Aleksi Koponen
come back in a couple of months,’ I said.
‘I’ll
‘Of course you will, where else would you go?’ he replied.
The composer and I were sitting on a bench in the cemetery
that was now a park. We were talking about his tenant and her
new boyfriend, to avoid other topics. ‘Do you think they’ll stay
together?’ I asked him.
‘I’m sure. They both want the same things. They’ll get
married within a year and have children right away. Reasonable,
for them.’
His tenant was an actress, and her golden curls as well as a
deep, otherworldy voice had secured her all the jobs she wanted,
before the recession. Her boyfriend had been a soldier before
a shooting accident, and his voice smeared all the vowels into
the same one. His story about Prince William had agitated the
composer to tell him all royalty should be hanged. His behaviour
got worse and forced us to leave the dinner table and the flat for
the evening.
It had gone tawny and a bird was singing in the poplar above
us. Lady’s bedstraws were hugging the gravestones that leaned on
the walls.
‘We should get some more wine for later, as it’s your last
night,’ he said. ‘Two bottles or three.’
I’d demanded sobriety for at least a week, but we managed
two days. On the other hand, the work trip would last months,
quite possibly longer.
‘Give over,’ he said. His warmest smile was saved for wine.
‘We’ll get glasses as well. It’ll be cheerful.’
‘Ok then, if you must,’ I said. ‘We can’t go back yet.’ I