It Will Be a Tragic Failure

       Siv returned home at dusk. It was already like that in winter—round trips to the labs and back in the dark. She was always sad to miss tiny seasonal bits of daylight, but now it vexed her that she was the only one missing them. The only one in the family, that is not in the whole universe, but still. Really, why was it Torbjörn who quit his no-sweat job as soon as he had got yet another crazy idea of fast money? And she, the non-immune one, had to return to virus strains and infected samples every day because they still needed something to eat and feed children with, to pay rent, and so on. Her earnings barely covered their basic needs, but Torbjörn would just smile and tell her that the pinch was temporary and they’d be rich again very soon. He seemed to forget all the previous times he had said just the same. She did remember. Well, at least most of the front yard was cleared of snow. Siv wished it were through Torbjörn’s effort, but in all likelihood, her husband delegated the work to the Finn guy. Home greeted her with a choir of shrill “Mom’s back!”, a rattle of footsteps from upstairs, and a horde of three kids in a usual array. Håkan hanging on her right arm, Anna on the left, and Sune circling around. “Children, get off me, right now!” she articulated. She loved them dearly, but they were too heavy, and she was so bone-deep tired. “Go hang on to your dad!” She wriggled out of her coat and their grip. The coat went onto the rack, the little ones didn’t go anywhere. “Bla-ah!” Håkan pouted. “He’s at home all days long. We don’t miss him.” And tomorrow would be the same, and the day after tomorrow, and so on till Sunday, and Siv had already wasted her annual vacation on the trip to Reykjavik in summer and to Öresund in winter. Torbjörn didn’t show up to greet her. His voice, together with others’, was coming from the control room. Right, there was a communication session planned. Siv trudged to join the company while duly admiring Håkan’s drawing, Sune’s two ponytails, and Anne’s report on the mischiefs of her brothers, all at once. The session was in progress, and Hollola updated Siv on the news, which was as bleak as expected. The cure turned out to be a dummy, the team had made a detour low on food and with two non-immunes on board for nothing. Of course, Torbjörn was gushing with assertions that he didn’t expect the cure to be true and that books were absolutely great and sufficed to call the expedition a success. And also, he mentioned some surprise. Siv cringed in advance. The surprise would most probably mean another meaningless expense aimed at raising her mood. No, she loved his frolic once, when they both were young and naïve, and just dating, she, an aspiring academician, and he, a rich young man. He had been fun. But she had grown into an ever-tired mother and disillusioned ever-junior lab assistant, and he stayed basically the same, minus money to make life easier. And frolics weren’t awfully nutritious. Torbjörn adored their three children as much as making them, but that was of little help with cleaning, washing, and feeding three loud mouths. He’d make funny faces at the kids while Siv (or a nanny, while they still had money to pay one) would change their diapers. Not a big deal while he could hire a babysitter. Sometimes Siv felt like raising four children—only the big one wouldn’t rise anywhere. The impression deepened when he ran out of money—well, it was his younger brother who had managed their inherited assets, and Torbjörn had done nothing to the profit or loss and still didn’t do much; he had had minor paperwork at Västerstrom Inc., and he continued with minor paperwork in the state archive. Which he had quit, right, and still kept his merry disposition, but now, when they were selling family treasures and cutting costs, his habits, unchanged, turned from touching to wrong. A bunch of flowers for Valentine’s Day wasn’t a romantic gesture anymore; it was a waste when she was stitching her only stockings. The surprise turned out to be ale and smoked perch. Not much, but still more than they could afford. Siv’s dismay must have shown because Torbjörn hurried to tell her that the feast was sponsored by Taru Hollola. The Finnish ex-strategist, contrary to her claimed title, matched Torbjörn in groundless, dismissive optimism, but at least she had the decency to go shopping with her own money now and then, or two long-term guests would undermine the family budget. Three guests, to be more exact. The second Finn was taking a pot with potatoes off the stove. Siv was more than sure that he did the peeling and cooking as well. He had shown up at their doorsteps without much money or baggage. Was it some Finnish thing? (Team Finns Tuuri and Lalli had been just as light-handed.) Well, at least he was of help and didn’t feel