Free Finnish Wood by Kojo Black

Finnish Wood
♦♦♦♦
by Kojo Black
    I met her in the Purple Bar of the Sanderson Hotel.
    As the dry, hot London summer blazed on, I’d rejoined a colleague for drinks in the early evening cool of the theatrical scarlet saloon. I was delighted to see my old friend and we laughed about old times as we paid cautious respect to the oversized martinis that are the trademark of the bar. My friend regaled me with tales of international entrepreneurship, and an unwittingly hilarious story about the failure of a palm oil plantation in Polynesia. Both the story and the business concluded with 42 Polynesian plant workers coasting out of the factory on a wave of palm oil. Through my laughter, my eye was drawn to a young woman as she entered the bar.
    A dusky little thing—all of about five foot—she’d already purchased a drink and had begun to look around nervously. She sipped quickly from her glass, all the while her eyes scanning the room. Her discomfort was evident and she looked as though she might, at any moment, bolt for the door. When suddenly her eyes fell upon my friend, her relief was palpable and the broadest smile unfurled across her face. She hurried to our table where she embraced my friend who then introduced her to me.
    I shall introduce her to you as Aisha. She was (and is) a young writer who had recently published a collection of short stories. I was elated to learn that we were both recently published writers and, effectively, label-mates. My friend had introduced her to my publisher whom, upon reading her first work, had snapped her up instantly. Aisha had come to share the good news with my friend, and to assure him that her new publisher was working as hard to promote her and her work, as he was to promote me and mine. I was immediately drawn to Aisha’s energy and intellect. Initially, she could err on the quiet side, but her comments were always thoughtful and reflective. As the heat of the day dissipated, the three of us retired to the courtyard while at the same time weaning ourselves off the nearly-neat vodka and onto champagne. We talked and laughed late into the evening before we finally parted company. With a smile, a kiss on the cheek, and a copy of her book, Aisha left me. And that, in all honesty, I thought would be the end of our association.
    Over the next couple of days, I read Aisha’s work. For the work of one some years my junior, the book was a rich tapestry of heartache, humour, sensuality and juxtaposition. I was riveted from one story to the next. I know how much I appreciate when someone tells me how much my work means to them. And I hoped that, as a new writer, Aisha would similarly appreciate my praise of her. I called her as soon as I finished the last page. Writing is a strange thing. She seemed at once bashful that I had perused her efforts so carefully, but at the same time she could not disguise her glee at my enjoyment of her work. She had not even expected me to take it home—much less to read it, nor further to enjoy it.
    The days passed quickly as a friendship blossomed. I delighted in Aisha’s love of storytelling and of the written word. Even now I smile to think of her burgeoning pride and assurance as she earns her place among the literati. As the success of her book gained momentum, she was invited to a book signing in Helsinki. I was surprised to learn that the book had such resonance in Finland because Aisha herself is half Finnish. The other half is Indonesian. An unusual mixture, I grant you, but a beautiful one. I’ve said she was small of stature, with a healthily athletic frame. She is most comfortable in casual attire—flat trainers and three-quarter length combat trousers that she allows to slouch off her hips. In the hot summer, I never saw her in anything other than little vest-tops, cut to expose just a few inches of her smooth belly, and the uppermost brown swell of her breasts which jounce playfully and