ST. PETER’S STREET

BY RIIKKA ALA-HARJA

Eira

Translated by Kristian London

Water is flooding out of the bathroom.

Klaus has been here.

I shut off the valve to the washing machine and throw my sweater on the hallway floor. The heavy wool soaks up the water. I throw the bedspread on the kitchen floor. I walk over to the bed, lie with my head against the wall the way Klaus always does. I listen to a truck backing up on St. Peter’s Street.

I saw Klaus this morning on my way to the island. He turned in the direction of St. Peter’s Street and disappeared. I was in a hurry, my shift was about to start. I jumped onto the ice, walked across its foot-thick lid until I made it to the island. I opened the door to the sauna, checked that the janitor had cleaned the showers, and then I clicked on the electric sauna stove. I went into the coffee shop, tied on my apron, and put the cinnamon rolls in the oven. I sold hot coffee and cocoa for eight hours.

* * *

I toss the soaking, heavy blanket and sweater into the bathtub. I get the sleeping bag from the cupboard and crawl into it. I can’t sleep. I take off my nightshirt. The light is on in the bathroom; Klaus forgot to turn it off again. Klaus never flushes the toilet, Klaus flicks Q-tips onto the bathroom floor, Klaus munches on Finn Crisps, Klaus doesn’t let me sleep.

Klaus and I are always cooking together, making love, surfing our phones, laughing at our mutual friends’ updates. In the summertime, we sail an old-fashioned wooden boat, we walk, and we breathe. People who live in our neighborhood are active and well-balanced, people who live in our neighborhood don’t do bad things to each other, people who live in our neighborhood know what they want.

At night we lie in our double bed. My feet are pointed toward the wall, Klaus’s feet are pointed at the window. One time when we were arguing about our sleeping arrangements, he asked if I had ever thought about the name of the street we lived on.

No, I answered.

St. Peter’s Street, Klaus explained. Peter, who said that if he was going to be killed, he wanted to die a more horrible death than Jesus.

Peter was crucified upside down.

Stupid Peter. What did he achieve by hanging there?

I doze off for a moment, then snap back awake.

Is Klaus staring at me from over by the stove?

I bend my knees inside the sleeping bag and stare at the ceiling. It’s clean, white, and dry. The floor is already dry too.

Does the floor really dry this fast? Is the incident over this fast?

* * *

In the morning I head out onto the ice. I pass the island but I don’t go into the café. Today is my day off, today they don’t need me at the café, someone else gets to bake the cinnamon rolls. The island cinnamon roll oven heats up every morning, the island sauna stove heats up every morning.

* * *

Two women in swimsuits run down the wooden planks to the hole chainsawed into the ice. The women take steady strokes in the ice-cold water; I walk toward the low-hanging sun, the snow crunches under my winter boots. I walk up to the edge of the ice. I’m never the one who goes out the farthest. Klaus is, though.

* * *

When I return to the island, I glance in the sauna. The sauna is empty, the women have left. I take off my clothes, climb onto the bench, and toss water onto the stones.

Once, Klaus and I reserved the entire sauna for ourselves; money had come in from the ad agency, the sauna was just for the two of us.

I put on my swimsuit and walk along the wooden planks to the hole in the ice. The sea is frozen, but a hole has been sawed in it. The de-icer keeps water circulating so that the hole doesn’t freeze over. I lower myself into the sea one step at a time, the water is ice-cold but my toes can’t feel a thing. I lower myself in up to my waist. I slide out, my heart pounding. It’s a hundred yards to the shore, but there’s ice in between, you can’t swim there from here. The shoreline of the city’s most expensive neighborhood is full of free swimming spots: public beaches and ice holes.

I climb out of the water. I’m instantly bitten by the cold. I walk along the wooden planks toward the warmth. I open the door, I take a hot shower, the water sprays, my toes start to melt, I let the water from the shower flow. I drop my swimsuit to the tiles, turn off the shower, and step into the sauna.

Klaus, can you turn on the tap so I can get some more water for the sauna, will you let it run? Klaus, come sit next to me on the top bench. I slap more water onto the stones. I lean into you, Klaus. Klaus, say something to me, you have something to say. Tell me about Peter, tell me about the crazy disciple or whatever you want, you know how. It makes me laugh when your mother says that you live in London now, that you moved back there in November. That’s what your dad says too and your best friend Pete, but why would I believe them, since I see you every day. That’s what I tell Klaus’s mother over the phone, but Klaus’s mother hangs up.

Klaus, if I change the locks at St. Peter’s Street, will you climb the ladder to the second floor?

No, no, I won’t change the locks, you can always use the door. You can come whenever you want, as long as you come. When you leave the tap on, I’ll throw the mattress onto the floor to soak up the water, and in the morning everything will be dry again.

* * *

At home, I drop my bag on the hallway floor and hang my swimsuit up to dry. Heat is rising from the radiators, the air crackles.

Klaus, are you coming?

Klaus, are you coming right now?

Yes, Klaus comes, Klaus comes and turns on the faucet, Klaus lets the water flow, Klaus is the one who runs the show.

We lie in the dry bed, Klaus’s head is on the wall side and my head is toward the window. Water streams across the floor.