A Winter Book Part 7

I want to live on an island.

I love lonely islands and I love flowers and snow.

But I can't write how they are.

I'm studying very seriously.

I read your books in English.

Your books aren't the same in j.a.panese.

Why are they different?

I think you are happy.

Look after your health very carefully.

I wish you a long life.

Tamiko Atsumi Dear Jansson san It's been a long time, for five months and nine days you haven't written to me.

Did you get my letters?

Did you get the presents?

I long for you.

You must understand that I'm studying very seriously.

Now I'll tell you about my dream.

My dream is to travel to other countries and learn their languages and learn to understand.

I want to be able to talk with you.

I want you to talk with me.

You must tell me how you describe things without seeing other houses and with no one getting in the way.

I want to know how to write about snow.

I want to sit at your feet and learn.

I'm collecting money so I can travel.

Now I'm sending you a new haiku.

It's about a very old woman who sees blue mountains far away.

When she was young she didn't see them.

Now she can't reach them.

That's a beautiful haiku.

I beg you please be careful.

Tamiko.

Dear Jansson san.

You were going to go on a great long journey, now you've been travelling more than six months.

I think you've come back again.

Where did you go, my Jansson san, and what did you learn on your journey?

Perhaps you took with you a kimono.

In autumn colours and autumn is the time to travel.

But you've said so often that time is short.

My time grows long when I think of you.

I want to become old like you and have only big clever thoughts.

I keep your letters in a very beautiful box in a secret place.

I read them again at sundown.

Tamiko.

Dear Jansson san.

Once you wrote to me when it was summer in Finland and you were living on the lonely island.

You've told me that post hardly ever comes to your island.

Then do you get many letters from me at once?

You say it feels nice when the ships go by and don't stop.

But now it's winter in Finland.

You've written a book about winter, you've described my dream.

I'll write a story to help everyone understand and recognise their own dream.

How old must you be to write a story?

But I can't write my story without you.

Every day is a day of waiting.

You've said you're so tired.

You work and there are too many people.

But I want to be the one who comforts you and protects your solitude.

This is a sad haiku about someone who waited too long for the one they loved.

You see how it went!

But it's not so good in translation.

Has my English got any better?

Always Tamiko Much loved Jansson san, thank you!

Yes, that's how it is, you don't have to be a certain age, you just begin writing a story because you have to, about what you know or also about what you long for, about your dream, the unknown. O much loved Jansson san. One mustn't worry about others and what they think and understand, because while you're telling a story you're only concerned with the story and yourself. Then you really are on your own. At this moment I know all about what it's like to love someone far away and I will hurry to write about it before she comes nearer. I send you a haiku again, it's about a little stream which becomes happy in spring so everyone listens and feels delight. I can't translate it. Listen to me Jansson san and write to say when I can come. I've collected money and I think I'll get a travel scholarship. What month would be best and most beautiful for our meeting?

Tamiko Dear Jansson san Thank you for your very wise letter.

I understand the forest's big in Finland and the sea too but your house is very small.

It's a beautiful thought, to meet a writer only in her books.

I'm learning all the time.

I wish you good health and a long life.

Your Tamiko Atsumi My Jansson san It's been snowing all day.

I'm learning to write about snow.

Today my mother died.

When you're the eldest in your family in j.a.pan, you can't leave home and don't want to.

I hope you understand me.

I thank you.

The poem is by Lang Shih Yiian, who was once a great poet in China.

It has been translated into your language by Hw.a.n.g Tsu-Yii and Alf Henrikson.

"Wild geese scream shrilly on m.u.f.fled winds.

The morning snow is heavy, weather cloudy and cold.

Poor, I can give you nothing in parting but the blue mountains and they'll always be with you."

Tamiko.

Travelling Light.

I WISH I COULD DESCRIBE THE ENORMOUS RELIEF I FELT when they finally pulled up the gangway! Only then did I feel safe. Or, more exactly, when the ship had moved far enough from the quay for it to be impossible for anyone to call out... ask for my address, scream that something awful had happened... Believe me, you can't imagine my giddy sense of freedom. I unb.u.t.toned my overcoat and took out my pipe but my hands were shaking and I couldn't light it; but I stuck it between my teeth anyway, because that somehow establishes a certain detachment from one's surroundings. I went as far forward as possible in the bows, from where it was impossible to see the city, and hung over the railing like the most carefree traveller you can imagine. The sky was light blue, the little clouds seemed whimsical, pleasantly capricious...

