My Hometown Named Love

By Markus Ahonen

My Hometown Named Love is a collection of twenty short stories about love for women seen from the men's point of view. These universal stories could happen anywhere, but the reader can find their way in Ireland, UK, Finland, Italy, France, United States or on a road trip across Europe.
The warmly melancholic stories come alive as we have all yearned for love we were hoping for, or once had to let go.
Successful rock star tries to conquer his youth love with his money and power (The Concert).
Professional man tries to track down a girl whose eyes he once caught in the train (Girl in the Train).
Middle-aging man drives through Europe just to see a woman with whom he once spent a night with in his youth (Woman in the Magazine Story).
15-year old boy matures with a young painter girl in an Italian seaside town (Palette Dancer).
Family man locks himself in the bathroom after finding a death notice on a Sunday paper of a girl he once went to school with (Girl on Ice).
Man in his mid-thirties goes back to his old university city to walk around, remembering the houses, apartment buildings and corners which bring back memories of the women he once loved (Geography of Loving).
Young widower goes through a grief by getting by with the actions of his deceased wife(Time After Marinela).
A boy and a girl grow up in the same apartment building, then in the same suburbs for decades, successfully avoiding marrying each other (The Curly-haired Girl from Childhood).
A lonely wolf finds a meaning of life in his new hometown with the woman he can't have (My Hometown Named Love).
And finally the story, which weaves some of the stories together in the same cozy cafe (That Little Cafe Near the Harbor).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Markus Ahonen
• Release date: Mar 10, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465929723

Markus Ahonen

Markus Ahonen was born in 1972 in Helsinki, Finland. He grew up in Martinlaakso, a suburb of Vantaa, known as the childhood residence of famous Formula One drivers Mika Häkkinen, Mika Salo and Kimi Räikkönen as well as heavy metal band Amorphis. He went to high school for a year in Auburn, New York when he was 17. After his military service in Finland he studied European Business Administration in Finland and Holland, later Communications and Finnish Literature achieving Bachelor of Arts degree from University of Turku, Finland. He has worked extensively as Editor and Editor-in-chief in local newspapers, as TV Script Writer for Finnish versions of game show Weakest Link and the Finnish modified version from shows Never Mind the Buzzcocks and They Think It's All Over as well as writing TV sketch comedy. After moving to Ireland in 2006, Markus has worked as a flying foreign correspondent having reported to newspapers and magazines from nearly 40 countries around Europe and elsewhere. Markus, a film, book, music and general knowledge enthusiast, lives in Malahide, County Dublin, Ireland with his son. His first crime novel Meduusa (Medusa) was awarded with third prize in Kouvola Crime Literature Festival 10th anniversary novel contest in 2006. The second crime-themed novel Palava sydän (Burning Heart) was published in 2008. Short story collection My Hometown Named Love was published as an e-book in English in March 2012 and in Finnish as Kotipaikkani on rakkaus in October the same year. The updated new versions of Meduusa and Palava sydän were published as e-books in Finnish the same year. Markus widened his literary career by publishing a story collection for children Karkaileva bussi ja kaiken maailman ihmeelliset vempeleet (Runaway Bus and All Other Marvelous Gadgets) as an e-book and the story collection for children and adults, Haikarasaaren vauvasatama ja muita tarinoita (Heron Island Baby Harbour and other stories) both in November 2012. English version Medusa was published in 2013 and the third novel in crime themed Isaksson series Jäljet (Tracks) in 2014. Meduusa, Palava sydän and Karkaileva bussi have all reached #1 spot in iTunes Finland e-book top100 chart. Meduusa was chosen to both Apple iBookstore Best of 2012 and Best of 2013 catalogs. In December 2013 Markus was chosen to iBookstore Finland Bestselling Authors category.

