Screwcap Letter

Nevertheless, his soul is about to slip through their fingers. As his life ebbs away he wavers, appalled by the thought of an eternity without alcohol, and calls for aquavit.
Peter Høeg: The History of Danish Dreams


Pentti Saarikoski passes this way every day at about 4pm. His beard grows ever longer. He's muttering his latest poem: we adore other gods here now your feathers are on special offer in the supermarkets. Today I’m outside, hanging the washing with good wooden clothes pegs on the green plastic line under the Scots pines.

I wave as Pentti cycles past and he wavers on the bike, slows a little, but continues. I yell and run up the cottage steps and fetch the bottle of Finnish vodka – Leijona Original Viina Brännvin, new, pristine, unopened, the last bottle having sort of disappeared – and hand at the neck of the bottle, wave it, shouting Hey hey!

But he’s out of earshot, slipped by, cycling down the hill into what a thousand years ago was the Baltic sea. I’m islanded; but I save that cracking of the vodka bottle screwcap for when he passes tomorrow.