blue leather binding or bluebells in a herbarium. The damp had stained and bleached the narrow room with its angled ceiling, and Mats thought the walls and ceiling looked like a sky with flying storm clouds.
He was very happy. There was nothing unnecessary in his room. The window was small and looked out on the woods. Huge old spruce trees filled the view like a dark, snow-flecked wall. It was like being alone in the boat shed. Katri had put one of her crocheted coverlets on the bed. It too was blue, but clear blue, like a signal. As always, Mats slept without dreaming and never woke up in the night.
Katri did not see much of her brother, mostly just at meals. The quiet silence of kinship that had been theirs had lost its particular time and space. Sometimes in the evening Katri had some errand to the kitchen. Mats and Anna sat across from each other at the kitchen table and read. They always stopped reading while Katri was in the room, but they no longer asked her if she’d like a cup of tea.
Chapter Eighteen
A NNA WAS VERY ANNOYED . She had spent an entire day trying to put together a form letter, a perfect letter that would answer, inform, comfort and suit every child. But however much she tried, it sounded more and more stilted.
“Look at this,” she said. “Just look at it, Miss Kling! Do you see now that I was right?”
Katri read the letter and said that it seemed unclear and that it failed to suggest in any way that all future correspondence was cordially discouraged.
“But don’t you understand that the whole idea is impossible? Every child needs a personal letter.”
“I understand. You’ll just have to do it your own way.”
Anna put on her glasses, then took them off again and polished them for a long time. She said, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me, but I can’t write letters any more. It doesn’t feel right.”
“But haven’t you been writing them for years? I mean, you’re a writer.”
“That’s all you know!” Anna said. “It’s the publisher puts together the text. I draw the pictures, you know, the pictures! Have you even seen them?”
“No,” Katri said. She waited, but Anna said nothing. “Miss Aemelin, I have a suggestion. Could you give me a couple of the letters and let me answer them? As an experiment?”
“You can’t write,” said Anna quickly. Then she shrugged her shoulders, stood up from the table and left the room.
* * *
With the same ease that Katri Kling could duplicate signatures, she could also imitate voices and another person’s choice of words and manner of speech. It was a talent that had gone begging. She had occasionally tried to amuse Mats by mimicking the neighbours, but he didn’t like it.
“They’re too real,” he said.
“How so?”
“I see how awful they are.”
Katri stopped playing a game that wasn’t fun. But in the letters from Anna, her talent was put to use. Easily and skilfully, she reproduced Anna’s uncertainty and her awkward kindness getting lost in needless small talk. Beneath the kindness there were still glimpses of egocentricity . But gone was the timid inability to say no. There were no more half-promises that might tempt some youngster to become a pen pal. Katri bid them an honest farewell that only an unusually stupid or blindly ingenuous child could misunderstand. Anna read through what Katri had written and was bewildered. It was her voice but not her voice, a distorted picture that came closer and closer with each letter she read until she set the whole pile aside and sat silently for a long time.
It was a peculiarity of Katri’s that silence never made her ill at ease. She just waited. Finally Anna picked up the letters again, searched through them, fastened her eyes on Katri, and said, “This is wrong! Here you’re not me! If a child is mad at her parents, it’s no comfort that the parents may be having troubles of their own. That’s the wrong comfort! I never would have written
He was very happy. There was nothing unnecessary in his room. The window was small and looked out on the woods. Huge old spruce trees filled the view like a dark, snow-flecked wall. It was like being alone in the boat shed. Katri had put one of her crocheted coverlets on the bed. It too was blue, but clear blue, like a signal. As always, Mats slept without dreaming and never woke up in the night.
Katri did not see much of her brother, mostly just at meals. The quiet silence of kinship that had been theirs had lost its particular time and space. Sometimes in the evening Katri had some errand to the kitchen. Mats and Anna sat across from each other at the kitchen table and read. They always stopped reading while Katri was in the room, but they no longer asked her if she’d like a cup of tea.
Chapter Eighteen
A NNA WAS VERY ANNOYED . She had spent an entire day trying to put together a form letter, a perfect letter that would answer, inform, comfort and suit every child. But however much she tried, it sounded more and more stilted.
“Look at this,” she said. “Just look at it, Miss Kling! Do you see now that I was right?”
Katri read the letter and said that it seemed unclear and that it failed to suggest in any way that all future correspondence was cordially discouraged.
“But don’t you understand that the whole idea is impossible? Every child needs a personal letter.”
“I understand. You’ll just have to do it your own way.”
Anna put on her glasses, then took them off again and polished them for a long time. She said, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me, but I can’t write letters any more. It doesn’t feel right.”
“But haven’t you been writing them for years? I mean, you’re a writer.”
“That’s all you know!” Anna said. “It’s the publisher puts together the text. I draw the pictures, you know, the pictures! Have you even seen them?”
“No,” Katri said. She waited, but Anna said nothing. “Miss Aemelin, I have a suggestion. Could you give me a couple of the letters and let me answer them? As an experiment?”
“You can’t write,” said Anna quickly. Then she shrugged her shoulders, stood up from the table and left the room.
* * *
With the same ease that Katri Kling could duplicate signatures, she could also imitate voices and another person’s choice of words and manner of speech. It was a talent that had gone begging. She had occasionally tried to amuse Mats by mimicking the neighbours, but he didn’t like it.
“They’re too real,” he said.
“How so?”
“I see how awful they are.”
Katri stopped playing a game that wasn’t fun. But in the letters from Anna, her talent was put to use. Easily and skilfully, she reproduced Anna’s uncertainty and her awkward kindness getting lost in needless small talk. Beneath the kindness there were still glimpses of egocentricity . But gone was the timid inability to say no. There were no more half-promises that might tempt some youngster to become a pen pal. Katri bid them an honest farewell that only an unusually stupid or blindly ingenuous child could misunderstand. Anna read through what Katri had written and was bewildered. It was her voice but not her voice, a distorted picture that came closer and closer with each letter she read until she set the whole pile aside and sat silently for a long time.
It was a peculiarity of Katri’s that silence never made her ill at ease. She just waited. Finally Anna picked up the letters again, searched through them, fastened her eyes on Katri, and said, “This is wrong! Here you’re not me! If a child is mad at her parents, it’s no comfort that the parents may be having troubles of their own. That’s the wrong comfort! I never would have written
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