Book preview

My Hometown Named Love

Short stories about love

Markus Ahonen

Copyright 2012 © Markus Ahonen

www.facebook.com/markusahonen

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Cover picture: Markus Ahonen

Cover design: Piia Leino

Author Portrait: Anna Kempisty & Kaz Szczepanski

Stories

The Concert

Girl in the Train

Five Days

Woman in a Magazine Story

Geography of Loving

The Last Flight

How to Conquer Antarctica

Curly-haired Girl from Childhood

Palette Dancer

That Night I Became a Grey Escaping Horse

Night

Girl on Ice

Time After Marinela

At the Airport

Rain

Love After a Death

I'm Always Gonna Love You

Strange Currencies

My hometown named Love

That Little Cafe Near the Harbor

For my son Lauri

"And I was strong, strong in the sun

I thought I’d see when day was done

Now I’m weaker than the palest blue

Oh, so weak in this need for you"

––Nick Drake: Place To Be

"Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental…

Especially you, Jenny Beckman ... Bitch."

––(500) Days of Summer

The Concert

I had planned this all decades ago. Right after she had turned me down. I don't know if she would have remembered that at all.

I remembered. Eternally. Tried in my head find ways to go around it. Weighed ways to get her, but never had time to try them out before she moved away.

As did I. The big world sucked us into it.

She studied and ended up working in a good profession. Created a comfortable career as office manager in one of those posh downtown office complexes.

I could easily imagine her wearing a professional jacket suit, working long days under the light of a table lamp. Work had to be finished. For her it was a matter of honor.

So it had been during our studies. When the rest of us left to go drinking, she occasionally stayed in studying for an upcoming exam. She wasn't exactly a bookworm. Still, she didn't want to distract herself from keeping her eye on the ball. There had to be future. It had to be built.

Where I made my way through small clubs to the bigger venues and eventually disappeared in the record company marketing shows, she had her glasses of champagne filled precisely at a certain time of the week, month, and year.

I drank cases of beer backstage at the clubs. Stayed up until morning composing new songs with my guitar, woke up around noon, didn’t think much about saving for my pension.

I believed in myself. I was sure I could spare some time to drink a few pools full of beer.

She had earned her first promotion before turning 27. My breakthrough had extended from what I planned to way over 30. Maybe I was only mature enough then. By then, I had switched from beer to root beer, from Jack Daniel's to ginger ale. I had regained my memory.

I had remembered her with great yearning when my first hit made its way to TOP 1 in seven countries. The nowadays evergreen ballad was originally titled by her first name. I had backed up, thinking she might be hurt by it, but my record company had already put it into production.

The whole single had been recorded again in a studio in a nice countryside mansion.

The owner of the record company and the producer had ripped their already sparse hair out of their heads after I had decided to change the name in the middle of everything.

It was costly, but I paid it back in full. The more I couldn't sleep, with only her in my thoughts during the nights, the more the song was on the radio. Soon the ballad hit number 1 spot in 40 countries.

I had never gone through her new town on my tours. The promoters and the people at the record company were wondering why. Even when my life had changed, I wasn't ready to meet her. Not even to risk meeting her accidentally, though in the bottom of my heart, I hoped for it.

After my sixth successful album and more than 70 million record sales, something in me snapped in the right place. I don't know if it was the memory from the past, or a middle-aged wish to spend the rest of my life with her. Maybe the thought that all of our actions have their meanings. Man just has to be active and show his ambitions. I had learned that. I guessed it would work also in my private life. Maybe I had been too much of a bum for her taste as a young man.

Now everything is different. Tonight's the night. I see the seats of the stadium filling up with people. There has to be tens of thousands of them. I know one of them better than she even knows.

She's never been married and is not in a relationship with anyone. She recently met a man, dated him a couple of times. The investigator who made the evaluation thinks they are not close.

She has worked long days lately. She has a project deadline on Friday two weeks from now. Therefore, it was handy to place the two gigs in this city for the weekend. The made-up reason—that I needed Thursday and Monday for charity events in the region—has been applauded and well publicized in the press.

I suppose the event organizers don't have anything against the sudden publicity brought by a well-known musician helping in their hometown. It could even bring some worldwide attention to the cause.

