Authors: Tove Jansson
“But that dog is unhappy.”
“I don’t know about that,” Mats said. “He’s got a pretty good life in a way. And anyhow I think it’s too late to change him at this stage.”
“Well, which book do you want?” said Anna impatiently. “Let me see what they’ve sent…
Little Erik’s Sea Voyage
. Outrageous. Looks like they’re just sending junk they want to get rid of. I might have known… Have you read Joseph Conrad?
Typhoon
?”
“No.”
Anna went to get it. “Here you are. For once, read something that’s true to life.
Typhoon
is the best thing ever written about a ship in a storm. It’s much more than an adventure. More than a storm… Believe me, even your literary sister may have read Joseph Conrad.” After a moment or two she added, “If she understood it.”
Mats avoided looking at Anna. He opened the book, turning the pages with the same care he took with
everything
he touched, and mentioned cautiously that Katri understood most things, she was very smart. “Much smarter than us,” he said.
“That’s possible,” Anna said. “But speak for yourself. One thing I do know, my young friend, she’s not gifted. That’s another thing entirely.”
When Anna had gone, Mats made himself a cup of tea, sat down at the kitchen table and began to read. The house became silent in the storm.
* * *
Anna had lost her desire to read. The heroes of sea, jungle and wilderness were suddenly just lifeless images. They no longer afforded her entry to an honourable world of just deserts, eternal friendship and rightful retribution. Anna did not understand how this had happened, and she felt herself shut out.
One day Anna declared, quite casually, that in future she wanted to have nothing whatsoever to do with business; she didn’t want to talk about it or know about it. Katri, who knew so much about percentages, could allocate them however she wished.
“But Anna, I can’t do that. I can’t take responsibility for your most important letters. This is serious. We’re not playing at this, like a game.”
“No, you’re incapable of playing,” said Anna a bit cruelly. “You don’t know how to play – that’s precisely the problem.”
* * *
It was about this time that Katri worked out her game of playing for percentages, which she called the Mats Game. It was very simple. Cardboard squares, each with a clearly lettered percentage – ‘5%’, ‘4½%’, ‘7%’, ‘10%’, etcetera – which she dealt out like playing cards. The game was played quickly and without a lot of rules.
Katri: “These people bid four percent. What do we bid?”
Anna, throwing a card on the table: “Five percent. Don’t let them cheat us!”
“And how much for Mats?”
“Two and a half.”
Katri: “No, I’ll trump that. Four for you and two for Mats. But you picked up one percent by raising to five. We’ll put that in the kitty.”
“And what do we do with the kitty?”
“You decide.”
Anna, laughing: “A coverlet for Teddy. Okay. Next bid?”
“They’re proposing seven and a half.”
Anna: “Ten! But only four for Mats.”
“Anna, you’re cheating. You don’t have the ten.”
“Okay, eight then. But Mats still gets four, like I said. No, five. Five percent.”
And Katri wrote it down.
Her opponent leaned back in her chair and said, “Okay, next?”
“There isn’t anything else this time. We’ve answered everything I found in the cabinet.”
“But we could pretend,” Anna said. “I want to go on.”
They started playing for fictitious amounts, usually when it started getting dark. They would build a fire, light two candles on the table, set out pen and paper, deal, bid and throw down cards, each representing huge sums that could gradually grow to millions. Katri kept score. She humoured Anna by playing this new millions game, and she usually let Anna win, but its make-believe quality tormented her. It seemed to infringe on the dignity of real numbers. When the game had been about Anna’s business affairs, or, rather, about Anna’s way of talking about her business affairs, Katri had had a sense of unreality that often made it hard for her to
reestablish
the proper balance and significance of the numbers. Nevertheless, she would take the sums fairly won in this game and add them to previously recaptured sums, which by her reckoning already belonged to Mats. Then, with even more meticulous care, she would note down the percentages that fell to Anna.
