Siiri and Irma had to go shopping for something to wear to the funeral. Margit always wore black, so the missing mourning garb didn’t pose as much of a problem for her as it did for the others. It was clear that the Ambassador wouldn’t be participating in Eino’s funeral, and Anna-Liisa remained unsure about her own attendance, as she might have to keep watch at her husband’s bedside.
‘Come shopping with us; you need to get out of the house!’ Irma said. ‘You can always use whatever you buy at Onni’s funeral if you can’t make it to Eino’s shindig.’
This argument was so sensible that Anna-Liisa agreed to join them. The Ambassador had eaten his lunch with a healthy appetite, hobbled over to the bar on Anna-Liisa’s arm to join the others, looking much better than when he’d raved deliriously about Anna-Liisa’s jewellery. Unencumbered by cares, the trio boarded the first tram headed downtown. They were cheerful and talkative, since none of them could remember the last time the three of them had been out on the town in such boisterous spirits.
That was another grand thing about Hakaniemi: five tram lines stopped more or less right outside their front door, and all of them led downtown. This time the number 7 came first, and they took it as far as Aleksanterinkatu, where they climbed off at the university so that they wouldn’t miss a single display window on Helsinki’s main shopping street. Senate Square was packed with rows of huts, a German-style Christmas market of sorts, but Irma knew they wouldn’t find anything in the shacks but expensive, hand-made knick-knacks for tourists; not a drop of mulled wine, even the non-alcoholic sort. A handful of Japanese tourists were wandering in the rain, looking in puzzlement at reindeer-fur booties and trolls glued together from rocks and taking pictures of themselves at the base of the statue of Tsar Alexander II. Siiri, Irma and Anna-Liisa glanced at the sad sight, pitied the tourists, and spent a moment admiring the gleaming white Cathedral, its apostles scrubbed and its gilding burnished to such a shine during a recent renovation that the church radiated light, even on pitch-black December days like today. They headed off to look at display windows on Helsinki’s venerable high street. Irma remembered having strolled along Aleksanterinkatu – or Aleksi, as the locals called it – with her mother back when Stockmann was still in the little blue Kiseleff building at Senate Square, but they couldn’t calculate if that was possible.
Aleksanterinkatu was a crushing disappointment. Not one store looked as if it sold funeral dresses for nonagenarians. It being Christmastime, there were plenty of sparkly mini-skirts, because companies were throwing Christmas parties and apparently women were expected to show up at them looking trashy. Siiri, Irma and Anna-Liisa made the mistake of plunging into the Kluuvi shopping centre and were so disoriented by the thicket of soap-and-nail-polish shops, Japanese restaurants, and purveyors of French bric-a-brac that they couldn’t find their way out. In the end, Irma had the bright idea of exiting through the McDonald’s, which had direct access to the street, but no matter how hard she tried to convince them, Siiri and Anna-Liisa refused to stay and eat greasy food with their fingers.
‘You should try everything fun at least once,’ Irma whined, in vain.
‘We’re not Africans and we don’t eat with our fingers,’ Anna-Liisa observed tartly, weaving her way through the cars parked on the pedestrian street.
Next they tried the department store Aleksi 13, which had once been a reliable and affordable place to shop. But it had experienced such violent upheaval that they couldn’t find the escalator for all the suitcases and sporting goods crowding the floor, until a nice young Russian woman helped them. They glided a couple of storeys upwards and were lost again.
‘So, like, what are you ladies looking for?’ a cheerful salesclerk asked, once they found women’s apparel.
They explained that they required suitable funeral attire. When Irma started talking about the construction company carrying out the retrofit at Sunset Grove and the complaints they had sent in, Siiri grew alarmed that she would accidentally reveal the whole, horrible truth of the matter in Anna-Liisa’s presence. But then some funny instinct came to Irma’s aid, and her reportage stopped as if at a brick wall. She announced that she was a size 44 and made herself comfortable at the base of a mannequin, waiting for various alternatives to be carried over for her to try on.
‘So, like, it’s the event season so, like, we have a bunch of stuff in black,’ the salesgirl said, sweeping an arm through the air to prompt her customers to search for their purchases themselves.
