Tuesdays on the Ice – Part 1: The Frozen Pond

The pond in the middle of the park in Helsinki froze solid every December, and every Tuesday morning, before the city woke, Aino skated across it in wide, silent loops. The ice was black and clear, and the sky above was pale grey, and the only sounds were her own blades and the distant cry of a crow.

She had been coming here for ten years. She had never once been joined by anyone.

On the third Tuesday in January, a figure in a bright red hat appeared at the edge of the ice, clutching the railing with both hands. He looked like a man who had been told it was a good idea to skate, and had regretted it immediately.

She glided over, slowing with a long, careful spray of ice.

"Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," said the man, and then, as his feet slid out from under him, he sat down heavily on the ice with a noise like a dropped suitcase.

Aino knelt beside him. "Are you hurt?"

"Only my pride," said the man, from the ice. He had a round, earnest face, tangled brown hair under the red hat and a rucksack that had clearly been dragged across half of Finland. "I'm Pekka. I'm an engineer. I've been told that skating is easy."

"Who told you that?"

"My sister. She's a liar."

Aino laughed, and held out a gloved hand. He took it, and she pulled him to his feet with a steady, practised grip. He wobbled, grabbed her arm, and they both nearly toppled over.

"Sorry," said Pekka, going red. "I'm very bad at this."

"You're very bad at standing still," said Aino. "Bend your knees. Look ahead, not at your feet."

"I'm looking at you."

"Then look at the ice, and I'll look at you."

He laughed, a clumsy, boyish sound, and tried again. They moved slowly round the edge of the pond, Aino holding one of his hands loosely, correcting his stance, his posture, the angle of his blades. The pond was silent around them, the surface glittering in the pale light, and his breath came out in little white clouds beside hers.

"Why do you skate here alone?" he asked, halfway round.

"Because the ice doesn't ask anything of me," said Aino. "It just holds me up while I think."

"And what do you think about?"

"Whether I'm allowed to want anything more," said Aino, quite honestly, and felt the words hang in the cold air between them.

Pekka's grip on her hand tightened, a little.

"Can I ask you something?" he said.

"Yes."

"Would you teach me to skate properly, every Tuesday, for as long as I'm terrible at it? I'd pay you in terrible coffee and worse jokes."

Aino laughed, her cheeks stinging with cold. "Yes," she said. "But only if you promise to tell me when you're nervous, instead of falling over."

"I'll try," said Pekka, grinning. "Can I ask you something else?"

"Yes."

"Would you let me hold your hand, out here, where nobody else can see us but the ducks, while I learn to stop falling?"

Aino smiled, slow and warm. "Yes," she said. "And if you want to stop, we'll both sit on the ice and eat the terrible coffee."

"Green?" he asked, softly.

"Green," said Aino, and didn't let go of his hand. "Very green. Now bend your knees, Pekka, and let's go round again."