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said in his gruff, muted voice. He did not speak with any pride, he merely stated the fact coldly. He was peering at a space somewhere between my feet and the wall. ‘And it’s not far from Vaasa. And you can visit the capital, too.’
    ‘So it’s in the country,’ I said. My voice could have come out of the pocket of his much-abused waistcoat. ‘I suppose you have domestic animals.’
    ‘Domestic animals?’ he repeated. He looked baffled for a moment. ‘Aha, you mean cattle. Yes, we’ve got cattle and fields. As I said, it’s the biggest farm in the village.’
    I tried desperately to think of something sensible to ask. ‘Will I have to milk cows, then?’
    He appeared determined to pluck a button off his waistcoat. ‘No need. There are maids for all that.’
    ‘Do you have dances?’
    A rivulet of perspiration appeared on his forehead and set off on a journey towards one of his bushy, near-black eyebrows. ‘Of course there are dances. In summer in particular, we have fêtes. A really big fête at Midsummer, and dances at weddings, of course.’
    We were quiet for a while, I chewing my tongue secretly, he staring tenaciously at a space where I saw only the toe of my shoe, sticking out from under the hem of my dress, and floorboards, and a smattering of dust the maid must have missed. Then he sat up straight, left his buttons in peace and began looking at me with the same expression I had once seen on a shaggy male dog in the street, just before it mounted a passing bitch.
    ‘I can buy a new carriage,’ he said. ‘A real carriage with a canopy.’
    ‘And a piano?’
    ‘Of course a piano.’ Relief spread across his face. ‘How could I forget? It was uppermost in my mind. I must get a piano.’
    I have still not seen that piano. Instead, I gradually became used to this house and to people whose speech tells you they have rough palms. I did not even try to get used to the desolation of the fields and the menace of the forests, but I did find a place on the riverbank where I could sit by myself among the subdued murmur of the water and the scent of leaves decomposing in the shadow of the embankment, without hating anybody. I learnt to understand housekeeping and the significance of each of the individuals who have ended up in this household, especially that of the Farmhand, who has always been much more important than one might deduce from his station. When I began carrying Henrik in my womb, I was afraid, but I decided to cease fearing. I sensed that motherhood was terrible, perhaps sweet at times, but above all terrible. Not because one human child would be more horrendous than another, nor is it so that offspring cannot bring joy when little and be useful when grown up, but because motherhood makes it possible for future generations to be rocked by dark tragedies. On the other hand, I concluded, it could not be my fault alone. I could not be its origin. There must have been before me, maybe long ago, a woman who sinned gravely and who left her fall as a legacy to her female offspring: an Eve of her generation who had imagined she would be forced to milk cows with her fine, delicate hands.
    As the years went by, the boys grew and Arvid became so sickly and so bent that he began to resemble a big-boned bird pecking at the ground. I took up the habit of moving all the yesterdays and tomorrows discreetly to one side. I have never deceived myself in this respect: I gulp down spirits like a sailor. I have done it so skilfully, however, that I have not had to compromise on my dignity, if impeccable manners are enough for that. What else could I have done, when my closest companions for a large part of my life have been empty moments and sleepless nights that end in pale dawns? I might as well have been trapped on a remote island: a pitifully ageing white woman, the soiled widow of a pioneer, surrounded by dirty natives, grubbing pigs and tumbling, whooping bugs.
    I have had my chickens, and for a time I was able