like an overgrown kid. Even though Siv remembered from the profiles of potential explorers that Onni Hotakainen was just 27, he felt older than Torbjörn or even Hollola—and wiser, since he had refused the job in the expedition. And Torbjörn had thought at the first moment that Hotakainen had escaped from a mental ward! Really, the Finn was the only one sane of them all. He and Siv, of course. And both of them couldn’t do a thing to stop their crazed companions. Potatoes were okay, by the way, and not having to cook was even nicer. Nothing else was nice, but nevertheless, Torbjörn raised a glass to the success of the expedition. Typical of him, but why were the other “business partners” so wrongly optimistic? (Well, the Norwegian ex-general was rather inscrutable and seemed indifferent so much that Siv often wondered what he was making out of it. A mere escape from retirement boredom? Sitting days long in the control room didn’t look fun, either). The team was still alive, right, but the evacuation ship would retrieve them in more than two weeks. Anything could happen in the meantime, just as nothing went as planned before, especially if it was Torbjörn’s idea. His real deals tended to fail spectacularly. Siv had always been voicing her concerns, but he just wouldn’t hear her. And now that book-scavenging affair. She had done all the calculations to show him it was impossible, but he’d rather listen to foreigners. And somehow, through false pretence and against all odds, they had actually launched this cursed expedition! The heavier fear and responsibility weighed Siv down. Torbjörn stayed unaffected by the fact that lives were at stake. Lives of naïve idiots who also believed they stood a chance to return back in one piece. Siv stuffed the potato mash into her mouth and flushed it down with some ale. She didn’t have an appetite and ate just because it was time to eat and because kids needed a positive example of good table manners. Sune and Anna tried to start a food fight, and Siv called them to order. Ale left a tang that would have been pleasant on any other day, but now it was just that: bitter. Hotakainen was poking around his plate blankly and squinting towards the passage leading to the control room every now and then, tense and alert. But the radio kept silent. He was still at it as he washed the dishes, while Siv was making the kids swallow their fish liver oil after dinner. When she went downstairs to have some water after reading the children to sleep, she wasn’t surprised at all to see a hunched figure in the chair by the radio station in the dim light of indicators. He was always sitting there in his free time, as if glued to his only link to his relatives. By now, Siv could picture the expression on his face without seeing it. She had nothing to say to console him. It wouldn’t be true. The team was in danger. Besides, she felt ill at ease talking to a non-immune person her husband & Co had planned to send into danger—and whose sister they did send there. And not just without immunity, but without any specific skills as well. His profile stated that he was a mage. What sort of job was that? The youngest Hotakainen was at least a scout, in addition to that fairytale title, and would be most useful. But a mage? Why had Hollola tagged this man for their expedition? Just for reliability, common sense, and sheer force? (Indeed, Hotakainen looked sturdier and stronger than Torbjörn, even if shorter.) Like the Dane from their lists, but that Madsen guy didn’t seem awfully reliable, judging by his work record full of dismissals. And Hotakainen had stayed in the same job for over ten years since quite tender age, as his profile implied. If only she had been just as serious and wise when she was young and married Torbjörn. If only she knew that without understanding, love and support were blind and missed the aim. But wisdom often comes with age or trouble. She realised it after some age and trouble; probably, Hotakainen had had enough of trouble alone. She had no consolation, but she could give him understanding—something she missed from her husband. Siv got used to the dusk of the sleeping house and didn’t bother to light the table lamp as she walked in. The house was quiet at last; too quiet for switch clicks or normal voice. “I worry about them, too,” she said softly, barely above a whisper. “Our nephew is out there.” Technically, Emil was her husband’s nephew, but she liked him all the same, even if his uppish attitude and ignorance would often drive her to exasperation. Hotakainen turned to her. “He is immune,” he replied at last, with that heavy accent of his. Did he try to cheer her up? Well, unlike Torbjörn, he chose a perfectly true point. “Yes, but he is so... clumsy." Siv formulated it as discreetly as possible. It felt stupid, as if she were competing with