‘Shall we take the fast way or the fun way?’ Siiri asked.
‘The fun way, of course,’ Irma said, not allowing the Ambassador any say in the decision.
‘That means the number 4 to the number 8 to the number 6. First transfer at the new opera, and then again at Kurvi.’
The air was abuzz with excitement as Siiri, Irma and the Ambassador took their seats at the front of the number 4 tram. They were on their way to Hakaniemi, to see the apartment that soon might be their new home. None of them said anything, but they all wore happy smiles on their faces.
Suddenly, they heard a braying from the aisle: ‘I was sitting in the back, wondering if that was you. And I was right!’
It was Margit. She had hurtled down the length of the car and stopped, out of breath, to inform them between gasps that she was on her way downtown to wander around; it was the best therapy she could think of. But she was curious as to their destination, of course, and for a moment they looked embarrassed, since they weren’t sure making her privy to their intended move was prudent.
Siiri softened the story: ‘It’s just a silly little plan.’
‘It’s a stupendous plan, for heaven’s sake!’ Margit exclaimed, just as they had feared. ‘Can I come with you?’
‘Of course!’ Siiri said. ‘To see the Ambassador’s apartment, I mean. It’s always such a lark, going to see flats,’ she added, so Margit wouldn’t get the impression that they were inviting her to move into their commune with them.
The Ambassador didn’t see what was particularly fun about transferring from tram to tram, but Irma and Siiri were having a grand time. The old Deaconess Institute was as beautiful as ever, and the Brahenkenttä soccer pitch was handsome. They remembered that Anna-Liisa had embarked on her illustrious teaching career at the Kallio School and spent a moment worrying about her present condition. Margit seated herself next to the Ambassador, in front of Irma and Siiri. She kept her eyes on the driver and looked as if she hadn’t heard a word of what the others were saying. Maybe she’d left her hearing aid at home or in her handbag again.
‘Anna-Liisa had an appointment with a psychogeriatrician on Friday,’ the Ambassador said, trying to turn towards Siiri and Irma.
‘A psychogeriatrician? That’s a doctor who specializes in old people who’ve lost their marbles, isn’t it? Is that supposed to be good news?’ Siiri wondered.
‘A psychowhatever like that could send Anna-Liisa to the SquirrelsNest for the rest of her life,’ Irma cried.
‘If you’ll let me finish,’ the Ambassador said. ‘This psychogeriatrician is a sensible woman. She spent a long time talking with Anna-Liisa and declared the patient healthy in body and mind.’
The Ambassador looked proud as he related that, in this professional’s estimation, his wife was more or less in possession of her faculties. Anna-Liisa’s confusion had resulted from the urinary tract infection, just as the nurse smoking in the courtyard had guessed. Her anxiousness and aggressiveness resulted from her frustration at feeling ignored and helpless. In the end, the psychogeriatrician had ordered her to be taken off her mood enhancers, sleeping aids, and Alzheimer’s medication. Anna-Liisa had been given a report that ended with the words: ‘The patient is confident that she can manage at home. Release.’
‘But that’s spectacular news!’ Siiri said, clapping with joy.
‘This calls for a celebration!’ Irma exclaimed.
Her enthusiasm prodded even Margit to life: ‘What are your views on euthanasia?’
‘My dear ladies!’ The Ambassador raised his voice to bring his herd under control. He promised to throw a big party the moment Anna-Liisa was back at home, but before that, they needed to arrange a home to throw her a party in.
‘Wonderful. Then we can celebrate my birthday at the same time. I’m about to turn . . . Hmm, what am I turning?’ Irma paused to reflect.
‘I think you’re turning ninety-four,’ Siiri suggested.
‘That’s very possible,’ Irma said. ‘It’s not a hundred, I know that.’
‘This is our stop. It’s that building.’ The Ambassador pointed at a massive brick building with a neon sign that read OXYGENOL on the roof.
‘Why, that’s the Arena Building! Designed by Lars Sonck!’ Siiri cried. She looked at the famous structure, practically a castle, with the round tower at each of its three corners. It took up the entire block. ‘It’s completely encircled by tram tracks. I never dreamed you were talking about the finest building in Hakaniemi.’
They hurried across Siltasaarenkatu and along the edge of the square, as if the triangular fortress would slip through their fingers if they dawdled. They paused in front of the building while the Ambassador searched for the right key. After going through his pockets, he starting rummaging through his brown leather satchel, which, based on its patina, must have been from the 1960s. Irma studied the display window of the art supply store and Margit let the light breeze caress her face.
For a second it looked as if the Ambassador had forgotten to bring the right key, but after numerous tries, one from his impressive set unlocked the door to stairwell A. The corridor was dark and cramped, nothing like the dignified lobby one would expect of a Sonck building. They rode an elevator with ugly steel doors up to the second floor and wondered why the lovely old scissor-gated models had been hauled off to the dump. The Ambassador was still in a fine mood; he was the first to step out, open a heavy door, and proudly present his property.
