True by Riikka Pulkkinen Page B

I’m afraid that he’ll come into my room. What have I got myself into? What if he gets delirious, if he’s one of those men who drinks a whole bottle with one swing of his arm?
    He’s not drunk. He can’t see in the dark, loses track of the bounds of his body and bumps into things. I still don’t know this. I’ve only just learned his morning sleepiness, his distracted gaze as he reads the paper. There are still a thousand things I don’t know about him, and a thousand more after that. And another thousand and another, endlessly.
    I hear him open the door. I lie there without breathing and listen. Nothing. I get up, creep across the kitchen into the hall and see him in the little girl’s doorway.
    â€œWhat are you doing?”
    â€œShhh.”
    He has an expression on his face I’ve never seen before.
    â€œI’m watching her sleep,” he says, as if embarrassed by his own tenderness. “I have to see that she’s safe before I can go to sleep.”
    His affection for her is so genuine, but his art is pompous. He’s full of himself, that’s what I think. Some artist. A big deal famous artist. I think he hides himself in his work the way a bashful child hides in his play.
    ON THE FOURTH day I call Kerttu.
    â€œThe husband paints every night,” I say. “He barely says hello.”
    â€œIt sounds excruciating.”
    â€œHe’s a snob. I don’t know what to do with him.”
    â€œGo knock on his door. Tell him the kitchen’s on fire, there’s a flood in the bathroom and the walls are falling in, the little girl’s taking a bath in the kitchen sink, and you’re leaving the country. That’ll get him downstairs.”
    â€œI doubt it.”
    I WORK UP my indignation as I go up the stairs. The attic absorbs the sound of my steps and smells like a sauna. I stop for a moment to listen to the creak, remember July evenings in childhood, at home in Kuhmo, in the darkness of the attic. I go to the door, lift my chin and knock. The man looks stern when I open the door without waiting for an answer.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI just wanted to know how much longer.”
    He looks at me like he doesn’t understand the question, like I’m a strange, talking doll.
    â€œI don’t know—what do you mean?”
    â€œThe little girl’s asleep.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œWhat am I supposed to do?”
    â€œHow should I know? You can decide for yourself—you have the whole evening free. You could go for a walk or something.”
    â€œI can’t, I have a hole in my shoe.”
    â€œInvite a friend over.”
    â€œThey’re all at a party, or engaged, or on their way to the justice of the peace.”
    He looks at me critically.
    â€œCome here,” he says, pulling me inside. He takes me by the shoulders and leads me to his painting. “Look.”
    He’s eager, strangely bold—it comes from the hours of working, the surge of self-confidence. He’s never touched me before.
    â€œWhat do you think?”
    The painting is ridiculous. I don’t understand it at all, and I let him know it. “Lines and circles,” I say simply. “I see lines and circles.”
    I exaggerate my nonchalance a bit, maybe I feel I should choose a side and stick to it.
    â€œMaybe you don’t care for art,” he sneers.
    I pounce on his dismissive tone with sarcasm, like Kerttu in her more self-important moments: “Certainly not this kind. What is this supposed to be a picture of?”
    â€œNothing,” he says. “Art doesn’t necessarily have to depict any specific thing. That’s the old kind of art.”
    â€œI know what you’re driving at. I saw your paintings at the Ars exhibit. I thought the same thing then. Why not paint people? Why not paint Elsa or your daughter?”
    â€œI don’t paint them,” he says curtly. “I’ve never