Free Fair Play by Tove Jansson

pine trees, fences. The landscape tipped over and came up straight again and hurried on. It was a mess.
    â€œThanks,” said Jonna. “I think that’s enough. I haven’t actually had this camera very long.”
    He smiled at her.
    â€œBut the Grand Canyon,” Mari said. “Can’t we see just a little bit, please?”
    And the Grand Canyon made its entrance in the majesty of a fiery dawn. Jonna had held the camera steady and taken time. It was beautiful.
    They walked back to the hotel and ran into Verity in the corridor. “Are they good?” she asked at once.
    â€œVery good,” Mari said.
    â€œAnd you’re sure you want to go to Tucson tomorrow?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œTucson is a horrible place, believe me. There’s nothing there to film.” Verity turned on her heel and continued down the corridor, calling back over her shoulder, “I’ll see you at Annie’s this evening!”
    Nothing had changed at Annie’s bar. The regulars were there and greeted them in a careless, friendly way. They each had a Banana Special on the house. The pool players were hard at it, and the jukebox was playing “A Horse with No Name.”
    â€œBusiness as usual,” said Mari and smiled at Verity. But Verity didn’t want to talk. The man with the plastic dogs was there. The green, the pink, and the yellow had their race across the bar.
    â€œTake them with you,” he said. “They’re great for making bets when things get slow.”
    On their way home, Verity said, “I forgot to ask Annie if John caught that sore throat. When does your bus leave?”
    â€œEight o’clock.”
    When they came to the Majestic, a fire truck screamed by through the empty streets. It was a windy night, but very warm.
    Verity said, “Shall we say goodbye right now and get it over with?”
    â€œLet’s do,” said Jonna.
    In the room, Jonna opened her tape recorder. “Listen to this,” she said. “I think it’ll be good.”
    The jukebox through a torrent of people talking, Annie’s bright voice, pool balls clicking, the jingle of the cash register—a pause, then their steps on the sidewalk; finally the fire engine and silence.
    â€œBut why are you crying?” Jonna said.
    â€œI don’t really know. Maybe the fire truck ...”
    Jonna said, “We’ll send a pretty postcard to Verity from Tucson. And one to Annie.”
    â€œThere aren’t any pretty cards of Tucson! It’s a dreadful place!”
    â€œWe could stay here for a while?”
    â€œNo,” Mari said. “You can’t repeat. It’s the wrong ending.”
    â€œOf course. Writers,” Jonna said and counted out the next day’s vitamins into two small glasses.

WLADYSLAW
    T HE SNOW had come early, a blizzard at the end of November. Mari went to the railway station to meet Wladyslaw Leniewicz. His journey from Lodz via Leningrad had been in process for months, with repeated applications, recommendations, and investigations passing slowly from one distrustful office to another. The letters to Mari grew more and more agitated:
    â€œI am brought to despair. Do they not understand, can they not grasp, these cretins, whom they are delaying? The man who has been called The Marionette Master! But, my dear unknown friend, we approach one another, we shall meet despite everything to speak freely of Art’s innermost essence. Do not forget my sign of recognition, a red carnation in my buttonhole! Au revoir!”
    The train arrived. There he was, one of the first to alight, long and thin in a huge black coat, no hat, his white hair fluttering in the wind. Even without the carnation, Mari would have known that this was Wladyslaw, such an utterly odd bird. But she was surprised at how old he was, really old. All Wladyslaw’s letters seemed written with youthful intensity, full of overblown adjectives. Plus his