haven’t been able to think what it is, but certainly not . . .’ murmured Sundström, removing his head from the lap of the redhead, who didn’t bat an eyelash.

The music was loud and atmospheric, the basses hummed and growled, and Larissa and Katriina danced and laughed at each other, and Joentaa thought that Nurmela threw a really remarkable party. A few last guests still here. The string quartet had left long ago. Grönholm was staggering towards them in high good humour, and Nurmela was lying back in an armchair to one side of the room, smiling as if transported to a better world.

Half-time, thought Joentaa. In view of the picture before his eyes, that seemed a mild way of putting it.

Larissa. And August.

Or whatever they were called.

Then Larissa came over to him, took his arm and led him on to the dance floor in Nurmela’s living room. With strength that allowed no contradiction. He wondered where on earth Nurmela got this weird music from, and Larissa was hanging around his neck, her lips to his ear. A faint suggestion of her voice, but he couldn’t make out the words. Too loud, he signalled, and she smiled and dismissed it with a wave.

In the background, Sabrina Sundström was smoothing down her husband’s tousled hair, and Petri Grönholm raised his beer glass to his mouth. Larissa was laughing. At him. Of course. He returned the laugh and exaggerated his ridiculous style of dancing by adding some nervous twitches. On the sofa, Grönholm laughed and egged him on. Sundström had closed his eyes, and seemed to be enjoying Sabrina’s scalp massage. After that there was quieter music, piano and a vocalist. Larissa wound her arms around him and said the singer could hardly have survived that song.

‘How do you mean?’ asked Joentaa.

‘Too sad.’

‘Hmm,’ said Joentaa.

She let herself drop, laughing as she dragged him down towards the floor. ‘Oops,’ said Joentaa, holding on to her tightly, and Petri Grönholm threw up on Nurmela’s golden-brown fitted carpet.

The redhead screeched, jumped off the sofa, and landed in the arms of a drugs investigator.

‘Oh dear,’ said Sabrina Sundström, and Katriina walked across the room, upright and graceful, and bent over Grönholm, who was clutching a table leg and trying to get up.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Katriina.

‘The carpet’s the same colour as the beer you brought up,’ said Sundström.

‘Paavo, please,’ said Sabrina.

‘What about it? They match,’ said Sundström.

Nurmela came up and put an arm round Katriina, and together they looked down at Grönholm, who was mumbling, ‘Sorry . . . didn’t notice . . . didn’t realise I was so . . . it was the last beer, one too many.’

Katriina began mopping up, and Nurmela took the cloth from her hand. ‘Let me do that,’ he said.

‘Another glass of wine?’ asked Sundström, as he helped Grönholm to get to his feet.

‘Kimmo’s fault,’ said Grönholm. ‘Your silly dancing finished me off.’

‘Sorry,’ said Joentaa, and Grönholm began giggling. Nurmela was scrubbing for all he was worth, and Katriina said, ‘Not so hard, darling, or the carpet will fade.’

‘What?’

‘That patch of carpet. If you scrub too hard, the detergent won’t come out.’

‘Oh.’

‘Salt,’ suggested Sundström.

‘For wine,’ said Sabrina. ‘That’s for wine.’

Then they all sat round the table, and Nurmela offered a nightcap of an apricot liqueur from France.

‘I don’t know if that’s a great idea just now,’ said Katriina, but even Grönholm said, ‘Sounds good, sounds good.’ And there was no stopping Nurmela anyway. He brought out the bottle, and they all clinked glasses.

‘Hm. Very good,’ said Larissa, emptying hers at a draught, and Nurmela cleared his throat.