The Fillyjonk Who Believed In Disasters
“The windows were large and solemn, and no lace curtains could give them a friendly look. They weren’t windows for looking out of, they were windows to look in from.”
I read that last sentence to Raffi last night and felt that rare penny-drop sensation I get when I remember that, oh right, I love books. For a moment, I forgot about the garbage world of publishing, the sordid marketplace of writing and my own place in it, and I loved reading purely, the way I did as a child.
We were reading a story in a collection, Tales from Moominvalley, which is the seventh book in Tove Jansson’s Moomins series, and the only book of short stories. It seems to have been written at a transitional moment in Jansson’s career, just before she began writing “for adults,” though that seems like a blurry distinction when it comes to Jansson’s work. The Moomin novels are sophisticated and surreal, not “for children” in the pejorative sense. They have the quality that the best children’s books have of seeming to communicate directly from the author’s subconscious to the reader’s— the way, for example, Where The Wild Things Are transports even babies into a pleasurable, controlled sort of nightmare. The Moomin novels are about archetypes: familiar personality types rendered as different sorts of made-up Scandinavian forest creatures. If you read enough of them, you will eventually meet someone and think “Oh, I see, you’re a Hemulen.”
“The Fillyjonk Who Believed in Disasters” is about a Fillyjonk — Mrs. Fillyjonk — who has rented a desolate seaside cottage. What is a Fillyjonk? Well, “like all Fillyjonks, she owned a lot of knickknacks … all sorts of things that make life more easy and less dangerous, and large.” Also, she has paws.
Mrs. Fillyjonk is plagued with an unshakeable sense of impending disaster, which in her imagination takes the form of a storm that destroys everything in its reach. She tries to stifle her dark thoughts with makework activities: washing her rug in the sea, preparing an elaborate tea for an acquaintance, Mrs. Gaffsie. When Gaffsie arrives, Mrs. Fillyjonk overwhelms her with nervous small talk, the exact kind of babble that people who are trying to conceal and tamp down their panic often spew at unsuspecting acquaintances:
(I do this! :( )
Gaffsie has no patience for the Fillyjonk’s tremulous babbling. She just wants to have a nice normal tea, but the Fillyjonk, desperate for reassurance, finally stops talking about nothing and unburdens herself of her sense of impending doom. “Dear Gaffsie, believe me, we are so very small and insignificant, and so are our tea cakes and carpets and all those things, you know, and still they’re so important, but always they’re threatened by mercilessness …”
Brutally, Gaffsie ignores what Fillyjonk is really saying and responds only to the surface of her concerns. She asks her what kind of soap she uses. When the Fillyjonk tries again, increasingly desperate to make a connection and to be comforted, Gaffsie gives her a tip for keeping the colors of her rug bright. Finally, desperate to puncture the Gaffsie’s implacable politesse, the Fillyjonk asks “isn’t it nice?” about a flower arrangement which she knows is ugly. Gaffsie, worn out by trying in vain to keep the mood light, responds honestly that it’s not. They part ways, on bad terms.
Later, perhaps feeling a bit remorseful, Gaffsie calls to thank the Fillyjonk for the tea. “Those terrible things you spoke of. Have they happened often to you?” she asks, almost like a therapist.
“‘No,’ said the Fillyjonk.
‘Just a few times, then?’
‘Well, never, really,’ said the Fillyjonk. ‘It’s just how I feel.’”
I won’t spoil the end of this story for you, except to note that storm clouds are gathering as Gaffsie and the Fillyjonk are having that phone conversation. Confronted with a real disaster, how will the Fillyjonk react?
Shoutout to Jarrod at Greenlight Bookstore for reminding me that I love Tove Jansson, and for suggesting that Raffi might be ready to enter Moominvalley.