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You sound bitter, Bone would say. Everyone needs a wife; even wives need wives. Wives tend, they hover. Their ears are twin sensitive instruments, satellites picking up the slightest scrape of dissatisfaction. Wives bring broth, we bring paper clips, we bring ourselves and our pliant, warm bodies.
We know just what to say to the men who for some reason have a great deal of trouble taking consistent care of themselves or anyone else. You would have seen us in that Opera House at the banquet and thought, from the way he leaned in to whomever he was talking to, and tilted his head and slapped his knee, that we too were Finns.
Drunken Finns, trying to forget the encroaching half-year of darkness; happy Finns; carefree Finns—Huckleberry Finns. Toasts took place in many languages, without interpreters, and Joe and I smiled and raised our glasses along with everyone else, never really knowing what we were toasting, what we were signing on for, what we were gamely laughing at.
The president and his wife left early; someone mentioned in passing that Kristian liked to watch Sky TV every night and then go right to sleep, and that he never deviated from this strict routine, not even once a year for the winner of the Helsinki Prize. Hours later, Joe and I finally left, too, in the company of two dozen agreeable publishers and writers and dignitaries who begged Joe not to end the evening just yet, but to let it go on and on a bit longer, this one special night that, like Passover, was different from all other Finnish nights.
