boil. Listening to Mella’s account of how Persson had been found, she occasionally lifted the saucepan lid with an embroidered potholder.
“Tell me if there’s anything I can do,” Mella said. Autio made a dismissive gesture.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked when she had finished pouring out the coffee. “I know it’s flirting with death, but I was eighty last January, and I’ve always smoked. Some people look after their health . . . But life isn’t fair.”
Tapping her cigarette against the glass jar she used as an ashtray, she said again, “Life isn’t fair.”
She wiped her nose and cheeks with the back of her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Cry as much as you like,” Mella said, just as Stålnacke used to do.
“She was only seventeen,” Autio said with a sob. “She was too young. And I’m too old to have to live through all this.”
She looked angrily at Mella.
“I’m totally fed up,” she said. “It’s bad enough outliving nearly everyone my own age. But when you start outliving the youngsters, well . . .”
“How come she lived with you?” Mella asked, mainly to have something to say.
“She used to live in Huddinge with her mother, my granddaughter. Went to school, but was having trouble getting through all the work. She insisted on taking a break and coming up here to live with me. She moved in last Christmas. She worked for Marta Andersson at the campsite. And then she met Simon. He’s a relative of Kyrö, who lives in the red wooden cottage over there.”
She gestured toward the building.
“Simon thought the world of Wilma.”
She stared hard at Mella.
“I’ve never been as close to anyone as I was to Wilma. Not to my daughters. Certainly not to my sister. Mind you, here in the village nobody has much time for anybody else. But Wilma gave me a feeling of freedom. I don’t know how to explain it. My sister Kerttu, for instance—she’s always been better off than me. She married Isak Krekula. He runs the hauling firm.”
“I recognize the name,” Mella said.
“Anyway, none of them have exactly been pals with the police. It’s his sons who run the firm nowadays, of course. That Kerttu is always annoying me. All she wants to talk about is money and business and what big shots her boys keep meeting. But Wilma used to say, ‘Take no notice. If money and that sort of stuff make her feel good, then fine. You don’t need to be any less happy on her account.’ I know it sounds simple and straightforward—but last summer . . . I’d never felt so liberated and so young. You can think whatever you like, Ann-Britt, but—”
“Anna-Maria.”
“But she was my best friend. An eighty-year-old and a teenager. She didn’t treat me like a useless pensioner.”
It is the middle of August. Blueberry time. Simon Kyrö is driving along a forest trail. Wilma Persson is in the passenger seat. AnniAutio is in the back, her walker beside her. This is the place they were looking for. Blueberries and lingonberries growing right by the trail. Autio wriggles out of the car unaided. Kyrö lifts out her walker and her basket. It is a lovely day. The sun is shining, and the heat is squeezing threads of attractive scents from the forest.
“I haven’t been here for years,” Autio says.
Kyrö gives her a worried look. Of course not. How on earth could she have negotiated any kind of rough terrain with her walker?
“Would you like us to come with you?” he says. “I can carry your basket.”
“Just leave her,” Persson says, and Autio emits a loud expletive in Tornedalen Finnish, shooing him away as if his interpolation were a fly buzzing around her. Persson knows. Autio needs to be alone in the silence. If she finds it impossible to move around and does not manage to pick a single blueberry, that will not matter. She can sit down on a rock and just be herself.
“We’ll come back and collect you in three hours,” Persson says.
Then she turns to Kyrö with
“Tell me if there’s anything I can do,” Mella said. Autio made a dismissive gesture.
“Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked when she had finished pouring out the coffee. “I know it’s flirting with death, but I was eighty last January, and I’ve always smoked. Some people look after their health . . . But life isn’t fair.”
Tapping her cigarette against the glass jar she used as an ashtray, she said again, “Life isn’t fair.”
She wiped her nose and cheeks with the back of her hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Cry as much as you like,” Mella said, just as Stålnacke used to do.
“She was only seventeen,” Autio said with a sob. “She was too young. And I’m too old to have to live through all this.”
She looked angrily at Mella.
“I’m totally fed up,” she said. “It’s bad enough outliving nearly everyone my own age. But when you start outliving the youngsters, well . . .”
“How come she lived with you?” Mella asked, mainly to have something to say.
“She used to live in Huddinge with her mother, my granddaughter. Went to school, but was having trouble getting through all the work. She insisted on taking a break and coming up here to live with me. She moved in last Christmas. She worked for Marta Andersson at the campsite. And then she met Simon. He’s a relative of Kyrö, who lives in the red wooden cottage over there.”
She gestured toward the building.
“Simon thought the world of Wilma.”
She stared hard at Mella.
“I’ve never been as close to anyone as I was to Wilma. Not to my daughters. Certainly not to my sister. Mind you, here in the village nobody has much time for anybody else. But Wilma gave me a feeling of freedom. I don’t know how to explain it. My sister Kerttu, for instance—she’s always been better off than me. She married Isak Krekula. He runs the hauling firm.”
“I recognize the name,” Mella said.
“Anyway, none of them have exactly been pals with the police. It’s his sons who run the firm nowadays, of course. That Kerttu is always annoying me. All she wants to talk about is money and business and what big shots her boys keep meeting. But Wilma used to say, ‘Take no notice. If money and that sort of stuff make her feel good, then fine. You don’t need to be any less happy on her account.’ I know it sounds simple and straightforward—but last summer . . . I’d never felt so liberated and so young. You can think whatever you like, Ann-Britt, but—”
“Anna-Maria.”
“But she was my best friend. An eighty-year-old and a teenager. She didn’t treat me like a useless pensioner.”
It is the middle of August. Blueberry time. Simon Kyrö is driving along a forest trail. Wilma Persson is in the passenger seat. AnniAutio is in the back, her walker beside her. This is the place they were looking for. Blueberries and lingonberries growing right by the trail. Autio wriggles out of the car unaided. Kyrö lifts out her walker and her basket. It is a lovely day. The sun is shining, and the heat is squeezing threads of attractive scents from the forest.
“I haven’t been here for years,” Autio says.
Kyrö gives her a worried look. Of course not. How on earth could she have negotiated any kind of rough terrain with her walker?
“Would you like us to come with you?” he says. “I can carry your basket.”
“Just leave her,” Persson says, and Autio emits a loud expletive in Tornedalen Finnish, shooing him away as if his interpolation were a fly buzzing around her. Persson knows. Autio needs to be alone in the silence. If she finds it impossible to move around and does not manage to pick a single blueberry, that will not matter. She can sit down on a rock and just be herself.
“We’ll come back and collect you in three hours,” Persson says.
Then she turns to Kyrö with
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