‘Welcome to your humble refuge!’
They stepped into a big, round entryway where the walls had been covered in red satin. A crystal chandelier, or some cheaper look-alike, hung from the ceiling – a rather tasteless fixture, but no one said anything. The Ambassador advanced briskly from room to room, clearly pleased with the flat’s condition and furnishings.
The living room was enormous. It was broken up by two massive pillars, and the paned windows in the curving rear wall opened onto a magnificent view across Eläintarhanlahti Bay. The façade of Finlandia Hall gleamed in the sun with a singular beauty. Siiri experienced a flash of disappointment that Alvar Aalto’s marble-faced master plan for Töölönlahti Bay had been abandoned during the 1970s’ infatuation with concrete.
‘But in this promised land of engineer-bureaucrats, no one had the vision to execute Eliel Saarinen’s plan for Munkkiniemi–Haaga, either,’ Siiri huffed. She relented when she noticed the window-framed artwork in two generations: Heikki and Kaija Siren’s circular building, Ympyrätalo, and the three-metre-tall steel ball at its entrance, by their son Hannu.
Yet something about the apartment seemed peculiar: there were mirrors and clothes hooks everywhere, along with unusual lamps and an ugly steel pole in the middle of the living room. The biggest bedroom had a closet the size of a small room, an en-suite, and a round bed. The smaller bedrooms were different colours – one was mauve, another dark green, and someone had had the bright idea of painting the tiniest bedchamber blue – and the dark walls made the rooms look even smaller than they were. The living-room curtains were heavy, formally hung velvet, like the curtains of a stage. The bedspread for the round bed was shiny red satin and embroidered with sequins that glittered in the sun, casting strange patterns on the room’s brown walls.
‘How will you sleep in that?’ Irma cried. It was a given that the biggest bedroom would go to Anna-Liisa and Onni. ‘You’re going to get seasick rolling around on that.’
There was no sign of a bookshelf. The living room was sparsely furnished, with only two low sofas better suited to lying than sitting, a gigantic television screen and large speakers dotted about. The overall effect was rather shiny. The bathroom was immense, more like a spa, actually. There were massaging showers, recessed lighting fixtures, a sauna and a big whirlpool tub, all of which the Ambassador pointed out enthusiastically.
‘This remote controls the Jacuzzi, I imagine. It also appears to have a radio and speakers. And this one is for the lights. There’s a starry sky in the sauna ceiling, rather atmospheric, wouldn’t you say?’ The Ambassador waved the remote around and twisted the knobs next to the sauna door; the starry sky started twinkling in and out rapidly. Suddenly the whirlpool tub’s speakers burst out blaring awful rock music.
‘Do something!’ Irma shouted, grabbing the remote from the Ambassador. She jabbed at it hysterically as if it were a matter of life or death, until the music died. ‘For goodness’ sake. Are you trying to kill us?’
‘Let’s not get too dramatic,’ the Ambassador said, with a winning smile.
‘It’s perfectly possible to die from fright. Or shock. It happens all the time in operas. Lucia di Lammermoor and Elsa from Tannhäuser, for instance, drop to the ground, dead as doornails.’
‘None of you ladies are ever going to die,’ the Ambassador continued breezily, demonstrating how to dim the shower’s recessed lighting scandalously low.
‘Knock me over with a feather,’ Margit blurted. ‘Is this where you’re going to . . . for goodness’ sake . . .’ Evidently incapable of producing intelligible speech, she spun around in circles in the middle of the room.
‘There’s no washing machine,’ Siiri said.
‘But there are two bidets,’ Irma noted mischievously. ‘We can sit and spray ourselves side by side.’
‘The laundry room is in here,’ the Ambassador’s voice echoed. He had stepped through the door next to the sauna into a chamber containing an immense steel washing machine and an even bigger dryer, as well as acres of room to hang laundry.
‘Why, this is an institutional laundry,’ Siiri said in surprise.
‘We’ll be able to wash our unmentionables in no time,’ Irma laughed, and she tested to see how her soprano would resonate in the room. ‘“Siribiribim, siribiribim” – do you remember that song?’
There was no kitchen per se, just a corner of the living room with a small sink, a stove of sorts, and two big grey refrigerators, one with a contraption in the door which they eyed in perplexity.
‘An ice machine, perhaps,’ the Ambassador said. ‘Unless it’s a soda water dispenser. I’m not so familiar with the latest refrigerators.’
‘Whatever will they come up with next?’ Siiri said, examining the stove, a black surface with only one identifiable burner to the side, for gas. She opened the gleaming cupboard doors and found a tiny dishwasher behind one of them. How would they ever wash four people’s dishes in that? This corner of the room seemed more like a bar than a kitchen. There wasn’t even a dining table, just a narrow countertop surrounded by tall stools.