Everything was in the past now, gone, of no significance; nothing mattered any more, no one was important. No telephone, no letters, no doorbell. Of course you have no idea what I'm referring to, but it doesn't matter anyway; in fact I shall merely a.s.sert that everything had been sorted out to the best of my ability, thoroughly taken care of down to the smallest detail. I wrote the letters I had to write in fact I'd done that as long ago as the day before, announcing my sudden departure without explanation and without in any way accounting for my behaviour. It was very difficult; it took a whole day. Naturally I left no information about where I was going and indicated no time for my return, since I have no intention of ever coming back. The caretaker's wife will look after my houseplants; those tired living things which never look well no matter how much trouble one takes over them have made me feel very uneasy. Never mind: I shan't ever have to see them again.

Perhaps it might interest you to know what I packed? As little as possible! I've always dreamed of travelling light, a small weekend bag of the sort one can casually whisk along with oneself as one walks with rapid but unhurried steps through, shall we say, the departure lounge of an airport, pa.s.sing a ma.s.s of nervous people dragging along large heavy cases. This was the first time I'd succeeded in taking the absolute minimum with me, ruthless in the face of family treasures and those little objects one can become so attached to that remind one of... well, of emotional bits of one's life no, that least of all! My bag was as light as my happy-go-lucky heart and contained nothing more than one would need for a routine night at a hotel. I left the flat without leaving instructions of any kind, but I did clean it, very thoroughly. I'm very good at cleaning. Then I turned off the electricity, opened the fridge and unplugged the phone. That was the very last thing, the definitive step; now I'd done with them.

And during all this time the phone never rang once a good omen. Not one, not a single one of all these, these but I don't want to talk about them now, I'm not going to worry about them any more, no, they no longer occupy even a single second of my thoughts. Well, when I'd pulled out the phone plug and checked one last time that I had all the papers I needed in my pocket-book pa.s.sport, tickets, travellers' cheques, pension card I looked out of the window to make sure that there were some taxis waiting at the stand on the corner, shut the front door and let the keys fall through the letterbox.

Out of old habit I avoided the lift; I don't like lifts. On the second floor I tripped and grabbed hold of the banisters, and stood still a moment, suddenly hot all over. Think, just think what if I'd really fallen, perhaps sprained my ankle or worse? Everything would have been in vain, fatal, irreparable. It would have been unthinkable to get ready and gather myself together to leave a second time. In the taxi I felt so exhilarated I carried on a lively conversation with the driver, commenting on the early spring weather and taking an interest in this and that relating to his profession, but he hardly responded at all. I pulled myself together, because this was exactly what I'd decided to avoid; from now on I was going to be a person who never took any interest in anyone. The problems that might face a taxi driver were nothing to do with me. We reached the boat much too early, he lifted out my bag, I thanked him and gave him too big a tip. He didn't smile, which upset me a bit, but the man who took my ticket was very friendly.

My journey had started. It gradually got cold on deck, there was hardly anyone else there and I presumed the other pa.s.sengers must have made their way to the restaurant. Taking my time, I went to find my cabin. I saw at once that I wasn't going to be alone; someone had left a coat, pocket-book and umbrella on one of the bunks, and two elegant suitcases were standing in the middle of the floor. Discreetly, I moved them out of the way. Naturally I had demanded, or more accurately expressed a desire to have, a cabin to myself; sleeping on my own has become very important to me and on this journey in particular it was absolutely essential for me to, so to speak, savour my new independence entirely undisturbed. I couldn't possibly go and complain to the purser, who would have merely pointed out that the boat was full, that it was a regrettable misunderstanding, and that if the misunderstanding were to be rectified I would be aware all night as I lay on my solitary bunk that the man who was to have shared my cabin was having to spend the night sleepless on a deckchair.

I noticed that his toilet articles were of exclusive quality, and I was particularly impressed by his light-blue electric toothbrush and a miniature case with the monogram A.C. on it. I unpacked my own toothbrush and the other things I had considered necessary from my ascetic point of view, laid out my pyjamas on the other bunk and asked myself if I was hungry. The thought of the likely crush in the restaurant put me off, so I decided to skip dinner and have a drink in the bar instead. The bar was pretty empty this early in the evening. I sat down on one of the high stools, propped my feet on the traditional metal railing which runs round every bar on the continent, and lit my pipe.

"A Black and White if you please," I said to the bartender, accepting the gla.s.s with a brief nod and making clear with my att.i.tude that I had no inclination for conversation. I sat and pondered the Idea of Travel; that is to say, the act of travelling unfettered and with no responsibility for what one has left behind and without any opportunity to foresee what may lie ahead and prepare for it. Nothing but an enormous sense of peace. It occurred to me to think back over my earlier journeys, every one of them, and I realised to my astonishment that this must be the first time I had ever travelled alone. First came my trips with my mother Majorca and the Canaries. Majorca again. After mother went away I travelled with Cousin Herman, to Lubeck and Hamburg. He was only interested in museums, though they depressed him; he'd never been able to study painting and he couldn't get over it. Not a happy trip. Then the Wahlstroms, who didn't know whether to divorce or not and thought it would be easier to travel as a threesome.

