Free Fair Play by Tove Jansson Page A

disconcerting penchant for hurt feelings at something she had written or failed to write. He sometimes spoke of her “tone of voice.” Mari’s tone of voice had been wrong—and she did not give their shared work her undivided attention. Every misunderstanding must be elucidated, analyzed in detail, all their intercourse must be clear and pure as crystal! Oh those letters on the hall floor, her name and address in great, bold letters across the entire envelope ...
    â€œWladyslaw!” she called. “You are here, you are finally here!”
    He crossed the platform with long, elastic strides, carefully put down his valise, and fell on his knees before her in the snow. A very old face, deeply furrowed, with a large protruding nose. And, astonishingly, enormous dark eyes that seemed to have lost nothing of their youthful luster.
    â€œWladyslaw, my dear friend,” said Mari. “I beg you. Stand up.”
    He opened a bag and strewed an armful of red carnations at her feet. The wind swept them across the platform and Mari bent down to gather them up.
    â€œNo,” said Wladyslaw, “let them be. They shall lie here, a tribute to the Finnish legend, proof that Wladyslaw Leniewicz passed this way.” He rose, picked up his valise, and offered her his arm.
    â€œExcuse me,” said an arriving passenger, a friendly woman in a fox hat. “Excuse me, but surely you’re not going to leave all those lovely flowers in the snow?”
    â€œI don’t really know,” Mari answered, terribly embarrassed. “It’s nice of you to ask ... But I think we have to go ...”
    Mari unlocked her door. “Welcome,” she said.
    Wladyslaw set down his valise, again very carefully. He seemed totally uninterested in the room he had just entered, hardly glancing around. He did not want to take off his long black coat. “One moment—I must call my embassy.”
    It was not a long call, but it was very intense. Mari heard his disappointment and—before he hung up—an expression of lofty contempt.
    â€œMy dear friend,” Wladyslaw said, “you may take my coat. It will be the case that I remain here, with you.”
    In the afternoon, Mari ran across the attic to Jonna. “Jonna, he’s arrived, and he’s eaten nothing on the whole trip, and now he doesn’t want to eat because he’s too upset. But he said maybe ice cream ...”
    â€œCalm down,” Jonna said. “Where is he staying?”
    â€œWith me. A hotel won’t do, he’s way too proud. And he’s at least ninety years old and says he prefers to discuss art at night! He only sleeps a couple of hours!”
    â€œI’m not surprised,” Jonna said. “Better and better. Do you like him?”
    â€œVery much,” Mari said.
    â€œGood. I’m going out for food in any case, so I’ll get some ice cream and bring it over. And a couple of steaks. He’ll probably want something to eat by this evening.”
    â€œBut don’t ring the bell—not yet. Just put it down outside the door. And I’m out of potatoes.”
    Wladyslaw and Mari ate ice cream and drank tea.
    â€œTell me about your trip.”
    â€œDreadful,” he burst out. “Faces, faces—and their hands! Expressionless, meaningless, raw material I no longer need because I know. I know how to shape a changing countenance to its uttermost expressiveness. I can use simplicity and nuance to make a marionette almost unbearable! You, my precious friend, have drawn certain figures. I beg your forgiveness—but those figures are mute. They do not speak to me. Their hands do not speak to me. But I have given them life, I have taken them over and given them life!”
    â€œWell, well,” Mari said. “But then they’re not mine anymore.”
    Wladyslaw was not listening. “Theater, puppet theater, what do you think it is? Life. Violent life simplified down