But playing for pretend money upset her much more. Anna’s way of juggling zeros was confusing, and for the first time in her life Katri lost track and sat in her room for long periods with her hands pressed on her eyes, trying to separate what was real from what was arbitrary play. The numbers pursued her relentlessly, but they were no longer her allies. And Katri felt that Anna’s game was a kind of punishment. The long-forgotten letters had been answered, and new ones arrived very rarely. Anna seemed disappointed. “Is there no one we can cheat today? Then let’s play the millions game.” The game allowed you to cow your opponent with
percentages
, and it didn’t matter in the least whether you were bidding higher or lower.
They tried switching to auction piquet, but it was a mistake. Anna was a bad loser; it made her angry and snappish. They went back to the millions game.
* * *
On days when she was alone, Anna took the dog out in the back yard and had him retrieve. The dog had changed. When you passed him in the back hall, he could stand up and bare his teeth.
“Down,” said Katri. And the dog would lie down.
A
WHITE WROUGHT-IRON FLOWER TABLE
ran beneath the window in Anna’s bedroom. It had stood empty for a very long time. Katri wanted to use it to line up the folders containing Anna’s private letters and the
correspondence
of Anna’s parents. These folders were of white cloth to go with the furniture.
“Oh, yes,” Anna said. “Papa’s and Mama’s letters. I thought you’d put them out on the ice long ago. Did you read them too?”
Katri stiffened. Suddenly she saw how much Anna’s face had changed. It had shrunk and acquired a touch of cunning that was not attractive. “No, I didn’t read them,” she said.
“Just think,” said Anna. “Every year specified on the spine. Now I can look up anything I want, whenever I want, for example, a letter someone wrote to Papa in 1908.”
Katri studied her face for a moment and then went her way without a word.
* * *
Anna wandered about the room, moving one piece of furniture after another, then moving them back again, and her ill humour pursued her until the need for comfort became overwhelming. Finally she took the white folder with Sylvia’s letters and sat down on the edge of the bed.
The letters were in chronological order. She skipped the school years and Sylvia’s marriage and all the postcards from Sylvia’s Italian trip. Here were the condolence letters when Anna’s parents died in rapid succession. Anna searched on impatiently; they had to come soon, the first watercolours. Here it was. “Dear Anna, how nice you have something to keep you busy. A little hobby always makes things easier.”
No, not yet – they hadn’t become important yet… only later, when Sylvia first saw them. Or when the first book came out, she couldn’t remember… In any case, the first time they talked about Anna’s work, really talked about it seriously, and Sylvia had said… She had helped Anna, somehow really helped her move on. Here maybe: “Life is short but art is long. Struggle on, little Anna.” Or here: “Don’t take it so seriously. Inspiration will come when it comes.” Or: “I think your rabbits are really darling, so don’t you worry about them.”
In one of the last letters: “What do you mean when you say you want to preserve the landscape without misleading anyone? Did you get my little New Year’s present..?”
Then the letters came at longer intervals and gradually switched to Christmas cards. Anna searched back through earlier letters looking for the important passage, the decisive thing that Sylvia had said about her work, but it wasn’t there. Sylvia hadn’t understood and hadn’t cared, and Sylvia was hopelessly sentimental.
Anna replaced the empty folder in its proper place and put the letters in a plastic bag. She went down to the cellar, put pieces of broken flowerpots into the bag, and tied it up tightly. Only the dog was at home. Anna put on warm clothes and took the path down to the shore. The ice was very slippery, and it was further than she’d realized out to the pile of furniture. It was a splendid rubbish pile, almost like a monument. She tried to distinguish and recognize items, but without success. She added her bag and turned for home. No one had seen her farewell to Sylvia. In the hall, she said to the dog, “Well, what do you say to that?” But this time without triumph. It was only an observation.
M
ATS SPENT HIS DAYS IN THE BOAT SHED
and every evening after dinner he went up to his room. Katri asked no questions.