Where did we go..? Oh, yes of course, Venice. And during the mornings they quarrelled. No, that wasn't much of a journey. What next? A trip with a party to Leningrad. It was d.a.m.n cold... And then Aunt Hilda who needed a break but didn't dare go by herself... but that was only as far as Mariehamn; we went to the Maritime Museum there, I remember. You see, when I went through all my life's journeys in my thoughts, any fear I possibly could have had that the way I'd decided to do things might not be right disappeared. I turned to the bartender, said, "Another, if you please," and looked round the bar, very much at ease. People had started coming in; happy well-fed people who ordered coffee and drinks to their tables and crowded round me at the bar.

Normally I very much dislike crowds and do everything I can to avoid being involved with them, even in buses and trams, but that evening it felt pleasant and sociable to be one among many, almost secure. An elderly gentleman with a cigar intimated with a discreet gesture that he needed my ashtray; "Of course, don't mention it," I responded and was on the point of begging his pardon but remembered in time: I'd finished with all that kind of thing. In an entirely matter-of-fact way, if with a certain nonchalance, I moved the ashtray to his side and calmly studied myself in the mirror behind the bottles in the bar.

There's something special about a bar, don't you think? A place for chance happenings, for possibilities to become reality, a refuge on the awkward route from should to must. But, I must confess, not the sort of place I've much frequented. Now, as I sat and looked in the mirror, my face suddenly seemed rather agreeable. I suppose I had never allowed myself time to look closely at the appearance time has given me. A thin face with somewhat surprised but frankly beautiful eyes, hair admittedly grey but luxuriant in an almost artistic manner, with a lock hanging down over my brow giving me an expression of what shall we say anxious watchfulness? Watchful concern? No. Just watchfulness. I emptied my gla.s.s and suddenly felt an urgent need to communicate, but held it in check. At all events, despite everything, wasn't this precisely an occasion when, at last, I would not be forced to listen but could be allowed to talk myself, freely and recklessly? Among men, in a bar? For example, entirely in pa.s.sing of course, I might let slip information about my decisive contribution at the Post Office. But no. Absolutely not. Be secretive don't make confidences; at most, drop hints...

Sitting on my left was a young man who seemed extremely restless. He kept moving his position, turning this way and that on his stool and seemingly trying to keep an eye on everything that was happening in the room. I turned to the neighbour on my other side and said: "Very crowded this evening. Looks like we're in for a calm crossing." He stubbed his cigar in the ashtray and remarked that the boat was full and that our wind speed was eight metres per second, though they'd forecast it would get stronger during the night. I liked his calm matter-of-fact manner and asked myself whether he was retired and why he should be on his way to London. Let me tell you, my interest surprised myself; nothing has become so utterly foreign, almost hateful to me, to be avoided at all costs, as curiosity and sympathy, any disposition to encourage in the slightest degree the surrounding world's irresistible need to start talking about its troubles. This is something I really do know about; during a long life I've heard most things and I've brought this entirely on myself. But, as I've said, I was sitting in a bar on the way to my new freedom and I was being a bit careless.

He said: "You're going to London? On business?"

"No. Sea travel amuses me."

He nodded in appreciation. I could see his face in the mirror, a rather heavy face somewhat the worse for wear with a drooping moustache and tired eyes. He seemed elegant, expensively dressed, in a continental style, if you understand what I mean.

"When I was young," he said, "I worked out that it should be possible to travel by sea all the time, without stopping, meals included, for very much less than it costs to live in a city."

I watched him, fascinated, waiting for him to go on, but he said nothing more. Thank goodness, this was clearly not a man to make personal confidences. Meanwhile, soft music was throbbing persistently somewhere up in the ceiling and people had begun talking with increasing animation, while trays heavily laden with gla.s.ses were being carried with impressive speed and precision between the tables. I thought: 'Here I am sitting with an experienced traveller, a man who has taken the best from life and knows what he's talking about.' It was then he took out his pocket-book and showed me pictures of his family and his dog. That was a warning signal. A sharp sense of disappointment pierced me but why should I be surprised if my companion was showing signs of behaving exactly like all the others? But I'd decided not to let anything whatever upset me, so I looked at his snapshots and said all the usual nice things. His wife, children, grandchildren and dog looked more or less just as one would expect, except that they seemed in an unusually flourishing condition.