Follow the Butterfly, page 7
‘When I fired you, you were at rock bottom. There aren’t many people who would have dared to rehire someone they’d just dismissed for alcoholism—even as a freelancer. And I didn’t do it out of pity. I’ve always known that if I just gave you another chance, one day you would reward me for it.’
What Irmeli said about pity was a lie. Pity was the only reason she had offered me the associate contract right after firing me from my old job.
And why did she pity me? For one very simple reason: I was the widower of her best friend. Marja.
Irmeli hadn’t finished yet.
‘You can drink all the whisky in the world, but you won’t find Marja at the bottom of the glass.’
As if I didn’t know that already. It didn’t stop me trying.
‘Right, this is what we’re going to do. I want you to meet Clarissa again. And this time you’re going to get a personal story out of her, even if you have to wring her neck to get it.’
Her tone was harsher now.
‘Your drinking stops now. Do you hear? Now!’
Could it be any clearer? The interview with Clarissa Virtanen was my last chance.
Irmeli chivvied me out of her office like a headmistress dismissing a grubby little urchin after giving him a good dressing down. All I could think of was the worn-out old cliché every cloud has a silver lining. Clarissa had edified our readers with this particular platitude too.
But how would I get her to agree to another meeting after the fiasco last time?
Interviewing the therapist had brought my old traumas to the surface.
I forgot all about Irmeli and Clarissa and thought instead about her—who else?
I’m sure she didn’t spare me a second thought these days. She probably imagined I didn’t think about her either—and she was relieved.
But she was wrong.
She hadn’t got rid of me.
And she never would.
Ida
I was sitting on the bus on the way to our third session. I wondered what my therapist would say about the drawing I’d stashed in her couch last time.
There was a rare, genuine sensitivity about my therapist. I was sure my drawing would have touched her profoundly. You remember The Scream by Edvard Munch, right? Well, multiply the horror on that face by a hundred, a thousand.
Who knows, my sketch might even be used in court to confirm that I couldn’t be held criminally responsible.
Impatiently, I sat down on the couch in my therapist’s office. Now we were getting somewhere! But no! She started churning out platitudes again. I squirmed uncomfortably on the couch, chewed my cuticles and waited, wondering when she would finally steer the conversation towards my drawing.
I could feel myself getting angry as our session was coming to an end and I realized she had no intention of talking about my artistic creation. Was this some kind of sick power game?
I knew how to play that game too! I was convinced that even though my therapist hadn’t taken the bait this time, there was no way she’d be able to resist commenting on the drawings showing the cage and the Bastard. I was offering her secrets from the deepest recesses of my psyche on a silver platter!
What did she do with these drawings?
I don’t know, but sometimes I imagine her looking at them and thinking of me.
Nothing too flattering, but she’s still thinking about me.
Clarissa
It was hard to sit opposite Ida as if nothing had happened, as if the sketches she had drawn didn’t exist or as if I had never laid eyes on them.
We never mentioned the sketches, not once. Yet Ida kept bringing them to every session. Maybe she thought if she wore me out, I would yield to her will.
Do give me a chance to defend myself! It was nothing but an accident—at first, that is—that I didn’t bring up the subject of the sketches.
After recovering from the initial shock, originally I decided that at our third session we would talk about the sketch and nothing else. We would analyse it together and try to work out what it revealed about her.
Because Ida had such a unique character, I thought I might be able to incorporate a few more creative methods in her treatment. I don’t have any qualifications in art therapy, but I thought it might be a good idea to use the drawings to our benefit. If I could just use the drawings to connect with her, that connection would hopefully strengthen so much that later on I would be able to use methods with which I was more familiar, such as dream analysis.
I’d even come up with a list of questions that we could think about together. Did the drawing represent an event from Ida’s childhood or did it depict something from her present life? What was she thinking about when she drew those things? Did it remind her of a particular event? If it could talk, what would the drawing say? What did she see in the drawing herself? Was her mother trying to oppress her? Had she sketched an image of her own death?
When it came to the crunch, however, I found I couldn’t follow through with my plan. How can I explain this? Everything feels so illogical.
The truth is, I pitied her.
The drawing was so violent, so grotesque, that it felt almost cruel to bring it up. I wanted her to have at least one place in the world where she felt safe, perhaps for the first time in her life. Don’t we all deserve a place like that?
I wanted to shut all the evil in that drawing outside my office. Now, don’t laugh, but I thought of my office as a womb. It was as though, if I could just keep all that evil on the other side of the door, I could control it.
As you know, Ida brought evil into my office by herself.
According to my favourite philosopher Ludwig Wittgenstein, whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent. I came to realize that that whereof I could not speak was constantly on my mind. One way or another, everything we said referred back to the subject whereof we were supposed to remain silent.
All of our conversations were charged with meanings that were reflected in our silence. This brought a certain energy to our exchanges; nobody but us could understand the true meanings behind our words.
