A couple of nights a week, Juttutupa offers live jazz. I like good jazz, and Kate has picked up my appreciation of it, so we sometimes come here together. I reflect that I’ve offered John an ultimate introduction to classic Helsinki culture this evening, even if only for my own benefit.
A waitress comes to our table. I ask her to speak English, for John’s sake. She asks what we want to drink. I order kossu and beer. John looks sad, like a little kid, asks if he can have a beer. I feel sorry for him, revert to Finnish and order an ykkosolut -a weak beer-for him. He won’t be able to taste the difference. John was shit-drunk when I rescued him earlier. He’s better now, but no way he can pass for sober. If I have a few drinks, too, to make it seem like we were drinking together, it will help maintain the pretense for Kate that he’s not a fucked-up drunk doper. I’m drinking to spare my wife’s feelings. A strange day.
The waitress brings our drinks and menus. I say we don’t need them and order for both of us. Snails in garlic butter as an appetizer to share. Liver and onions with mashed potatoes for him and a big horse steak for me. Bloody rare.
Still drunk, John protests. “What the hell is wrong with you? I hate liver, and no one should eat slimy things or horses. You’re blackmailing me because the credit card machine at a bar was broken.”
He won’t eat snails, but has no problem with caviar. I guess the price of caviar makes its texture more appealing to him. “No, John, you’re wrong. I’m doing what it takes to hide whatever is wrong with you from Kate. When we go home, you’re going to be in presentable condition. You’re going to tell Kate what a wonderful time we had, and starting tomorrow, you’re going to behave yourself. Don’t eat the snails if you don’t like them, but you’re going to eat the liver, because it’s the best sobering-up food I know.”
The speed or coke he ingested is wearing off, only booze is left in his system. He starts to slur. “Kari, you’re wrong about me. You think I’m some kind of loser. It’s not my fault if a credit card machine in a goddamn bar doesn’t work with American cards.”
We stare at each other for a minute.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he says, “I’m going to the bathroom.”
I take a sip of Koskenkorva, see the longing in his face. “If you come back high,” I say, “I’m going to be more than pissed off.”
“So now you’re accusing me of taking drugs.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Screw you.”
“I covered your bar tab. You forgot to thank me.”
He huffs and gets up. When he comes back, he’s not stoned. I eat the snails by myself. Our main courses come. He looks at the liver with distaste but digs in. He must be hungry. His indignation disappears. “It’s good,” he says.
“I know.”
“What’s the red jelly for?”
“It’s lingonberry jam. Take tastes of it with the liver. It’s traditional.”
We eat in silence. He cleans his plate. I pay our bill and order a taxi to take us home. On the way, he stares straight ahead. After a few minutes, he says, “Thanks for paying my bar tab.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I won’t upset Kate.”
“Good.” I take out a notepad, scribble my number on it and give it to him. “Stay out of trouble, but if you don’t, call me, not Kate.”
He nods.
As an afterthought, I take his number and put it in my cell phone, in case he disappears and I need to find him.
My impression is that John is a decent person when he’s sober, but those moments are few and far between. He needs help, and because he’s Kate’s brother, I’d like to get it for him, but our baby is on the way. John frightens me. I’m scared he’ll upset Kate and cause her to lose our child. I can’t let that happen. I want him to go back where he came from.
19
John and I get home around two a.m. Mary is in bed asleep. Kate wanders out into the living room in a nightgown. “So what have you two been up to?” She sniffs. Her voice is testy. “Never mind, I can smell what you’ve been up to.”