‘Event season? Are there a lot of funerals being held?’ Siiri still believed people preferred dying in November.
‘So, like, it’s Christmas. Does it have to be, like, totally all-black?’
‘Simply “black” will do nicely,’ Anna-Liisa said, straining to sound even the tiniest bit polite.
They explained that any black dress that wasn’t too loud would do nicely, and that they would even settle for the same dress, as long as the salesgirl could find them something with a hemline that wasn’t too short or a neckline that wasn’t too open and that wasn’t drowning in sequins – and preferably had sleeves.
‘So, like, unfortunately we don’t have anything like that,’ the salesgirl said, without lifting a finger. Apparently, their demands were completely unreasonable. Irma said she could wear something with a more generous neckline and she didn’t really care about sleeves, because she could always yank a shawl over her shoulders, but the salesgirl wasn’t as willing to compromise in these negotiations as Irma.
‘So, like, unfortunately you’re out of luck.’
‘This is outrageous!’ Anna-Liisa cried, rapping her cane against the floor.
‘In that case, we’ll have to take our business to Stockmann. Där får man ju allt, as my mother always said.’ Irma adopted a snappish tone to drive home her point regarding the competing department store’s incomparable selection, but the salesgirl looked just as cheerful as she had been throughout the entirety of their brief encounter.
‘So, like, bye, and Merry Christmas and everything!’
They set off in search of the escalators that would take them down and out and, much to their surprise, stumbled across them right around the corner. The department store was full of cranky, working-aged people out shopping in the middle of a weekday, and they had to remain vigilant to avoid being knocked over in the rush. A dreadful medley of American Christmas songs was blaring everywhere, and Siiri was getting so hot she was afraid she would faint.
‘I don’t understand what has happened to young people’s manners,’ Anna-Liisa huffed as they rode the escalator down.
‘The same thing that happened to black dresses,’ Irma said.
‘And common sense,’ Anna-Liisa added.
The streets were as crowded as everyplace else, but at least the air was fresh. Siiri paused at the corner and breathed calmly for a moment. What luck that the winter had been so mild. Only a couple of weeks before Christmas and there was no snow on the ground, or any hint of frost. It was easy to breathe and get around, and yet in the newspapers people were demanding that the city build a frozen tube where people could ski year-round. Somehow they felt this was within the purview of the public sector.
‘Whatever will they come up with next,’ Irma said. ‘My husband always said he’d only ski during wartime. He ended up skiing in the Alps, where he was quite the ace, since the others had never laid eyes on skis before. Oh, my dear, lovely Veikko!’
‘I always liked skiing,’ Siiri remembered. ‘But I don’t recall the last time I’ve had a pair on my feet. It must have been a horribly long time ago. I’ve managed just fine without them.’
‘And there you have it. They can forget their skiing tube and use that money for something more sensible. Like a children’s hospital.’
Everywhere you looked these days, funds were being collected for the children’s hospital, which was unusual in Finland, where such things were publicly funded. The pharmaceutical companies were actually competing to see who could make the most impressive donation on behalf of sick children. This was called branding, as Anna-Liisa knew. She held forth at such length on this English-language marketing term that Irma kept thinking she wanted to stop off for a cheap cognac somewhere. Siiri had donated dozens of euros herself, dropping them in the collection box of a campaigner wandering around Hakaniemi Square. She had informed this disbelieving volunteer that this was the second children’s hospital drive she had participated in during her lifetime. Siiri had educated the campaigner about the enormous push during the 1940s, which the whole city had participated in; she had sold tickets to a historical joint concert of the Gentlemen Singers and the Helsinki Workers’ Men’s Choir and helped arrange a raffle for coffee, in short supply after the war. While she chatted with the campaigner, she’d also been reminded of a well-known story about a benefit concert dating from the earliest days of the hospital’s collection, back in the 1920s. Sibelius had composed a piece, and the manuscript was sold at an unusual auction: if you bid, you had to pay the sum on the spot, but the bidding continued. The one who ended up with the work was, of all people, the master chocolatier Karl Fazer, brother to the music publisher. The defeated-looking donation collector hadn’t been able to get a word in edgeways.
