A macabre comedy of a tall tale – who knew that poisoning people could be this much fun?
This review is not based on Suloinen myrkynkeittäjä (direct translation: Sweet Poison-Cook) since the reviewer doesn’t understand Finnish, but rather on its Norwegian translation: Den elskelige giftblandersken. I might therefore have missed out on some of the nuances that would have been more than apparent to a native Finnish reader, which is made all the more likely since Paasilinna clearly wrote exclusively with a Finnish audience in mind. Yet the mentality, sense of humour, and appreciation for how a tall tale should be told, is quite similar between the two countries, so I have a hope that not much of importance has been lost to me.
Nordic countries are known for their grim crime novels and black comedies, and Sweet Poison-Cook has put an amount of both in its concoction. That isn’t to say that this is a whodunnit – we all know who did it, Linnea Ravaska did, a colonel’s widow who has experienced the Continuation War, and who has further experience on how to handle drunken louts, (alcohol is an important ingredient in any Finnish story so Linnea is given ample opportunity to show her worth here.) She may be a posh and pampered lady with the best of manners, but also she’s from Finland, and, as Paasilinna lets us know, Finns simply don’t go to heaven. They often try their best, of course, but find narrow paths to be difficult to follow – part of the blame can be put on the abundant intoxication – “discernment runs empty before the liquor” (p. 24, reviewer’s own translation) – but Finland is also a dense woodland where one will eventually get lost even if one is in the middle of a city. Besides, Finns have a sense of humour and for some reason this seems to be at odds with St. Peter’s beneficence.
In a Paasilinna book there is no shortage of character flaws, be it infidelity, drunkenness, sloth, religiousness, incompetence, greed, or general lack of common sense, and so on, and no character is without at least two of them. Linnea is, as the title says, sweet, but she is so by comparison: So even if it’s tempting to describe her as a twist on George Kranky it’s worth pointing out that she may be sweet for a Paasilinna-character, but is nevertheless willing to poison pigeons to test out her brew. More generally, Sweet Poison-Cook, performs like a comedy of errors with a decent amount of corpses, and serves as a warning to louts of the younger generations to be careful when attempting to exploit Finnish pensioners.
But more than anything this is a tall tale of the kind that the Nordic peoples have been telling each other for centuries. The same kind of story that we find post-modernised in the works of e.g. Jonas Jonasson and Fredrik Backman. (In fact, Paasilinna’s authorship seems to have been the most readily available form of comparison when reviewers were first faced with The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared.) It’s a genre which demands one thing of the reader, specifically that they understand that it’s all a lie, not just in the sense that it’s a good thing to be able to tell fiction from reality (which, of course, really is a good thing), but in that the lie is centre focus – it’s a lie for the lie’s sake, not for the story’s. The liar/storyteller is plying a verbal craft, often improvised, whereby a yarn is spun that isn’t supposed to be actually believable, but nevertheless hold such a qualities that it, in spite of this, makes the listener wish it was true. The tone, or glint in the eye if you will, should indicate that the liar is aware of this and also that they are aware that so is the listener. However, the listener, or reader, mightn’t have a cultural background where this kind of storytelling is normal, and if so then the tone and what it hints of could be lost on them.
Likely this is the reason so few of Paasilinna’s books have been translated to English, and Sweet Poison-Cook isn’t one of them. If reviews by native English speakers are anything to go by then there seems to be a common appreciation for the uniqueness and rural beauty of Paasilinna’s authorship, but the sense of humour is often lost on them. The darkness of Sweet Poison-Cook is offset by its comedy. Those who aren’t able to appreciate the comedy will be left with a book that just seems unnecessarily dark. In all likelihood there will never be an English translation of it, but for the rest of us, who are able to appreciate the different elements of the story, this remains one of the author’s most beloved works.