Fair Play by Tove Jansson Page B

imagine what it was like in the early days. Courage! Courage and patience. And pure curiosity. Imagine being among the very first to discover and conquer a new country, a new continent!”
    â€œConquer,” Mari repeated and pulled the blanket tighter.
    â€œYes, yes. Now don’t go on about the Indians and all that stuff about cruelty and arrogance; those things happen on both sides. Great change always involves great intensity. That’s just the way it is, right? Look at their desolate little towns in a completely empty landscape, and remember they lived in constant danger ... They had to develop a strict, an implacable, sense of justice, they had to try to invent the Law for themselves, as best they could ...” Jonna put down her cigarillo. “It doesn’t draw,” she said. “It’s the wrong kind.”
    Mari remarked that perhaps the cigarillos had been lying around too long, and Jonna went on. “It must be that lawlessness has its own laws. Of course mistakes occurred. They lived such violent lives that they simply didn’t have time to reflect, that’s what I think. But mistakes happen today, too, don’t they? We hang the wrong guy, so to speak.”
    Jonna leaned forward and looked at her friend earnestly. “The sense of honor,” she announced. “Believe me, the sense of honor has never been so strong. Friendship between men. You said the heroines were idiotic. Fine, they are idiotic. But take them away, forget them, and what do you find? Friendship between men who are unswervingly honorable toward one another. That’s the concept of the Western.”
    â€œI know,” Mari said. “They have an honorable fist fight and then they’re friends for life. Unless the noblest of them gets shot at the end, sacrificing his life to soft music.”
    â€œNow you’re just being mean,” said Jonna. She lifted aside the cloth that protected her television screen and turned to channel two.
    â€œAnyway, I’m right,” Mari said. “It’s the same thing over and over. They ride past precisely the same mountain and the same waterfall and that Mexican church. And the saloon. And the oxcarts. Don’t they ever get tired of it?”
    â€œNo,” Jonna answered. “They never do. It’s about recognition, about recognizing what you’ve imagined. People make dreams, don’t they? The oxcarts that fight their way forward through unexplored territory, dangerous lands ... Whether it’s an A-Western or a B or even a C, they feel this is the way it must have been, just like this, and it makes them proud and maybe gives them a little comfort. I think.”
    â€œYes,” Mari said. “Well, yes, maybe you’re right ...”
    But Jonna couldn’t stop. “It’s not fair of you to come and talk about repetition and the same thing over and over, and anyway your short stories are the same way, the same theme over and over again. Now close the curtains; it starts in three minutes.”
    Mari dropped the blanket on the floor and announced, very slowly, “I think ... now I think I’ll go to bed.”
    She had a hard time falling asleep. Now they’re galloping past the red mountain. Now they’re playing poker in the saloon. Honky-tonk ... They’re shooting bottles in the bar, girls are screaming. Now the stairs to the second floor are crashing down ...
    A trumpet blast woke her up, and she knew the movie had come to the brave men in the final fort. Maybe they’ve more or less worked things out with the Indians—everyone forgives everyone, except maybe the ones who died—and now they’re playing “My Darling Clementine,” which means she’s finally figured out who she loved the whole time.
    And now Jonna’s turning off the television and rewinding the video. She’s brushing her teeth and coming to bed and doesn’t say a word.
    Mari asked,