The Listener by Tove Jansson Page A

pastel sketch before beginning work. She’d carry it into the office and place it on the desk, a barely discernible outline. Madame approved it, and Manda left the office, leaving the paper behind. Patterns and colours quite naturally change as the work progresses. The sketch was a concession to the ordinary rules, nothing more, and both of them knew it.
    All this time, Manda had no prophetic dreams, because she didn’t know or care about the people around her. The quiet nights were a great rest and relief and made her so happy that she had no need of the days. So she just closed the glass door and embroidered. She stretched out her long, powerful legs, leaned back in her chair, and embroidered with sharp, observant eyes. Her hand plied the needle calmly, and sometimes the pretty cloth spread over her knees would rustle. It was the busy season, and the ladies came and went, but she never saw them. Nothing would have happened had it not been for the duchesse satin gown with the pearls. It was an ordinary thing in pink, an unimaginative order that Manda rescued with broad gores of grey. The lady was displeased and wanted to speak to the embroidress. Manda said she did not want to come. Madame said, “Please, Manda. It’s a large order, and we can’t satisfy her any other way. It’s too much money.”
    “It’s an unlucky dress,” Manda said. “I don’t want to come.” But in the end she went.
    The woman was thin and nervous, and she talked and complained without stopping. She had a bitter face and was beside herself about the grey. Manda looked at her and knew that this woman was going to die very soon and that she wasn’t prepared, and at the same time she heard the inner voice that commanded her to say what she had seen. Manda felt ill. She took a long step towards the door and managed to open it. The three of them stood in a tiny fitting room and it was very hot. The woman turned and grabbed the door and shouted, “I want an explanation. I can’t wear this dress the way it is!”
    “You won’t be wearing your dress, in any event,” Manda said. Her lips were so stiff that she had difficulty talking. “You don’t need this dress because you are going to die very soon.” She walked back through the sewing studio and into her glass cubicle. She took her pastels and drew a new pattern as the spirit took her, with clear strong colours, mustard yellow and yellow-green, aniline blue and cobalt, orange and finally white, reckless colours that screamed loudly at first but then lay down beside one another and glowed. After a few minutes, she forgot the anxious woman who was going to die.
    Madame came in and sat down. “What came over you?” she said. “Why in God’s name did you say such a thing?”
    “I’m very sorry,” Manda answered softly. “I saw it on her and had to tell her. It was badly done.”
    Madame glanced at the coloured sketch. After a while, she stood up and said, with difficulty, “There must be no repetition of such behaviour.”
    “No. Never again,” said Manda.

    The next day – after the woman had died in a car accident – Manda went in behind her glass partition without anyone daring to say good morning. She worked all morning and sent in her finished sketch with the errand girl and got it back approved. She began with the white evening dress and stayed and worked until the others had gone home. Then she put on her coatand shawl and went out into the city. She didn’t go to her room but wandered slowly through the streets, observing everyone she met. She dared to study the faces of everyone she passed, and she could see that many of them would die very soon. Her inner voice shouted continually but the people passed quickly by. They were in a hurry, and there were more and more who were going to die, far too many, and the inner voice grew weaker and weaker. She walked on, continuing to look at everyone, and they passed her and disappeared, hour after hour. In the end, the voice went