1
Helsinki, October 24th 2018
The phone rings whilst I’m still packing my bags. I reach for my iPhone on the windowsill and peek outside. Tram number 9 passes through the half-deserted street, goes past the junction, the yellow leaves on the trees sway for a moment.
«Yes, don’t worry, I popped round to say hello to the grandparents last night.» My sister asks obvious questions, a bit like an old aunt, but I’m used to it and I reassure her every time.
It wasn’t easy telling my grandparents I was leaving and what I was going to do. I hate lying to them; they don’t deserve it, not them, who have always been so patient with me.
«Of course, Liisa, I’ll ring you when I get to Milan.» A lady with a lively Yorkshire terrier on a lead crosses the road, praising the little dog with an eloquent wave of her hand.
«Maybe I’ll send you a text — it’s quicker — then we can have a proper chat later.»
I pack the essentials in my toiletries bag: toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, hair mousse, razor, sandalwood pre-shave moisturiser, menthol shaving cream, aftershave, Terre d’Hermès eau de parfum. I check that I’ve stocked another toiletries bag with shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, a manicure kit, plasters (they might always come in handy). I can buy the rest tomorrow in Milan, but tonight, when I arrive, I’ll need to wash and take care of my appearance.
I place the two toiletries bags on top of the pile of T-shirts I’ve already arranged, neatly folded, in my suitcase.
«I’ve got to hurry, though; my flight’s in three hours, and you know I hate arriving at the last minute and having to rush everything.» The last thing I need is to be unable to smoke three or four cigarettes before boarding; I don’t want to risk going into nicotine withdrawal at ten thousand metres, even though it’ll probably happen anyway.
«No, I haven’t brought the whole world with me, just the bare essentials,» I say, not even believing it myself, as I stack *The C Programming Language* and *A Book on C* next to three pairs of trainers. They’re books I won’t need, but they’re part of my plan.
«And anyway, six months is quite a long time.»
Before closing the suitcase, I gently tuck my agency’s model book — C18 Model — into a corner, between the shirts and underwear, and linger for a moment on the velvety black cover, running my fingers over the faint golden embossing of my name: Arho Virtanen.
The model book will serve my purpose too.
«Yes, I’ve called dad, of course... but aren’t you going to bed, little sister? What time is it in New York, past midnight?»
I look closely at myself in the mirror, fixing my hair even though it doesn’t need it: over the years I’ve learnt to keep it in place, picking up tricks of the trade from hairdressers and stylists, and anyway I love my slightly unruly fringe, just as I love the blonde shade of my hair, which I bleach regularly.
I’m gazing at my reflection when Liisa’s words pierce my mind like bullets. I raise an eyebrow.
«What? Don’t even ask me that,» I protest flatly and head towards the bed. I never thought my sister would ever ask me that question. Yet there they are, those words echoing in my head. I can feel the blood rushing to my brain; I need to sit down and calm myself.
Instead of the mattress, my bum hits the suitcases that still need packing; for a moment I lose my balance and let myself slide onto the carpet at the foot of the bed.
Crouched on the floor, a sharp, high-pitched whisper escapes my lips.
«You know perfectly well how things stand.»
That’s not true; she knows my truth, and the one she told her. Over the years, I’ve learnt not only how to style my hair, but also how to lie well. And how to make sure I’m not found out.
«It’s a conversation I don’t want to have anymore.»
I press the red button and throw the phone onto the bed.
I take the framed photograph from the bedside table drawer. That’s where I’ve kept it, upside down, ever since. How long has it been? Two years, I think. Actually, almost three.
My graduation day, with the imposing Aalto University building in the background. Me, smiling a little awkwardly but proud of my black gown, holding my well-deserved piece of paper tied with a red ribbon. Beside me, silhouetted against the clear July sky, is her. She is wearing a smart purple suit and a white blouse, with a simple gold necklace around her neck, the one she wore every day. Years have passed, yet I remember her expression perfectly, as if she were looking at me right now. Pride. Her son hadn’t let himself be completely seduced by that world which she, though she never said so, detested — the world of catwalks and photo shoots. Her son had become an engineer, just like her.
I remember her gaze well, even though I can’t see it now: I’ve crossed out her face from the photograph with a thick stroke of black marker.
You know perfectly well how things stand, Liisa.
You know perfectly well that she and I... we don’t speak to each other anymore. We haven’t for a long time now. Ever since that night in mid-April 2016...
We were at home, she and I.
I could hear her footsteps in the corridor. Perhaps she wouldn’t come in here. Perhaps she’d go straight to her room, as she usually did after ironing late into the night. I never understood how it was possible, but she said that ironing in the evening relaxed her more than anything else. I had other ways of relieving stress, but she was never meant to know that.
I had to get up, pull myself together, pretend to be reading a book, something. Anything but this. She couldn’t see me like this.
The footsteps drew nearer. She had now passed her room and was heading towards mine.
Get up, Arho, get up, at least sit up, I kept telling myself. All I could make out of myself was an arm raised towards the ceiling, but I couldn’t see it, not because it was dark, but because my eyes refused to focus on anything. The rest of my body lay lifeless on the floor, naked. I didn’t feel cold, I felt nothing: no sensation, no emotion.
The handle! It was the unmistakable sound of the handle turning. I had to move too, but it was a futile thought; my body wouldn’t have it.
The door swung open and the light illuminated the outline of my body, still motionless on the floor. I was beginning to feel cold.
What happened next I can only imagine. When I reconstruct the scene in my memories, it is my imagination that comes to my aid, because at that moment I kept staring straight ahead, but I couldn’t see her: in my field of vision there was only the floor and, well, the tools of the trade, if I may call them that.
My mother let out a stifled sound. I imagine it was meant to be a scream, but it died on the lips. I wondered if her astonishment was genuine. How on earth had she not noticed it before? No, she couldn’t have only just realised it; she’d simply turned her head the other way until that moment. Or perhaps I wanted to convince myself of that because, deep down, it was easier to believe that I hadn’t been hiding, but that she’d been the one who didn’t want to see. That way, the blame wouldn’t fall solely on me.
Outside my house.
And what followed was crying. Not mine. I had no tears left; she must have been crying on her own.