‘What do you think? What will happen to the old Children’s Hospital when the new one is completed?’ Siiri asked. She thought the building, designed by Kaarlo and Elsi Borg was, in all of its idiosyncrasy, rather handsome.
‘Maybe it will be turned into a private nursing home,’ Irma suggested. ‘The old military hospital was converted into a pricy retirement home for the poor. Why not convert all the abandoned buildings unfit for human habitation into final repositories for the elderly? Did you all notice what a fine term I just remembered: final repository.’
The throngs at Stockmann were even worse than those at Aleksi 13. They packed into the elevator and rode up to the fourth floor, where they found a saleswoman in a dusty corner drinking imported French water straight from the bottle. Finnish and Swedish flags were pinned to her breast, as if there were any need to advertise the fact that she could serve them in both of the country’s official languages. They stated their business to the parched saleswoman and were immediately led to an even more secluded corner, where a rack read ‘Final Sale’.
‘So, like, these might work for you,’ the saleswoman said, pulling various old-fashioned, sensible black outfits from the rack.
They waited half an hour for the changing room before deciding that, when they thought about it, trying the garments on was too much trouble and actually rather unpleasant, as it meant gazing at themselves naked in the mirror in a cramped, dirty cubicle as complete strangers sighed impatiently on the other side of the curtain. Irma explained in a loud voice that she couldn’t be bothered to wear a bra any more and it might be awkward to be caught topless in broad daylight. They decided to buy sizes that were large enough, roughly measured the length over their winter coats, and confirmed with the salesgirl that they could return the items if they proved completely unsuitable.
‘So, like, returns are cool,’ the salesgirl said, and they decided from her sunny smile that she had nothing against their suggestion.
Irma bought a pleated and only slightly shimmery party frock. The fabric was light and probably draped beautifully and didn’t wrinkle, no matter how much they bunched the material up in their fists. Anna-Liisa found a straightforward, streamlined dress in a wool blend, to her mind a more sensible choice for a winter funeral than Irma’s diaphanous gown. Siiri was so taken with a trouser suit the salesgirl showed her that she bought it, despite the steep price.
‘Margit said I would still have all of your funerals to attend,’ she said cheerfully as she claimed her loyal customer discount.
They rewarded themselves for their labours under the big cupola at the Fazer Cafe on Kluuvikatu, splurging on shrimp sandwiches because, as Irma noted, wasting a little money always did wonders for one’s mood. Irma still had a few fifty-euro bills in her wallet, and she waved them around merrily to show that squandering on delicacies wouldn’t break the bank.
‘Besides, I can always withdraw more from the wall,’ she continued. ‘If I can just remember that stupid code. But mine is easy, it’s . . . just a moment, I have it here somewhere, I wrote it on a big yellow Post-it . . .’
‘That’s enough, Irma,’ Anna-Liisa said, before the entirety of Irma’s earthly possessions were strewn across their table.
And so they ordered a glass of wine apiece, too. They were sitting directly across from a young couple in love, whose tender whispers echoed across the domed dining room to their table more audibly than into each other’s ears. But as Siiri and her companions knew the acoustics would, reciprocally, carry their sentiments to the other table, they exchanged glances without comment, despite the brazen woman’s lunchtime lack of propriety. They weren’t used to women taking the initiative.
‘I have no intention of tolerating those robot-drafted replies regarding the renovation at Sunset Grove,’ Anna-Liisa said, to mask the indelicate whispering. Siiri felt herself growing dizzy and had to lower her fork and knife to her plate. This made an unpleasant clank; the woman on the other side of the room wondered what the sudden sound was. Days, if not weeks, had passed without anyone having mentioned the retrofit at Sunset Grove. Siiri had started hoping that Anna-Liisa had forgotten the whole thing.
‘What else can we do? There’s no point fighting with robots,’ Irma said, looking genuinely unperturbed. ‘I’ve had it on more than one good authority that complaining about plumbing retrofits is futile. Why, one of my cousins, Kirsti, lived in exile nine months, had two rents to pay, and didn’t get a penny from the insurance company, even though she had paid through the nose for her policy. And when the renovation was complete, everything had been done wrong. In the end, she moved out and died. All of which was totally normal, of course.’
‘Dying?’
