Chasing Emil
Malmö, Sweden
1946
Emil Västerström looked around Andersen’s Joint, noting how little it seemed to have changed, even through a war that had changed everything.
The decor was the same--most of it was probably exactly the same as it had been since the first time Emil had set foot in the Joint, as Old Trond hadn’t been one for such largesse as replacing “perfectly good tables and chairs” before they collapsed completely.
Old Trond himself was never coming back; the War had been his doom indeed. He’d been in the same cell of the Norwegian Resistance as Sigrun and her parents when the Germans took him, and he hadn’t returned, though not for the usual reason. No, the torture hadn’t yet begun when his captors found him dead in his sleep, undoubtedly smiling to himself at having deprived them of their prize.
Sigrun, Mikkel and Reynir had all been part of the Norwegian Resistance, trying to free that country; ironically, for most of the War that had put them on the opposite side from Emil, Taru and the three Hotakainens, who were all trying to keep Finland free.
Poor Taru. In one of the last Russian assaults of 1940, she had been captured, and while the Finn government was still trying to find out where she was and get her back, there was very little hope left for her after six years.
Old Trond had left his share in tandem to his junior partners: Sigrun’s parents and Taru; since Taru was... well, since the Swedish government accepted Onni, Tuuri and Lalli as Taru’s proxy holders, the Hotakainens had had few troubles relocating.
Lalli had been standing behind Emil as all these thoughts chased themselves through Emil’s mind; now, Lalli stepped up beside Emil and gave his friend a shoulder bump. Emil promptly wrapped his arm around Lalli’s shoulder, trying not to let the tears suddenly brimming fall, and Lalli let him, even going so far as to put his own arm on Emil’s shoulder.
Tuuri bustled in then, with some others, but only Tuuri forced herself into their awareness, looping her arm into Lalli’s free elbow.
“I found you an assistant in the pit, Lalli,” Tuuri bubbled. “A nice Finn girl I met through the Refugee Office, and a pretty good xylophonist, to boot.” Ignoring his silence, she continued, “Now, her name is Kerttu, so I don’t want you calling her, ‘Hey, you’, like you did with Georg and Tony!”
“They were jerks,” Lalli protested, letting Tuuri pull him over to the pit after Emil nodded.
“Do you really think it was a good idea to bring him here?” Tuuri asked once they were at the pit. “I mean, he looks like he might be headed for another freak-out.”
“You know, sometimes I think you don’t even know Emil at all,” Lalli told Tuuri in exasperation. “Listen.”
Emil had picked up a clarinet and was beginning to play. As he played and the jazz flowed ever freer, all the horrors and filth of the last seven years were washed away by its happy flood.
“That’s why we needed to bring him here,” Lalli stated, as if he were telling her “Water is wet”.
There was an edge to Emil’s playing now, though; one that reflected what had passed, both good and bad. It was still jazz instead of blues, though: edgy jazz, but jazz nonetheless.
A saxophone joined in, smoothly following in familiar riffs. Emil turned, though he didn’t really need to, and saw Onni behind him, dark sunglasses covering the scars where his eyes had been. Blind Onni, now truly blind, but as magnificent on the sax as ever.
Then two familiar trumpets joined in the burgeoning jam session, weaving their own threads into the musical tapestry, and soon bass, drum kit and pit followed suit. The Malmö Musikers were jamming again.
“OK, guys, let’s take five,” Sigrun ordered when the set drew to a close. A waiter came up with water for them, followed by an eerily young-looking cigarette girl, who smiled saucily at Emil.
“Well,” she said dryly as Emil pored over the selection in her tray, “I never thought I’d get to hear Benny Goodman jamming live in this place.”
Emil snorted. “Benny Goodman’s better than I. I do have better hair, though,” he bantered awkwardly.
After a few minutes more of indecision, the girl pulled out a cigarette and handed it to Emil. “Here you go. Betcha can’t make this sing like your clarinet, though.” She was definitely teasing now.
Emil looked at the cigarette girl warily, even as he took the proffered cigarette. “What’s your name, anyways?”
She smiled again as she lit the cigarette and replied, “Marta Kiianmies.”
“Nice name,” Emil said. This one seemed uncommonly sensible; hopefully, she’d stick around for a while...
