Lucifer’s Tears. James Thompson

not there, the standard Finnish-bartender 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.

      The exchange was beyond Kate’s Finnish language abilities, even though they’ve improved over time. ‘What was that about?’ she asks.

      I explain in such a way that Mary and John can understand as well. ‘Mike’s mother tongue is English, so like yours, his accent is soft when he speaks Finnish. When Russians speak Finnish they also have a soft accent. Most Finns have never heard a person with English as a mother tongue speak Finnish, so the drunk made a natural assumption and called Mike a goddamned fucking Russian. A bad mistake. Mike, not a Russian and displeased to be called one, got pissed off and said, “Yeah, I’m a goddamned fucking Russian, and I hope my grandfather killed your grandfather during the Winter War.” That’s the point when the drunk knew he was in serious trouble and left while he could.’

      ‘Isn’t Finland somehow related to Russia?’ Mary asks.

      Now I wince. ‘No, it’s not.’

      John sighs, drinks his second kossu in one go. ‘Mary, Finland is neither part of Russia, nor is it part of Scandinavia proper. It’s classified as a Nordic country and is an entity of its own.’

      ‘I take it Finns don’t care for Russians,’ Mary says.

      ‘No,’ I say, ‘in general, we don’t.’

      ‘Why?’

      Kate has told me John is a Ph.D. candidate in history and a graduate teaching assistant. An educated man. He explains. ‘Finland was a long-standing Swedish possession, but twice during the eighteenth century, Russia invaded. Thousands of Finns were killed or forced into slavery. In 1809, Sweden ceded Finland to the Russian Empire. In 1899, the Czar embarked on a policy called the Russification of Finland. Russian was made the official language, Finnish legislative bodies were rendered powerless, its army was incorporated into Russia’s. The Czar tried to destroy their culture and Finland resisted.’