Major papers have written more about these events than about the two concerts. There's hardly one person in this city who doesn’t know what is happening here in these few days and nights.

A large number of concert tickets have been raffled at radio stations, TV shows, in the papers. Some of the reality TV channels have dropped envelopes with tickets into the open side windows of cars standing in traffic lights. At one of those traffic lights just near her workplace, a weird looking, funny talk show host has seen a car driven by a beautiful woman with silky hair. The beautiful woman suddenly had to jam on her brakes when the light turned red a bit too fast. As if someone somewhere had tampered with the light buttons and chosen her to win the tickets.

I put two tickets in that envelope to keep her from getting suspicious. But I'd like her to attend the concert alone. For me.

I knew before the concert that she'd come there with someone. She had asked one of her female friends working in the next office room to go with her. I heard this through my contact person, who had overheard it in the coffee room.

So it's a surprise to me that instead of that girlfriend, a youngish man in a nice shirt sits next to her. Either my source of information is unreliable, or her female friend has cancelled at the last minute.

Their seats are only a short distance away from the stage. Even in the dark, I can see them. The organizers have set two flags as markers around their seats. They won't notice it, but I do.

The beginning of the show goes perfectly. She looks happy, which makes me feel proud. I assume she remembers me well. I imagine her pupils getting larger the further the concert goes. And in the end, I have a tasty surprise. For her.

The crowd is jamming and getting emotional. It's time for slow songs. I'm not playing my breakthrough ballad. Yet. That’s for the encore.

I end the normal part of the concert with an exploding rock hit. The raging fans clap their hands. I see her getting excited, as is the guy with her.

I see them looking at each other, but nothing alerts me that they’re getting closer to each other. My music has integrated them to the rest of the audience.

I run down behind the stage like it’s a shelter and listen to the comments from the observer I hired. He has written some comments down.

We studied in the same place. Nice guy. If I remember right.

If I remember right?

Doesn't she really remember me well? In a few introduction courses we sat next to each other. I tried to hit on her. In one of those dorm parties she leaned her legs against mine. Sat on my lap for a little while. We even kissed. I didn’t have a clue what changed her mind after I had brought a flower to her door.

She doesn't dare tell anything about those times. Maybe she does have feelings toward that young man. Or maybe she doesn't want the guy to get any scandalous material about me for the trashy memory sections of the lousy magazines. She's a diplomat.

I go on stage again for an encore. After the first two songs the lights go down. Only a single spotlight is lit, showing where I sit with my guitar. It's all quiet before I start slowly playing my acoustic guitar.

The lights from thousands of cigarette lighters turn into a sea of lights. I see her. Her eyes opening and closing as she sings along. Waves her hands. She's in love.

And as I'm coming to the chorus, where I—for the first time—sing her name, she grabs the young man in a deep embrace. Gives him a deep, warm, love-filled kiss. Is intoxicated with love.

At the last moment I change my mind and sing the song as it's heard in the record. Leave the surprise in my pocket. I'm surprised. Discouraged. Disappointed.

With my steely professionalism, I sing the song to the end, accept the applause, wave my hand to the crowd, and disappear under stage.

A white limousine is waiting for me at the back door. I'll head to the hotel way before I’m supposed to. The bottles of champagne I had delivered backstage will be left there with the melting ice. No one will escort her backstage to meet me.

In the back seat of the limousine, alone, I understand something meaningful about success, the benefits it brings, and the possibilities of going around the obstacles of the past.

No matter how many records I’d sell, how many hills of ambition I’d climb, how much money I’d make, how many limos I’d ride, it would never make any difference if the love didn’t exist.

Girl in the Train

There was something familiar about her. Maybe I had met her somewhere briefly. Or maybe she reminded me of someone I had known.

She stood on the platform waiting for the train. Sideways, as opposed to facing the track like everyone else. Like she was leaning on an invisible pillar.

I realized she was looking at me when I had my headphones on, filling my soul with music. Her look was intense, like she was almost staring at me.

Suddenly I needed to look back at her. Again.