All those references, the symbols and footnotes… Did I really know what they meant after all? Perhaps Ida had planned this too.
What if she was using those drawings to manipulate me? My attention was drawn to them so forcefully that I didn’t see what I should have been concentrating on instead.
Were the drawings yet another way of distracting me? Would everything have become clear if I hadn’t been so spellbound by them? Was Ida trying to drown me in a world of murky symbolism because she thought I enjoyed analysing it?
I was trying to solve the riddle of the drawings, while all the while the truth was somewhere else altogether.
Ida
After our third session, I was consumed by a murderous rage. I was infuriated that she hadn’t afforded a thought to my drawings.
Once the session ended, I hopped onto the bus and cursed under my breath. A man who got on after me almost came and sat next to me, but when he heard me swearing, he gave me an understanding nod and continued to the back of the bus.
I’d already decided what trinket I wanted to steal from my therapist as a souvenir if I ended up having to kill her. She wore a thin silver chain round her neck with her name in gold lettering. The dot above the ‘I’ was decorated with a small diamond. I imagined how the stone would sparkle in the light from my lamp as I lay in bed reminiscing about our moments together.
My emotions were swirling so much that I didn’t even notice I’d got off the bus and started wandering into the Kamppi shopping mall. I normally gave the place a wide berth. As soon as I realized where I was, I started feeling even worse.
I hated shopping malls. I was repulsed at the thought that every single person walking past me was experiencing some kind of emotion at that moment. All that rage, love, uncertainty, fear, happiness, envy, anxiety, crammed into one place! And I was supposed to wade through all those emotions like an ant caught in a jam jar—as if I didn’t have enough emotions of my own.
The worst of it was that you couldn’t tell what they were feeling just by looking at them, and I had no way of interpreting their emotions. A teenage girl’s disinterested scowl might convey passion as much as contempt.
The churning of people’s brains seemed to echo along the corridors even louder than the inane ambient background music. Though nobody was saying anything, it still felt as though my head was about to explode. All those plans, those hopes and dreams, the selfish notion that I, of all people, had some special meaning, that my life had a greater significance, that the whole world revolved around me.
The immaterial thoughts of the people marching through the shopping mall pierced my skull, pressed into my brain and yelled in chorus. Hundreds, thousands of emotions forced their way through my skin, each trying to stand out from the cacophony.
The emotions of these strange passers-by shoved my own emotions to one side and flickered in my subconscious as though they were my own. My persona wasn’t strong enough to withstand an attack like this. It felt as though my sense of self was evaporating into thin air.
I darted into a panicked run. Luckily, there was no queue at the women’s toilets. I yanked my trousers and pants down to my ankles and sat on the toilet for a pee, all the while trying to calm myself down by taking deep breaths, though I knew it was no use.
I stood up, tugged up my pants and trousers, and noticed that the toilet bowl looked as though someone had just slaughtered a small animal in there. I flushed, but the water started flooding over the bowl. The toilet floor would soon be swimming in my menstrual blood. I slammed the lid shut and dashed outside.
A queue had formed outside the toilet. People gave me a curious look as I came staggering out of the cubicle, bashing into the person at the front of the queue as I went.
I didn’t even stop to wash my hands but rushed out into the corridor and quickened my steps further still as I turned the corner and headed towards the escalators.
I knew I had to get out of the building immediately. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know who I was any more.
A little girl walked towards me, a picture of a pink butterfly on her T-shirt. All of a sudden, the butterfly emerged from the T-shirt and flew off. It fluttered in front of my face, as if waiting to make sure I’d seen it. After this, it headed towards the front doors of the shopping mall, as though it were leading me to salvation.
I tried to dodge the people walking towards me without knocking into anyone, but it was impossible because there was such a cram of shoppers. I almost fell over on the escalators but managed to grab the handrail at the last minute.
People stared at me. Their quizzical expressions only increased my panic levels. I could feel sweat gluing my hair to my temples and running down my back.
As I was running, I accidentally bit my tongue. The rusty taste of blood triggered my delusions again. I could see the bars of the cage. They appeared in front of me, blocking my way. I had to walk around them. The people walking towards me looked at me in confusion as I swerved to the left, though they couldn’t see any obstacles in front of me.
It felt as though my mouth was full of rust flaking from the bars instead of my own blood. I couldn’t control myself; I had to spit on the floor as I ran. Two unusually keen security guards saw me and started heading in my direction. Thankfully, I could see the mall’s front doors looming up ahead. The guards realized I was heading outside and let me go on my way.
Once outside, I continued running another few steps, and only then dared to stop. It took a moment to steady my breathing. I carefully shook off all the thoughts and emotions that had invaded my head and left them on the pavement outside the mall.
I finally managed to regain my grip on reality. The blood dripping from my tongue tasted like blood again instead of rust.
