begins.
Here I am. Iâm standing at the door, about to ring the doorbell.
When it all begins, the new slogans havenât been invented yet, but the pill has already made its first appearance. People are already asking whatâs really happening, but skirt lengths are still of a sober length and cows still low in their barns.
When it all begins, Iâm twenty-two years old. Iâm halfway through my studies in spite of late nights in restaurants and occasionally tough bouts of homesickness for Kuhmo, where my mother and father keep ten cows and six bulls, in a farmyard painted with red clay. Where I come from milk is drunk warm from the milking, poured into glasses straight from the pail. It leaves a thick coating in your mouth.
When it all begins, Iâm living between two worlds. I have Helsinki, glasses of wine bought with the last of my money, smiles that I toss across the room without thinking of the consequences, boys that I kiss in arched entryways, defying my motherâs horror. I have cheap shoes and share an apartment with Kerttu on Liisankatu.
And I have Kuhmo, the meadow and the lake and the path through the woods that remembers me. I have a longing for home, nights when I lay awake in bed with the ceiling light on and cry from missing it, dream of the meadow, of swimming across the lake at night, bread cheese, starched sheets, and being nine years old, spending dreamy days at my desk at school.
But in 1964 , the real one of the two is Helsinki. This is where I live, go to classes, walk down the street, meet people, most of them people Kerttu knows because she knows all the young people in this city, all of the ones that have ever had any opinions.
I have a tedious job at the hat counter in a department store and many different plans, not one of which has come true. Not that thereâs any hurry. In those years Iâm still walking around in a dream that can drain away with waiting if youâre not careful, those days when you feel that you have eternity before you.
All through the fall and winter Iâve listened to Vieno at the hat counter giving me orders, wanting to make a lady of me. Vieno uses words like waistline and bodice, discretion, chastity. I donât want a waistline or any of those other old words. I want to make up myself myself.
Thatâs why Iâm standing here at the door. Itâs May, the trees are still a thicket of bare limbs, although the weatherâs warmed already. Iâve just walked two blocks. There are beads of sweat on my neck from walking. Iâm nervous. The flier I saw in the university lobby was simple: Family seeks affectionate nanny who knows how to cook. Interested parties may contact us evenings.
I ring the bell at exactly six oâclock because I believe the advertisement is meant for me. I certainly am affectionate. I often feel affection so abundant that it seems to flow from the tips of my fingers like nectar. My cooking skills are respectable. I know how to make bread cheese and how to fold potato-berry tarts, and my meat stew is thick and flavorful. I donât need boardâI have a good arrangement with Kerttu on Liisankatu. We live in two rooms and a kitchen left to Kerttu by a great aunt.
I sleep in the second room, Kerttu stays in the living room, except for the weeks when her German boyfriendâor the other one, from Stockholmâis in town. Then itâs best that I sleep on the sofa.
But now Iâm standing at a door ringing the bell.
I realize later that my life, a completely new life, begins at this moment. Maybe the end of it is in sight, too, there at the door. But this is the beginning, and beginnings donât like to hear about endings.
Elsa opens the door. Then I see the little girl and the man. There he is, standing in the doorway. The girl comes from behind him, walks to her mother with a rag doll in her arms and holds on to the hem of her motherâs skirt, looking at me.
I donât
Here I am. Iâm standing at the door, about to ring the doorbell.
When it all begins, the new slogans havenât been invented yet, but the pill has already made its first appearance. People are already asking whatâs really happening, but skirt lengths are still of a sober length and cows still low in their barns.
When it all begins, Iâm twenty-two years old. Iâm halfway through my studies in spite of late nights in restaurants and occasionally tough bouts of homesickness for Kuhmo, where my mother and father keep ten cows and six bulls, in a farmyard painted with red clay. Where I come from milk is drunk warm from the milking, poured into glasses straight from the pail. It leaves a thick coating in your mouth.
When it all begins, Iâm living between two worlds. I have Helsinki, glasses of wine bought with the last of my money, smiles that I toss across the room without thinking of the consequences, boys that I kiss in arched entryways, defying my motherâs horror. I have cheap shoes and share an apartment with Kerttu on Liisankatu.
And I have Kuhmo, the meadow and the lake and the path through the woods that remembers me. I have a longing for home, nights when I lay awake in bed with the ceiling light on and cry from missing it, dream of the meadow, of swimming across the lake at night, bread cheese, starched sheets, and being nine years old, spending dreamy days at my desk at school.
But in 1964 , the real one of the two is Helsinki. This is where I live, go to classes, walk down the street, meet people, most of them people Kerttu knows because she knows all the young people in this city, all of the ones that have ever had any opinions.
I have a tedious job at the hat counter in a department store and many different plans, not one of which has come true. Not that thereâs any hurry. In those years Iâm still walking around in a dream that can drain away with waiting if youâre not careful, those days when you feel that you have eternity before you.
All through the fall and winter Iâve listened to Vieno at the hat counter giving me orders, wanting to make a lady of me. Vieno uses words like waistline and bodice, discretion, chastity. I donât want a waistline or any of those other old words. I want to make up myself myself.
Thatâs why Iâm standing here at the door. Itâs May, the trees are still a thicket of bare limbs, although the weatherâs warmed already. Iâve just walked two blocks. There are beads of sweat on my neck from walking. Iâm nervous. The flier I saw in the university lobby was simple: Family seeks affectionate nanny who knows how to cook. Interested parties may contact us evenings.
I ring the bell at exactly six oâclock because I believe the advertisement is meant for me. I certainly am affectionate. I often feel affection so abundant that it seems to flow from the tips of my fingers like nectar. My cooking skills are respectable. I know how to make bread cheese and how to fold potato-berry tarts, and my meat stew is thick and flavorful. I donât need boardâI have a good arrangement with Kerttu on Liisankatu. We live in two rooms and a kitchen left to Kerttu by a great aunt.
I sleep in the second room, Kerttu stays in the living room, except for the weeks when her German boyfriendâor the other one, from Stockholmâis in town. Then itâs best that I sleep on the sofa.
But now Iâm standing at a door ringing the bell.
I realize later that my life, a completely new life, begins at this moment. Maybe the end of it is in sight, too, there at the door. But this is the beginning, and beginnings donât like to hear about endings.
Elsa opens the door. Then I see the little girl and the man. There he is, standing in the doorway. The girl comes from behind him, walks to her mother with a rag doll in her arms and holds on to the hem of her motherâs skirt, looking at me.
I donât
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