the Finn in the graveness of their concern. “Emil can’t walk through a room without tripping on a chair or knocking anything off.” “Why you let him go?” Siv sighed. If only it were in her authority to let something happen or not. “I am not his mother. And he is an adult. Technically, at least. I can’t stop him. But I wish my husband didn’t tell him about the expedition.” “True,” he answered after a long pause, and seemed even more downcast. At least someone agreed with her. Siv had already forgotten what it felt like to meet that king of agreement. Bitter and satisfying. The radio station loomed in front of them like a dark future, fueling existential ache. “It is silent yet,” she whispered about the radio. Or the future; it didn’t matter. It was the closest she could get to a cheer, meaning the bad news wouldn’t come right now. On an impulse, Siv leant towards the Finn to hug his broad shoulders and hide her face in the crook of his neck. Was it to invigorate him or to hide from the inevitable future? She would cling to Torbjörn whenever she was overwhelmed by mishaps. But usually, Torbjörn was just as shocked and clung back to her, seeking protection in return rather than giving one. It should be different with this man. For a moment, Hotakainen froze. Then his hands rested on her shoulders, heavy and warm, she felt them even through her robe and pyjamas, just like the frame under her palms, wider, stronger, more solid—that's someone who would be a support. Why hadn’t she met someone like that much earlier? Hotakainen wore Torbjörn’s old pullover, the knit pattern under her fingers was familiar, and the scent was half-familiar, half-strange, and the lips against hers, uncouth, with just a hint of stubble instead of Torbjörn’s tickly beard and moustache… The voice was different, too. Maybe it was the same sweet little trifles Torbjörn used to whisper to her, but in Finnish, it didn’t sound flat; it was poignant, intimate, and rhythmical like a verse. “Hold me tight,” Siv breathed out, and he obliged. The chair was too squeaky, and Hotakainen rose off it in one smooth movement. In a glimpse, Siv was on the table near the radio, maybe—she didn’t care anymore—or whose hands pulled down her pajamas. She hadn’t felt so hot since youth, maybe never at all. Was that what that anti-scientific ‘soulmate’ thing felt like? Was that what she missed all her life, this fire under the skin? That was so unfair! Why couldn’t she steal a bit of what-not-meant-to-be? One time, please? And she had it full, the fever and thirst, skin and sweat, rustle and breath hitch, and perfect, mellow fulfilment. It was good and bitter, because oh so short. The air was cold in the room, and Siv reached to draw her robe back together. “You must go." Her soulmate’s words were hoarse and quiet. And so very true. So very bitter, like the ale aftertaste clinging since dinner. So very depressing. “Yes.” What else could she say? Thanks or Good night would be too wrong. And she went to the bathroom first, through the still and cold air, between the walls and doors familiar to the last chip and crack, and her fever was dying out with every step. Sobering, Siv wondered why she had thought of soulmates at all. Come to think of it, she couldn’t even remember if he had looked her in the eyes just once. Sure, he had been obliging, and also spared her the worry about absolutely undesired consequences. But wasn’t he always like that? Didn’t he do all the housework with the same meek air? Siv shivered. Did she mistake his suppleness for sympathy? Did he mistake her momentary fling for yet another task from the host? That would be the most probable, most suitable for the senseless world they shared. Utter embarrassment flushed over her, and she had to lean on bannisters on her way upstairs. Natural gravity, the weight of the mistake, and post-lovemaking weakness just wouldn’t let her reach her bedroom. Their bedroom—oh, Torbjörn! No matter how infantile and stupid, he was her husband. And now, after actually wronging him, Siv could not—had no right to—be angry with him. She made it to the bed somehow and sat gingerly on its edge, unable to lie down beside the man she had cheated on. Her hands and feet were getting cold already; it was for the best, now she’d feel equally miserable both inside and outside. Then Torbjörn stirred and mumbled something. She could not make out his face in the dark. His next words came almost clearly: “Come on, dear, you’ll be cold.” He reached out to tug on her robe. Siv turned away to wink tears back and stared into the closed door, swallowing hard the bitter guilt. “Don’t worry,” Torbjörn continued, now embracing her across her waist. “Everything will be okay. They will all be back alive and with treasures, and we will have such nice dinners every day. Worrying won’t help them, give yourself a break.” And he pulled her carefully down, stroked her head. It was so stupid and familiar, as if nothing had happened downstairs, as if that bubbly attitude still belonged to her. Nothing will be okay, she wanted to retort but didn’t trust her voice. He ranted on; he didn’t know anything, and for some time (did it really have to end?) that stupid go-happy-lucky support was the second nice thing she still had. Lulled, she drifted into dreamless sleep.       *** Siv woke up to a vigorous shake. Torbjörn was saying something about Onni in a loud whisper, and, still half asleep, she got scared for a second that her husband had found out that... No, he sounded puzzled and worried, as she realised after coming to her senses. Hollola and Anderson were already in the control room, standing and squatting around a listless body on the floor. For a second, Siv stumbled with relief that she didn’t have to look her mistake in the eyes. Anderson reported he had found Hotakainen like that, on the floor, in a singed circle. No, the guy was alive, just unconscious. That was a relief, too. Hollola claimed it was most probably a magic overuse, but that could not possibly be. To make things worse, Siv couldn’t wait till a doctor arrived; she had another work day and had to worry till evening, when Torbjörn passed over the medical opinion, which included a highly improbable lightning strike. Between improbable and impossible, Siv believed the first one. But she didn’t get time to relax, as Torbjörn told her about the news from the team. It was not good at all. This was the first casualty. Siv had seen too many infected specimens to believe that the driver girl could stay alive. The feeling of being right gnawed at her, and even more rancid was the relief that she didn’t have to tell it to Hotakainen or see what the news would do to him. If only he never woke up... She scolded herself internally for the inhumane thought, but she could not bring herself to wish for him to be back. And he didn’t, not on the next day, not in two days, not– Lucky. And Siv had to carry all the guilt and despair day after day.       *** And one day, the team didn’t answer a scheduled call. Siv wished it had been a work day so that she could just spend time among the routine, customary scientific failures without knowing or bearing that uncertainty. And leave someone else to face Hotakainen when he finally woke. Actually, Hollola did the telling, but Siv had to stand by—it would be too suspicious to evade the guy forever. He did not react, though, as if he were still not quite himself, not quite understanding. As if he got drowned in a mire where the sound didn’t reach. Siv felt drowning in the same mire of despair over all their—all her mistakes. It didn’t help that Torbjörn kept unusually quiet. No “it will sort itself out somehow," no “everything will be fine," or other usual stuff. Surprised by it, she looked at her husband closer after the dinner. He seemed to understand the gravity of the matters at last, and stared into the table surface as if it listed all their failures. She should have been satisfied, if not content. But she wasn’t. Not when he felt as rotten as she did. That just added to her morose state. Did she hurt him with her gloom, too? Well. She could not undo the expedition or her stupid fling, but maybe her husband’s mood was not beyond repair. Maybe the same recipe he had used with her in vain would work for him? “Hey,” Siv said at last with effort. The words she wanted to use were alien to her. How do people say something they do not know for sure? “They’ll be there when the boat arrives, you’ll see.” At least some of them, she swallowed the ending. Torbjörn stared at her uncomprehending, almost like the Finn in the control room, but then he made a small smile, filling Siv with equally small warmth and lightness, even though he didn’t answer anything. A reply came from Hollola looming in the kitchen door. A rather surprised one. “How come you’re suddenly the encouraging party here?” Siv breathed out carefully while seeking an answer. It flickered somewhere very close and was very simple but escaped exact words, in Icelandic at least. Siv could read scientific literature in it, but explaining such intricate matters was a totally different thing. “Oh, you see. We can’t both be downcast at the same time, life wouldn’t work well under such circumstances.” Something like that. And only next morning, when Anderson left his post by the Finn’s side to join others at the breakfast, Siv brought porridge and tea to Hotakainen and used the moment to touch his hand light and brief and say under voice, “The thing before... Don’t bring it up. I’m sorry, it was a mistake.” Hotakainen stared at—through—her, quiet and empty. “Yes.” It was barely a whisper, rather to be guessed than heard. “A mistake. All of it.”