Scandinavian—that I knew. But I hadn’t known he had two sons, a wife. I stared at his picture for a long, long time. I bet Hans Blix was a damn good father.
4.
A woman who looked like my dentist was sitting two rows ahead of me. She got off the bus at the cemetery, leaving behind her scarf, gray and thick. I picked it up and wrapped it around my neck. It smelled clean, like snow.
When we approached Inari, the bus driver signaled it was my stop. “Hello, English,” he called out.
“Hotel?” I asked.
With a gloved finger, he pointed down the road.
I dragged my suitcase behind me, unsure whether its wheels were rolling on the ice or sliding. The sun never rose, but at ten thirty, the sky looked like a dark blue parachute con-cealing a flame.
I turned down a narrow road toward a colony of cabins and moved faster, feeling colder at the prospect of imminent warmth. I rang the bell of the main house, waited, and then turned the knob. The door opened a crack: a woman with her shirt unbuttoned was nursing a baby. I averted my eyes from her breasts. Inside the entranceway stood several pairs of boots—those of a woman, a man, at least two children, and a baby, all in a row. A family of footwear.
The woman said something in Finnish. I stared at her. “How many night?” she said in English.
I wasn’t sure how much time Eero Valkeapää and I would need together. “One week?” I asked, still looking at the boots.
5.
The woman put on a coat and, carrying the baby, escorted me to a cottage. It had one bunk bed, two single beds, a kitchen-ette, a table, and a bathroom. The extra beds made me feel small, alone in a dollhouse.
I asked where the church was. “Which kind?” she said. “Sami.”
It was down the road, right before the center of town. As she was leaving, she placed the key in my palm, as if it was a communion wafer, and pressed lightly.
I sat in front of the heater and warmed my feet until my damp socks smelled of burned wool. I pulled on another sweater, unhooked a flashlight from the cottage’s coat rack, and headed out. It was significantly easier to walk without the suitcase—my body felt lighter, sleeker, free. I came upon the start of a town, and to the side of the road, a white wooden church. Fifteen cars were parked in the lot. I looked at my watch: twenty minutes past noon. Sunday.
I approached the brown doors of the church and stared at the gold handles. I hadn’t expected it to be so easy. Everything had gone so slowly until now.
No one turned as I entered the church. I sat toward the back, across the aisle from a little girl. The church wasn’t crowded, but everyone was spread out—two or four people per pew. The congregation consisted of grandparents with their grandchildren; the generation in between was missing.
The older women wore black dresses, embroidered with red and green; the men, black tunics, similarly trimmed. The grandchildren, in their early teens, were dressed for snow-boarding.
I couldn’t put it off any longer: I forced myself to look in the direction of the priest.
I knew it without thinking. My father.
He stood behind a pulpit, wearing a white robe with a green sash. His eyes were dark, like mine, set deep in his face. His hair was the white of doves’ feathers, but his face was youthful, handsome though gaunt. His white robe looked large on his body, as though he had recently lost weight. Was he sick? Not another funeral. Not now , after finding him at last.
He gestured while he spoke: he made fists and open—
handed gestures; he stared up at the ceiling and then looked compassionately out toward his congregation. Could he see me? Did he know? I was afraid I might stand. Or jump. In my boots, my toes tingled as they defrosted. When he extended his hands outward, I reached mine forward and touched the pew in front of me.
There was the sound of creaking, of furniture shifting. The congregation was kneeling to pray. I leaned forward, my knees hitting the
4.
A woman who looked like my dentist was sitting two rows ahead of me. She got off the bus at the cemetery, leaving behind her scarf, gray and thick. I picked it up and wrapped it around my neck. It smelled clean, like snow.
When we approached Inari, the bus driver signaled it was my stop. “Hello, English,” he called out.
“Hotel?” I asked.
With a gloved finger, he pointed down the road.
I dragged my suitcase behind me, unsure whether its wheels were rolling on the ice or sliding. The sun never rose, but at ten thirty, the sky looked like a dark blue parachute con-cealing a flame.
I turned down a narrow road toward a colony of cabins and moved faster, feeling colder at the prospect of imminent warmth. I rang the bell of the main house, waited, and then turned the knob. The door opened a crack: a woman with her shirt unbuttoned was nursing a baby. I averted my eyes from her breasts. Inside the entranceway stood several pairs of boots—those of a woman, a man, at least two children, and a baby, all in a row. A family of footwear.
The woman said something in Finnish. I stared at her. “How many night?” she said in English.
I wasn’t sure how much time Eero Valkeapää and I would need together. “One week?” I asked, still looking at the boots.
5.
The woman put on a coat and, carrying the baby, escorted me to a cottage. It had one bunk bed, two single beds, a kitchen-ette, a table, and a bathroom. The extra beds made me feel small, alone in a dollhouse.
I asked where the church was. “Which kind?” she said. “Sami.”
It was down the road, right before the center of town. As she was leaving, she placed the key in my palm, as if it was a communion wafer, and pressed lightly.
I sat in front of the heater and warmed my feet until my damp socks smelled of burned wool. I pulled on another sweater, unhooked a flashlight from the cottage’s coat rack, and headed out. It was significantly easier to walk without the suitcase—my body felt lighter, sleeker, free. I came upon the start of a town, and to the side of the road, a white wooden church. Fifteen cars were parked in the lot. I looked at my watch: twenty minutes past noon. Sunday.
I approached the brown doors of the church and stared at the gold handles. I hadn’t expected it to be so easy. Everything had gone so slowly until now.
No one turned as I entered the church. I sat toward the back, across the aisle from a little girl. The church wasn’t crowded, but everyone was spread out—two or four people per pew. The congregation consisted of grandparents with their grandchildren; the generation in between was missing.
The older women wore black dresses, embroidered with red and green; the men, black tunics, similarly trimmed. The grandchildren, in their early teens, were dressed for snow-boarding.
I couldn’t put it off any longer: I forced myself to look in the direction of the priest.
I knew it without thinking. My father.
He stood behind a pulpit, wearing a white robe with a green sash. His eyes were dark, like mine, set deep in his face. His hair was the white of doves’ feathers, but his face was youthful, handsome though gaunt. His white robe looked large on his body, as though he had recently lost weight. Was he sick? Not another funeral. Not now , after finding him at last.
He gestured while he spoke: he made fists and open—
handed gestures; he stared up at the ceiling and then looked compassionately out toward his congregation. Could he see me? Did he know? I was afraid I might stand. Or jump. In my boots, my toes tingled as they defrosted. When he extended his hands outward, I reached mine forward and touched the pew in front of me.
There was the sound of creaking, of furniture shifting. The congregation was kneeling to pray. I leaned forward, my knees hitting the
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