Free Travelling Light by Tove Jansson Page B

who needed a break but didn’t dare go by herself… but that was only as far as Mariehamn; we went to the Maritime Museum there, I remember. You see, when I went through all my life’s journeys in my thoughts, any fear I possibly could have had that the way I’d decided to do things might not be right disappeared. I turned to the bartender, said, “Another, please,” and looked round the bar, very much at ease. People had started coming in; happy well-fed people who ordered coffee and drinks to their tables and crowded round me at the bar.
    Normally I very much dislike crowds and do everything I can to avoid being involved with them, even in buses and trams, but that evening it felt pleasant and sociable to be one among many, almost secure. An elderly gentleman with a cigar intimated with a discreet gesture that he needed my ashtray. “Of course, don’t mention it,” I responded and was on the point of begging his pardon but remembered in time: I’d finished with all that kind of thing. In an entirely matter-of-fact way, if with a certain nonchalance, I moved the ashtray to his side and calmly studied myself in the mirror behind the bottles in the bar.
    There’s something special about a bar, don’t you think? A place for chance happenings, for possibilities to become reality, a refuge on the awkward route from should to must. But, I must confess, not the sort of place I’ve much frequented. Now, as I sat and looked in the mirror, my face suddenly seemed rather agreeable.
    I suppose I had never allowed myself time to look closely at the appearance time has given me. A thin face with somewhat surprised but frankly beautiful eyes, hair admittedly grey but luxuriant in an almost artistic manner, with a lock hanging down over my brow giving me an expression of – what shall we say – anxious watchfulness? Watchful concern? No. Just watchfulness. I emptied my glass and suddenly felt an urgent need to communicate, but held it in check. At all events, despite everything, wasn’t this precisely an occasion when, at last, I would not be forced to listen but could be allowed to talk myself, freely and recklessly? Among men, in a bar? For example, entirely in passing of course, I might let slip information about my decisive contribution at the Post Office. But no. Absolutely not. Be secretive – don’t make confidences; at most, drop hints…
    Sitting on my left was a young man who seemed extremely restless. He kept moving his position, turning this way and that on his stool and seemingly trying to keep an eye on everything that was happening in the room. I turned to the neighbour on my other side and said, “Very crowded this evening. Looks like we’re in for a calm crossing.” He stubbed his cigar in the ashtray and remarked that the boat was full and that our wind speed was eight metres per second, though they’d forecast it would get stronger during the night. I liked his calm matter-of-fact manner and asked myself whether he was retired and why he should be on his way to London. Let me tell you, my interest surprised myself; nothing has become so completely foreign, almost hateful to me, to be avoided at all costs, as curiosity and sympathy, any disposition to encourage in the slightest degree the surrounding world’s irresistible need to start talking about its troubles. This is something I really do know about; during a long life I’ve heard most things and I’ve brought this entirely on myself. But, as I’ve said, I was sitting in a bar on the way to my new freedom – and I was being a bit careless.
    He said: “You’re going to London? On business?”
    “No. Sea travel amuses me.”
    He nodded in appreciation. I could see his face in the mirror, a rather heavy face somewhat the worse for wear with a drooping moustache and tired eyes. He seemed elegant, expensively dressed, continental, if you know what I mean.
    “When I was young,” he said, “I worked out that it should be possible to travel by