The room goes quiet. My headache flares. John hee-haws. “What kind of sick joke is this?” He comes to the table brandishing a Christmas card from my parents. “Check it out,” he says. “A troll dressed as Santa Claus.”
For once, I’m glad for John’s drunken repartee. He bailed us out of a bad moment. “It’s our traditional Father Christmas,” I say. “His name is Joulupukki, which means Christmas billy goat. It comes from a pagan tradition. Once upon a time, Santa wasn’t a benevolent character. He frightened children. He didn’t give gifts-he demanded them.”
I tell a story in the hope that Mary’s implied insult to Taina will be forgotten. I heard it somewhere, and it sounds like complete horseshit to me, but will suffice for this purpose.
“Joulupukki and his flying reindeer originated with the aboriginal people of Lapland. There was a poisonous forest mushroom. Shamans fed the mushroom to reindeer. Their intestinal tracts filtered out the poison, but left hallucinogens. The shamans drank the reindeer urine. They sometimes had out-of-body experiences and flew. They returned to their bodies through the chimney hole of their tent or cottage. And that explains the legend of Santa Claus and his flying reindeer.”
John sits down and smiles, pours himself dregs from the wine bottle. “A great story. I apologize for besmirching your Pyllyjoki. He’s a proud beast.”
Pyllyjoki. He just called Father Christmas “Ass River.” At least he tries to pronounce Finnish.
Kate works with me, trying to guide the conversation in a comfortable direction. “Something smells good,” she says.
“Dinner should be ready.” I get up and escape to the kitchen.
I set the table, open another bottle of red and bring the karjalanpaisti. I ignore what’s being said as I come and go, but hear no shouts and see no blood, so a semblance of dinner-table civility is being maintained. Taina calls the children to eat.
I anticipate Mary’s wishes. To sweeten her up, I ask her if she’d like to say grace. Everyone understands and bows their heads. She’s tactful, keeps it short. We fill our plates.
Jari smiles. “This is Mom’s recipe.”
“Is there another way to make karjalanpaisti?” Kate asks.
“Most people just use pork and beef cubes, potatoes, onions, bay leaves and whole peppercorns,” I say. “But Mom adds lamb chunks, and pieces of liver and kidney. It’s easy. You just mix it up, cover it with water, throw it in the oven and let it cook.”
“She didn’t make it this way when we were kids,” Jari says. “It was too expensive. When Dad started drinking less and she had more household money, she started making fancier food.”
Everyone digs in with relish, except for John and Mary. They pick at it.
I turn to Jari. “Speaking of Mom, I’ve been thinking a lot about her father lately. Do you remember much about Ukki?”
“Yeah, a lot. Why?”
“I found out that, except for his time at the front during the Winter War, he was a detective in Valpo from 1938 until the end of the Continuation War. I’d like to learn more about what he did in Valpo.”
“People used to talk about Ukki being a Winter War hero,” Jari says, “but I never heard him say a word about it. Still, it doesn’t surprise me. Goddamn, he hated Russians. If he’d gotten to decide whether or not to drop hydrogen bombs on Russia, it would no longer exist.”
I think of how much Arvid reminds me of Ukki, except for the bad temper. “I only remember Ukki being calm and kind. Did you ever see him get angry?”
He laughs. “I heard Mummo say one time that she didn’t know Ukki had a temper until their wedding day. He couldn’t get the wrapping off a present quick enough to suit him. He got frustrated, threw it on the floor and jumped up and down on it.”
The image is hard to conjure, makes me laugh, too. “Do you think Mom knows anything about what Ukki did in the war?”
“If Mom knew anything, you would have heard the stories a thousand times by now.”