‘That, too, but especially the fact that there was a stupid shower stall where the bathtub should have been, and that they had forgotten to install an oven in the kitchen, and the water came out of the tap the wrong way.’
Anna-Liisa frowned. ‘What do you mean, the wrong way?’
‘Hot water from the cold tap and cold water from the hot tap. And a painting that was very valuable and had been in the family for generations got so dusty that it was ruined. Which was totally normal, of course, and my cousin Kirsti’s fault since she hadn’t had the sense to protect it properly. After Kirsti’s traumatic tale we’ve always said it’s impossible to make it through a plumbing retrofit in one piece. But here we are, alive and kicking! Skål!’
Siiri wasn’t sure if Irma was telling the truth, but she was grateful to her gallant friend who managed to drag Anna-Liisa along with her chatter and made her forget retrofit rapscallions. Irma continued jabbering and suddenly dropped a genuine bomb. She had gone to Munkkiniemi after water aerobics and witnessed a miracle: the plastic had been peeled away from Sunset Grove, and its walls had been painted a cheery yellow. According to Irma, the sight had been almost festive. She claimed to have taken a picture of the freshly painted walls with her flaptop, but Siiri and Anna-Liisa didn’t believe her.
‘Don’t you two know that you can take a picture with nearly any gadget these days? The boy at Stockmann showed me, you just press a button, and click, there’s your photograph. I have five photos of that nice boy from Stockmann somewhere in the depths of my flaptop. I’d forgotten all about the camera until I was standing there, admiring the yellow wall at Sunset Grove, but then my brain shuffled and cut: I remembered it and took the picture. When I went in, I found Tauno amid the chaos; he was the same as ever, hauling that mattress around with his pack on his back, and he told me they might complete the renovation by February. I invited him to Eino’s funeral so he’d have something to look forward to, too.’
‘So only six months behind schedule,’ Anna-Liisa said.
‘Yes, that’s not so bad. My cousin Pentti’s plumbing retrofit in Töölö lasted eighteen months, can you imagine? And he’s like Tauno, a tough old bird who stuck it out in his place for the whole hellish renovation, even though the construction company did everything in its power to chase him out into the streets. They didn’t even give him a handy composting toilet; he had to do his business at libraries, swimming pools and restaurants.’
The lovebirds across the room had fallen silent and were gaping at Siiri’s table, but she and her friends paid no mind. The new completion date had not been announced to the residents of Sunset Grove, Irma was sure, because she’d been keeping an eye on the Sunset Grove website with her flaptop, which she now dug out and set on the table, much to Anna-Liisa’s distress.
‘Irma, we’re eating!’
Irma swept and swiped and suddenly brought up photographs of a freshly painted Sunset Grove. They barely recognized their dear old concrete bunker in all of its new yellow splendour. It looked lovely; the yellow brought it a pleasant lightness, and in one image it looked as if there were more balconies, those glass boxes that were pasted to the outside of old buildings these days. The tablet also contained a couple of pictures of a baffled-looking Irma. She claimed that the flaptop took pictures by itself and from both sides, which made her appearance on the screen understandable, even though the intent had been to photograph Sunset Grove. Irma’s Internet didn’t know when the renovation was supposed to be completed, and so they had to trust Tauno’s intelligence. They did understand that if someone said everything would be finished in February, they should add at least another month, because there was no such thing as a renovation without unpleasant surprises.
They took the number 7 tram home and sat in silence all the way. Siiri was thinking about Hakaniemi and realized she felt wistful. She had grown used to her new neighbourhood and almost preferred Hakaniemi’s bustling, exotic ambience to quiet Munkkiniemi. The thought of moving back to Sunset Grove felt unreal, but also oddly tempting. She was fed up with her status as slave, waiting on the others hand and foot, and her heavy housework; their life in exile was rather grating on her nerves. At Sunset Grove, she would have her privacy and eat when and where she wanted. And listen to music! That was completely missing from her present life. How wonderful it would be to lie in bed and listen to, say, Sibelius’s Fifth Symphony or Schubert’s String Quintet.
Maybe it would be nice to be back in her own home one day – not that Sunset Grove felt like home. So what was it, then?
‘A final repository,’ Irma said.