loose. Free your mind and send it flying.”
MARTES
Mikael nods slowly, and I grab a large gym bag out of the corner.
“Eight pairs of Stalkers here for you, all possible sizes, and you can have more if you need them. There’s loads of time. A couple of months. The deadline’s the end of March. And if the idea sees the light of day, it’ll mean loads of cash for you. We’re talking thousands.”
And if the idea sees the light of day, and if we get the campaign, it’ll mean at least a quarter of a million euros for us. But that I don’t say. I toss the bag to Mikael, he almost collapses under its weight, but with a couple of steps backward he remains standing. “Our rock and standby. Suppose you know your nickname here?”
Mikael’s hanging on to the bag with both hands. He looks up inquiringly.
I lower my voice almost to a whisper: “Michelangelo.”
ANGEL
Michelangelo.
I wasn’t Michelangelo when we first met, I was Studio Hartikainen.
And I still am Studio Hartikainen, the advertising photographer, graphic designer and computer artist. And he’s Martti, Martes, the hardest art director in the city’s toughest advertising office.
I remember.
I come into the office and introduce myself. I show my portfolio and worm my way into the talk about diffusers and image data banks. Immediately an easy, streamlined trust springs up between Martes and me.
Trust, yes, and of course mutual admiration: the way a competent professional can admire another whose field is close enough for him to have the requisite understanding for admiration but distant enough to eliminate competition for the same clients.
I remember, Martes.
I remember how, during a presentation, our eyes met behind our shared client’s back and you made a face in just the way we both understand, and I nearly burst out laughing.
I remember that once, planning a photo shoot together, it was breathtaking how we saw totally eye to eye, how one of us had only to say half a word and the other’s face lit up, and he said, “Yes!—I was just about to say that myself!” And we high five’d each other, and I remember your face and your look and your denim shirt’s top button undone.
I remember how, when we were alone together, I sometimes noticed you looking at me closely, so closely I began to get breathless, and our glances lingered a little too long, making my voice go husky as I explained something. And I read your eyes, Martes, there was no lie in them. There was no pretense in them.
I remember you asking me to come to the office, though things could have been fixed over the phone. I remember your asking me now and then to have a drink with you after work. We spoke about everything under the sun, and we respected each other and admired each other and liked each other and laughed at the same things, and—oh, we were on the same wavelength, to the millihertz! And maybe we drank a glass or two more than we should.
I remember feeling your chest in my arms, feeling your erection through your trousers as we leaned against the Tammerkoski River railings that dark night. I can still feel your mouth on mine, Martes, tasting of cigarettes and Guinness, your mustache scratching my upper lip, and it makes me feel faint.
Martes, I remember, and I know still that it wasn’t my imagination.
PALOMITA
In the little well there’s a reward.
First I hear footsteps, and I hope and hope and hope until the sides of my neck hurt. He’s climbing the steps in the peephole. He’s a little doll walking across the surface of my eye. He has a big shopping bag on his shoulder. I slither off like a lizard into the bathroom. There’s a can of cat food in the hamper. Pentti’s snores come through the bedroom wall, as if someone were scratching a sack with their broken nails. I’ve unplugged the telephone and put the cell under a pile of pillows on the sofa so he won’t wake. The third time it was difficult for him to get a hard-on, and I was afraid he’d notice I was purposely
MARTES
Mikael nods slowly, and I grab a large gym bag out of the corner.
“Eight pairs of Stalkers here for you, all possible sizes, and you can have more if you need them. There’s loads of time. A couple of months. The deadline’s the end of March. And if the idea sees the light of day, it’ll mean loads of cash for you. We’re talking thousands.”
And if the idea sees the light of day, and if we get the campaign, it’ll mean at least a quarter of a million euros for us. But that I don’t say. I toss the bag to Mikael, he almost collapses under its weight, but with a couple of steps backward he remains standing. “Our rock and standby. Suppose you know your nickname here?”
Mikael’s hanging on to the bag with both hands. He looks up inquiringly.
I lower my voice almost to a whisper: “Michelangelo.”
ANGEL
Michelangelo.
I wasn’t Michelangelo when we first met, I was Studio Hartikainen.
And I still am Studio Hartikainen, the advertising photographer, graphic designer and computer artist. And he’s Martti, Martes, the hardest art director in the city’s toughest advertising office.
I remember.
I come into the office and introduce myself. I show my portfolio and worm my way into the talk about diffusers and image data banks. Immediately an easy, streamlined trust springs up between Martes and me.
Trust, yes, and of course mutual admiration: the way a competent professional can admire another whose field is close enough for him to have the requisite understanding for admiration but distant enough to eliminate competition for the same clients.
I remember, Martes.
I remember how, during a presentation, our eyes met behind our shared client’s back and you made a face in just the way we both understand, and I nearly burst out laughing.
I remember that once, planning a photo shoot together, it was breathtaking how we saw totally eye to eye, how one of us had only to say half a word and the other’s face lit up, and he said, “Yes!—I was just about to say that myself!” And we high five’d each other, and I remember your face and your look and your denim shirt’s top button undone.
I remember how, when we were alone together, I sometimes noticed you looking at me closely, so closely I began to get breathless, and our glances lingered a little too long, making my voice go husky as I explained something. And I read your eyes, Martes, there was no lie in them. There was no pretense in them.
I remember you asking me to come to the office, though things could have been fixed over the phone. I remember your asking me now and then to have a drink with you after work. We spoke about everything under the sun, and we respected each other and admired each other and liked each other and laughed at the same things, and—oh, we were on the same wavelength, to the millihertz! And maybe we drank a glass or two more than we should.
I remember feeling your chest in my arms, feeling your erection through your trousers as we leaned against the Tammerkoski River railings that dark night. I can still feel your mouth on mine, Martes, tasting of cigarettes and Guinness, your mustache scratching my upper lip, and it makes me feel faint.
Martes, I remember, and I know still that it wasn’t my imagination.
PALOMITA
In the little well there’s a reward.
First I hear footsteps, and I hope and hope and hope until the sides of my neck hurt. He’s climbing the steps in the peephole. He’s a little doll walking across the surface of my eye. He has a big shopping bag on his shoulder. I slither off like a lizard into the bathroom. There’s a can of cat food in the hamper. Pentti’s snores come through the bedroom wall, as if someone were scratching a sack with their broken nails. I’ve unplugged the telephone and put the cell under a pile of pillows on the sofa so he won’t wake. The third time it was difficult for him to get a hard-on, and I was afraid he’d notice I was purposely
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