He’s probably sitting and drawing, some detail or other that he wants to work on. He doesn’t read any more, it’s only the boat. Soon I’ll need the down payment for Liljeberg, a third of the price. Next payment when it’s planked and sided, and the final when it’s finished. When I’m sure of the down payment, I can tell Mats it’s his own boat he’s building. But not yet. I don’t dare talk to Anna yet, she’s getting unpredictable. She could cheat, cancel Mats’s percentage, say it had only been a game.
I need to wait and be very careful with her. Always wait. As far back as I can remember, I’ve done nothing but wait, wait to finally act, to wager all my insight and foresight and daring, wait for the big decisive change that sets everything right. The boat is very important, but it’s only the beginning. I could double and triple her
inheritance
– dead money lying fallow – invest it wisely and bring it to life and give it back to her many times over in a millions game that isn’t pretend any more, a game worthy of me. It can’t be too late. It mustn’t be too late!
O
NE DAY WHEN
K
ATRI WAS OUT WITH THE DOG
, Anna opened her work drawer, the only one of all her cabinet drawers that was always impeccably tidy. It had been closed all winter. Anna carried out a ritual that she always repeated when the first spring fog rolled in from the sea. She lifted out the teak case with its worn, carefully oiled finish and conducted a painstaking examination of her paints. No additions needed. She tested the soft tips of her brushes, marten hair, the best brushes you could buy. She contemplated all her materials carefully, and
everything
was in order. She put everything back in precisely the same place. She went out into the woods behind the house and dug a hole in the snow. There was moss at the bottom. She pressed her hand against the frozen earth and felt how the ice was slowly beginning to melt. But the moment was not yet, not for some time to come.
K
ATRI WALKED OUT TOWARDS THE POINT
. She could hear the first black grouse hooting and drumming at the edge of the woods. The ice was as grey as asphalt, and shadowy dark-blue clouds moved above it in long ribbons. The dog was uneasy and didn’t keep pace. As they neared the lighthouse, he trotted away. She ordered him back in the very low tone that the dog knew and obeyed. He swung around sideways like a wolf, but he didn’t come. Katri took out her cigarettes. Once again she ordered him back in an even lower voice, but the dog didn’t move.
She turned away. The light was strong and transparent, the landscape seemed suffused with expectation. Along the shore, the ice had already broken up, and open water was breathing in the fissures, rising and spilling over the ice and falling back again. Katri lit a cigarette, crumpled the empty packet and threw it out on the ice. And the dog retrieved it, flung himself through the shore water, took it in his mouth and brought it back to her feet. With the hair on his back on end and his head on one side, he stared her straight in the eye, and Katri saw and understood that her dog had become an adversary. At home she went to Anna and said, “Anna, you’ve ruined my dog. You did it on the sly. I can’t depend on him any more.”
“Depend and depend,” Anna shot back. “I don’t know what you mean… Dogs like to play, don’t they?!”
Katri walked to the window and, with her back to Anna, she went on. “You know perfectly well what you’ve done. The dog no longer knows what’s expected of him. Is that so hard to grasp?”
“I don’t understand!” Anna shouted. “Sometimes I’m supposed to play and sometimes not…”
“You don’t play with a dog just for the fun of it. You know that.”
“And what about you, Katri Kling? Your game about money isn’t even fun. And don’t go telling yourself that dog is happy. He just obeys…”
Katri turned around. “Obey?” she said. “You don’t know the meaning of the word. It means believing in a person and following orders that are consistent, and it’s a relief, it means freedom from responsibility. It’s a simplification. You know what you have to do. It’s safe and reassuring to believe in just one thing.”
“Just one thing!” Anna burst out. “What a lecture. And why in the world should I obey you?”
Katri’s reply was chilly. “I thought we were talking about the dog.”
O
NE MORNING
A
NNA DECLARED
that she wanted to go to the shop and pick up her own mail.
“Do,” Katri said. “But it’s very slippery, so wear your leather boots, not the felt ones. And don’t forget your sunglasses.”
Anna took her felt boots. The hill was at its worst, and when she’d almost reached the road, she slipped and sat down in the snow. She looked quickly over her shoulder but all the windows were empty.