“It’s a Finnish habit, particularly of middle-aged rednecks like me. Why?”
“I don’t agree with the use of alcohol in general.”
What I drink isn’t her business. I shrug and smile. “Mary, you may have come to the wrong country.”
Her half smile at my half joke is only a politeness.
I make two trips to the bar and bring our drinks. I ask how their trip went. We chat about Kate’s pregnancy. We make the small talk of strangers.
Mary sips Jaffa. “This is good. And Kate, you look ravishing. Motherhood agrees with you.”
“The baby is kicking now,” Kate says.
“Can I feel it?”
Kate nods. Mary lays a hand on her belly. Mary smiles, and tears come to her eyes. “I adore children,” she says. “You and Kari are truly blessed.”
I’m sipping my kossu, but John knocks his back in one gulp. He’s also chugging his beer. “This place is a tad on the drab side,” he says.
It’s not extravagant by any means, but simple and pleasant, furnished with dark wood. The beer taps and bar fixtures are polished brass. “Why do you say that?” I ask.
“There isn’t even any music.”
“The customers here prefer it that way,” I say. “We can hold conversations without shouting.”
He knocks off the rest of his pint of beer. “Whatever. The vodka is good. Let’s have another round.”
Kate and I exchange a fleeting look. “I’ll get it,” I say.
“I’ll go with you,” Kate says. “I haven’t said hi to Mike yet.”
I offer Kate my hand to help her up, and we go to the bar together. She’s graceful, having learned to move in a way that makes her limp almost invisible, but pregnancy has changed her balance, and she lurches a bit when she walks.
The bartender, Mike Davis, has a Finnish mother and a British father. He grew up in the U.K., but has lived here since his late teens. He’s a big, outgoing guy in his mid-twenties. He’s heavily tattooed, is taller than me and runs a little better than two hundred pounds. Despite his good nature, he doesn’t look like the kind of guy you want to fuck with. “Hi, guys,” he says. “How are things?”
“Pretty good,” I say. “Long day at the office.”
An older man has had too much to drink. Mike shuts him off. The man yells, “Mina olen asiakas, mina olen asiakas” -“I’m a customer, I’m a customer”-the standard bitch of drunks when refused service. Mike pretends he’s not there, the standard Finnishbartender method of dealing with such situations.
“Yeah,” Mike says, “I’m having a long day at the office, too. And you, Kate?” Mike asks. “You feeling well?”
“Things are great, couldn’t be better,” she says. “My brother and sister just arrived from the States. That’s them sitting at the table with us.”
“I’ll make sure to take good care of them,” he says.
Mike gets John’s beer and kossu. The drunk leans on the bar and sulks.
Kate and I sit back down. The bar is about half full, the murmur of conversation low. The drunk screams, “Vittu saatana perkele jumalauta!” The anthem of angry Finns announcing aggressive intentions. Kate’s eyes open wide. She’s been in Finland long enough to understand the gravity of the situation. Conversation ceases. Everyone stares. Mike puts his hands on the bar, raises up to his full height but keeps his face expressionless.
“What did he yell?” John asks.
“It’s untranslatable,” I say, “but something like ‘Cunt devil devil goddamn.’”
John laughs. Mary winces.
The drunk yells some more. Mike’s answer is calm. Around the bar, jaws drop. The drunk realizes he’s gone too far, turns and walks out the door without another word.