Fair Play by Tove Jansson

Did you check the stern lines?”
    Mari said, “I think they’re under water. It’s risen.”
    They sat opposite each other at the table without talking. How Papa loved storms, Mari thought. The wind coming up would wipe away his melancholy and make him happy. He’d set the spritsail and take us out to sea ...
    Jonna said, “I know what you’re thinking. That you always hoped for storms because they made him happy. And when a storm like this blew up, didn’t he used to say ‘I think I’ll go down and look at the boat’? But you know, he just went out to look at the waves!”
    â€œWe knew that,” Mari said. “But we didn’t say anything.”
    Jonna went on. “It was certainly no trick for your father to pull up his boat; it was child’s play. Shouldn’t we eat something?”
    â€œNo,” Mari said.
    â€œDo you think there’s any point in going down to have another look?”
    â€œHardly. There’s nothing we can do.”
    â€œWhen was it we realized we couldn’t do it anymore? Years ago?”
    â€œMaybe. It happened gradually.”
    â€œWhen you were dragging up stones from the anchorage.”
    â€œAbout then,” Mari said. “But it was actually interesting, not being strong enough to lift and roll anymore. It gave me ideas, you know—completely new ideas. About lifting, leverage, balance, angles of fall, about trying to use logic.”
    â€œYes,” said Jonna. “Trying to figure things out, I know. But don’t talk to me about leverage right now. Is there anything left in that bottle?”
    â€œA splash, I think.” Mari went to get the rum and two glasses. The storm’s humming monotone filled the room—steady, soporific, like an imperceptible trembling. They might have been on board a large steamer.
    â€œHe traveled a great deal,” Jonna said.
    â€œWell, yes, when he got grants.”
    Jonna said, “I’m not talking about your father. I’m talking about mine. He used to tell us about his trips. You never knew what he was making up and what really happened.”
    â€œEven better,” Mari said.
    â€œNo, wait ... They were awful, terrifying things, including storms, although he’d never been to sea.”
    â€œBut that can make them even better,” Mari said.
    â€œYou’re interrupting. And when he was talked out and didn’t know how to end it, he’d just say, ‘And then it started to rain and everyone went home.’”
    â€œExcellent,” Mari said. “Wonderful. Endings can be really hard.” She went to get the cheese and the crispbread and then went on. “He didn’t tell us stories. He never talked much at all, now that I think about it.”
    Jonna cut the cheese in pieces and said, “We used to go to the library, the two of us. Just Papa and me. It was like being in his pocket.”
    â€œI know. He knew where the wild mushrooms grew, and he’d take us there and light his pipe and say, ‘Family! Pick!’ But he preferred going alone. Then he’d hide his mushroom baskets under a spruce and take us back with him at night, with torches, you know. It was frightening and wonderful. And he’d pretend he’d forgotten which spruce it was ... And then we’d sit on the porch and clean mushrooms with the night all around and the kerosene lantern burning ...”
    â€œYou said all that in some newspaper,” Jonna said, and filled the glasses with the last of the rum. “Old Smuggler. Put that to soak; I want to save the label.”
    â€œWas he really brave enough to do serious smuggling?” Mari asked.
    â€œOh he was brave enough to do anything.”
    â€œBut my father was social,” Mari said. “You remember prohibition when Estonian vodka would float ashore and everyone went out to salvage it? Do you know what they did? They sold the canisters for