HELSINKI TODAY
MINISTER REPORTED MISSING IN KERAVA LAST MONTH FOUND DEAD
Former chancellor of the exchequer Uolevi Mäkisarja, reported missing in the Kilta area of Kerava a month ago, has been found dead. Mäkisarja’s body was found in a pond located on the premises of the old rubber factory at Savio.
Mäkisarja’s body was discovered by a dog walker who wishes to remain anonymous.
‘I just can’t believe it. I voted for him several times. I’m so shocked that I doubt I’ll ever be able to walk my dog by the pond again,’ said the woman who discovered the body.
Police remain tight-lipped about the details of the investigation but have given a short statement.
‘Mäkisarja’s death is being investigated as a homicide,’ said Inspector Jaana Taivaskivi of the violent-crimes unit of the Eastern Uusimaa Constabulary.
Arto
I left the paper’s head office and returned home, deflated. On the way, I desperately tried to think of different pretences I could use to justify to Clarissa why we had to meet again.
Eventually, though, I plumped for honesty. As a psychotherapist, Clarissa would see right through any attempt to pull the wool over her eyes. I took a deep breath and picked up my mobile.
‘Hi, Arto! Thanks again for such a lovely evening!’
What? What lovely evening? Did she think it was ‘lovely’ watching me make a total fool out of myself?
‘No, thank you! Listen, the paper’s editor in chief thinks the interview is still missing that little something. Do you think we could meet up again so I can ask a few follow-up questions?’
Please, please, please, I found myself thinking, the way I did as a child when I wanted something really badly.
It seemed to work, as Clarissa agreed to my request.
‘By all means! We had such a nice time! Am I right in saying the interview won’t be published until the summer?’
She didn’t wait for me to respond but continued right away.
‘I’m rather busy in the near future. I’ll call you when I have time in my diary for another meeting.’
A little bewildered, I agreed. Mission accomplished. Well, half, at least. I’d convinced Clarissa to agree to another interview, but the most difficult part of the task still lay ahead: how could I make her spill all her darkest secrets? Did she even have any to spill? Just because my closet was full of skeletons didn’t mean everybody else’s was too.
Clarissa’s curious behaviour irritated me. I imagined her laughing behind my back, as if she found my alcohol problem somehow amusing. As a therapist, how did she have the nerve to behave so rudely towards me?
There was only one way to calm my mind—a way that was both forbidden and unlawful. I pulled on my coat, wrapped a scarf around my neck, took my bag and umbrella from the stand and left the apartment.
I’d managed to force myself not to visit her for weeks now. Four weeks to the day, to be precise.
My mood was like that of an alcoholic celebrating three weeks of sobriety by coming crashing off the wagon. I imagined her standing by the window of her studio flat, blissfully unaware of everything, just like always before, those mournful eyes staring out through the windowpane.
During the daytime she looked out at the children playing in the yard, and in the evenings she watched the dog walkers and their mutts. She kept her curtains open at night too, and even then she stood at her window. Was she gazing up at the stars?
But she never noticed me, never. I was able to watch her in peace. I didn’t dare hope for more.
I walked to the bus stop as slowly as I could, as if trying to give myself a little extra time to come to my senses, though I knew I’d never be able to convince myself to change my mind. Every step took me a little closer to her. She pulled me in like an unopened bottle of Scotch.
Even as I stood at the bus stop and waved to the driver to make him pull over, I tried to force myself to turn around and head home. But it was futile. I stepped on board the bus, chose a seat near the window and sat down.
The bus driver made an announcement that he would have to take a diversion because the city marathon route cut across the start of Mannerheimintie.
I looked through the window at the darkness outside. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen daylight. A crowd of undernourished-looking waifs ran joylessly past the bus. One of the runners was sucking water from a sports bottle, though his body was so emaciated that an intravenous drip might have been more appropriate.
During the Middle Ages, these people’s masochism would have made them climb to the top of a tall column to proselytize and flagellate themselves with thorns.
I was glad when the bus finally reached the right stop, as I had no desire to watch the marathon runners a second longer than necessary.
Right next to her building, like a godsend, there was a park. I sat down at my regular spot, a bench that allowed me to glance up to her apartment.
And I wasn’t disappointed. There she was, standing at the window, stock-still, in the same position as always. In her right hand she was holding a mug, and every now and then she took a tiny sip from it, like a sparrow dipping its beak into a puddle. She was watching the children running around the park, and I was watching her.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this, but it was.
It started sleeting, but I tried not to let it bother me. I’d sat here in worse weather than this; once I even sat through a hailstorm. The hailstones struck me in the face as though someone was throwing little stones at me, and as they melted, the water trickled down inside my jacket collar. But all I wanted was to see her, that was enough, and then I could convince myself that nothing else mattered, neither the hailstones nor the fact that I’d never be able to touch her ever again.
The wooden bench was uncomfortable; I could feel it pressing painfully into the small of my back.
I propped my black umbrella against the bench to protect me, then took that morning’s edition of Helsinki Today out of my bag and pretended to read it, though in truth I was following her every move.