‘Who’s been living here?’ Siiri asked finally.
The Ambassador didn’t immediately respond. He looked at the stack of papers and keys that had been left on the counter and walked back towards the entryway, forehead furrowed.
‘Hmm . . . well. I’m not exactly sure. I don’t know much about the previous tenants. My understanding is that the apartment has been used for . . . entertaining. Embassies, import/export companies, and the like. All sorts of clients. As you know, I have many contacts at the Foreign Ministry.’
They all wanted to go to Hakaniemi Hall, the market hall right across the street. There was a well-known cafe on the second floor where former president Tarja Halonen, Finland’s first female head of state, had a dedicated table. They seated themselves at the president’s table, and the Ambassador carried over two trays loaded with sweet rolls and coffee. The coffee was served in mugs without saucers, and you had to stir in your sugar with a little wooden stick.
‘At least you don’t have to slurp your coffee out of a soup bowl, the way you do at the tram museum,’ Siiri laughed.
In spite of their puzzlement at the flat’s quirks, they were thrilled about the idea of moving. There were enough bedrooms, and the common spaces were much grander than anything they could have ever imagined. Margit sat in silence as they planned their new communal existence.
‘Margit, what’s wrong?’ Siiri asked finally, but Margit didn’t answer. She felt sorry for poor Margit, who had grown rather listless since her husband fell ill. ‘Would you like to come and live in our commune, too? I suppose Onni and Anna-Liisa have no objection?’ She gave the Ambassador a meaningful look and ignored Irma’s below-the-table kick.
‘Yes, well, why not, it’s all still up in the air,’ replied the Ambassador, who didn’t appear to have anything against his flat having attained such popularity. ‘We’d rather have you than Tauno.’
‘So the harem is complete, and without the unpleasant Osmin!’ Irma trilled. ‘Isn’t it a bit odd that in Mozart’s Abduction from the Seraglio the harem guard Osmin is a bass, even though he’s supposed to be a eunuch? Onni, you don’t have to do any singing; Pasha Selim is a speaking role.’
Margit looked at them as if she couldn’t believe her ears. Her deeply etched face revealed her age, but she still dyed her hair jet black. She must have been exceptionally beautiful as a young woman; she had fine features, good bone structure, and strong colouring.
‘What are your views on euthanasia?’ she asked. ‘I’m at a loss when it comes to what I should do. The one thing I’m hoping for is that Eino has a beautiful death. Don’t you think it would be merciful if someone in Eino’s condition were given a pill to set him free? Or an injection? I haven’t looked into it enough to know how it’s done. In Holland or Switzerland, Eino would be dead and happy already, and the funeral would be over.’
Their enthusiasm instantly deflated into an awkward silence. No one had a solution for Margit’s angst or any words of consolation for her. Occasionally, they had discussed euthanasia without arriving at any consensus. Siiri approved of assisted death; the Ambassador put his trust in effective palliative care; Anna-Liisa felt that euthanasia was murder; and Irma’s views changed by the week, based on what she’d heard on the radio or from her darlings over the phone. None of Irma’s darlings visited her any more, now that Sunset Grove had been wrapped up for the retrofit. They found it such a bother picking their way through the cement sacks, getting their clothes grubby, and plugging their ears during the drilling. Irma’s sole intentionally conceived child, Tuula, also had a plumbing retrofit underway in her building, and because there was no way Tuula could live in such chaos, she had moved to the family’s summer cottage, which meant there wasn’t room for Irma there.
‘She needs her space; otherwise she won’t have the energy to go to work,’ Irma explained.
‘How would you ladies like to divvy up the bedrooms?’ the Ambassador asked brightly, to lift their spirits. He pulled the papers out of his worn leather satchel and found a floorplan of the apartment, which they spread across the president’s table to begin planning their new life. Irma assigned the bedrooms, giving Margit the second biggest one, with the green walls, and herself the mauve one. Siiri was left the tiny blue one. They accepted Irma’s proposal without complaint and started meandering about, oohing over the market hall, its butcher shops, fishmongers, vegetable stands, shelves of exotic spices, button sellers and handicraft shops. But they didn’t buy anything. The group was brimming with the spirit of adventure as they crossed the square to the tram stop – even Irma, although she found the Metalworkers’ Union building an atrocity and Oleg Kiryuhin’s bronze statue World Peace an unpleasant reminder of the Soviet Union and the era of Finlandization.
‘Giving us that ugly old albatross must have been one of the last things the Soviet Union did before Communism’s house of cards finally came tumbling down.’
This even brought a smile to Margit’s face and allowed her momentary respite from brooding over how best to murder her husband.