know what to think of her, other than that sheâs new, fresh. This is the moment that will always continue, later on, when everything else is over.
Me at the door, Elsa greeting me with a smile on her lipsâbecause I havenât yet done anything to wipe the smile awayâand the little girl beside her.
The only thing I notice about the man in that first moment is something comfortable in his eyes, a beauty which doesnât make a big impression at first.
We sit on the sofa. Thereâs something horselike about the man, maybe itâs his legs, maybe his hair. Thereâs also something familiar about him which I canât put my finger on, something that keeps drawing my gaze back to him, his arms, his slightly wandering eye.
Elsa smiles, and I think sheâs pretty. The man shakes my hand, introduces himself.
âAnd this is Ella,â Elsa says, putting the girl on her lap. The doll falls to the floor, the girl reaches her hand toward me, and I have no idea that reach will extend through all the years to come, reaching toward me, no matter where I go.
âHello, Ella,â I say.
Elsa tells me about their previous nanny, Hilma, who had to quit due to illness.
âThatâs too bad.â
The man laughs.
âHilma was a little too strict with Ella.â
Elsa is a gracious personâshe doesnât want to talk ill of anyone. She lays her hand on his thigh. They have that kind of affection between them. She lays her hand patiently on his thigh when he speaks too hastily.
He gets worked up easilyâI learn that later. I learn to love the quick temper that in boyhood got him into man-sized trouble on the soccer fields and stone courtyards of his neighborhood. Elsa loves it, too. She loves it in exactly the same way that I do.
âNow,â she says placatingly, her hand still resting on the manâs thigh. âMy husband,â she says to me, âhad certain differences of opinion with Hilma. Hilma was old-fashioned. I can tell you that our child-rearing methods are more liberal.â
âWhat does that mean?â I ask curiously.
Iâm accustomed to learning my lessons at the end of a switch. My father, who only survived the war by virtue of a Bible he kept in his breast pocket, thrashed my back with a birch switch whenever I forgot to say please or thank you. Heâs dear to me, but strict.
The man looks at his wife tenderly. âElsa has principles. Itâs part of her job, you might say.â
âWe want our servants to be like members of the family.â
I tell them about my mother and about the family I lived with my first year as a student, taking care of their children. I tell them about my job at the department store hat counter. I donât mention Vieno or that Iâm applying for this job to get away from her. I tell them about Kerttu.
I donât tell them about our nights, our parties that sometimes last until morning. I donât tell them about the evenings when we have people over to visit. Evenings when we open up bottles of cheap Hungarian beer and Bordeaux Blanc, which we call Porvoo Plank. We talk about everything, make plans, though weâre not sure about what. We read poetry. Often someone plays the guitar, and sometimes somebody will interrupt the song by opening all the bay windows and yelling something into the street, but a girl in the kitchen doesnât mind the noise, she only hears the music and lets down her hair and dances in front of the old wood stove until hairpins fall on the floor like dazed grasshoppers.
I donât mention any of that, so the man and the woman wonât think Iâm frivolous.
They wouldnât have minded. They, too, open wine bottles, and gather in the living room to talk. But I donât know anything about that yet.
âAt home in Kuhmo I took care of the neighborsâ twins when I was only fifteen and everyone was out haying. And I made meat stew for the whole
Me at the door, Elsa greeting me with a smile on her lipsâbecause I havenât yet done anything to wipe the smile awayâand the little girl beside her.
The only thing I notice about the man in that first moment is something comfortable in his eyes, a beauty which doesnât make a big impression at first.
We sit on the sofa. Thereâs something horselike about the man, maybe itâs his legs, maybe his hair. Thereâs also something familiar about him which I canât put my finger on, something that keeps drawing my gaze back to him, his arms, his slightly wandering eye.
Elsa smiles, and I think sheâs pretty. The man shakes my hand, introduces himself.
âAnd this is Ella,â Elsa says, putting the girl on her lap. The doll falls to the floor, the girl reaches her hand toward me, and I have no idea that reach will extend through all the years to come, reaching toward me, no matter where I go.
âHello, Ella,â I say.
Elsa tells me about their previous nanny, Hilma, who had to quit due to illness.
âThatâs too bad.â
The man laughs.
âHilma was a little too strict with Ella.â
Elsa is a gracious personâshe doesnât want to talk ill of anyone. She lays her hand on his thigh. They have that kind of affection between them. She lays her hand patiently on his thigh when he speaks too hastily.
He gets worked up easilyâI learn that later. I learn to love the quick temper that in boyhood got him into man-sized trouble on the soccer fields and stone courtyards of his neighborhood. Elsa loves it, too. She loves it in exactly the same way that I do.
âNow,â she says placatingly, her hand still resting on the manâs thigh. âMy husband,â she says to me, âhad certain differences of opinion with Hilma. Hilma was old-fashioned. I can tell you that our child-rearing methods are more liberal.â
âWhat does that mean?â I ask curiously.
Iâm accustomed to learning my lessons at the end of a switch. My father, who only survived the war by virtue of a Bible he kept in his breast pocket, thrashed my back with a birch switch whenever I forgot to say please or thank you. Heâs dear to me, but strict.
The man looks at his wife tenderly. âElsa has principles. Itâs part of her job, you might say.â
âWe want our servants to be like members of the family.â
I tell them about my mother and about the family I lived with my first year as a student, taking care of their children. I tell them about my job at the department store hat counter. I donât mention Vieno or that Iâm applying for this job to get away from her. I tell them about Kerttu.
I donât tell them about our nights, our parties that sometimes last until morning. I donât tell them about the evenings when we have people over to visit. Evenings when we open up bottles of cheap Hungarian beer and Bordeaux Blanc, which we call Porvoo Plank. We talk about everything, make plans, though weâre not sure about what. We read poetry. Often someone plays the guitar, and sometimes somebody will interrupt the song by opening all the bay windows and yelling something into the street, but a girl in the kitchen doesnât mind the noise, she only hears the music and lets down her hair and dances in front of the old wood stove until hairpins fall on the floor like dazed grasshoppers.
I donât mention any of that, so the man and the woman wonât think Iâm frivolous.
They wouldnât have minded. They, too, open wine bottles, and gather in the living room to talk. But I donât know anything about that yet.
âAt home in Kuhmo I took care of the neighborsâ twins when I was only fifteen and everyone was out haying. And I made meat stew for the whole
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