On Saturday morning I bought some tools Reiska would need to work on Helena’s apartment, and in the afternoon I rang Mrs. Voutilainen’s doorbell—from the aroma of caramelized almonds, I could tell she was baking a Tosca cake. My nose hadn’t fooled me. When I came in, Mrs Voutilainen was just pulling it out of the oven and brewing coffee to go with it. I asked her whether she’d seen any other salesmen recently, picture or otherwise, but only some Jehovah’s Witnesses had been to her door. She showed me the latest issue of The Watchtower. “I’m not scared of their talk of Hell—they’re free to believe whatever they want. Those poor people; they’re trying so hard. I took their magazine and gave them some blueberry pie so that they’d have energy for making their rounds.” “You haven’t seen that painter Yuri again, have you?” “No. Are you after his paintings? You can have mine if you want.”
