The protagonist of a true story set in the 90s: a two-string accordion. (Photo: Ira Korkala)
By early morning, the festival area had quietened down and the last of the partygoers had crept from the courtyard of the guesthouse to their bunks, to the attics, to the sheds, to the tents. Three cheerful women were still sitting on the wall of the fence. One of us suggested that we go to Penttilkä bridge to watch the sunrise.
Then we walked the width of the road in the direction of Kappelinkankaan, uphill from the junction, past Santer's coffee house and the cemetery, down to the bridge. There were no other walkers, only one cyclist whizzed past us. We came to an old narrow wooden bridge where there were dances. The bridge has white railings for walker's chairs and a central span with wooden benches for people to sit on.
When we got to the bridge, we noticed a two-row accordion on the left bench. We were delighted with that, too, and played it in turn after turn, even though none of us knew how to play. The sun dyed the eastern sky red and gold and then cast its first rays on the river. In summer clothes, it was very sharp. It was going to be a hot day.
As no owner turned up for the two-row, we took it with us to take the musical instrument to the lost and found as soon as we woke up. You'd think the owner would be found, since the accordion was taped with the name of the player and his hometown, which was Jämsä.
The atmosphere of the legendary Penttilän Bridge dances from 2017 (Photo: Krista Järvelä)
Looking for the owner of a musical instrument
The next day, I proudly carried the two-liner on my shoulder like a pelican and took it to the lost and found. No one had yet asked for a musical instrument.
Later, in ”Under the Lipa”, I happened to bump into a man in the queue whom I knew to be a player from Jämsälä. I asked him if he knew the name of the instrument that was written on the side of the accordion. The tall man looked at me for a long time and said the player was already tearing up the devil's own orchestra upstairs.
A little startled, I asked him if he knew about the Peliman two-row. I could already see the pelimannivaina in her national costume floating down the River Perhon.
”Yes, I know. I have it now, but right now I don't know where it is,” the man from Jämsä said casually, and continued half-heartedly, ”When I had a woman at the dairy, I forgot the accordion somewhere on the edge of the Penttilkä bridge.”
I told the devil's advocate that the accordion was now in the lost and found and that it had been a joy to the sunrise admirers in the wee hours of the morning. It was a laugh, and I got a big warm hug and a pint of cold beer.
Years later, I heard that the Jämsälä player had composed a waltz about a two-line song that had been forgotten on the bridge.
Text:
Merja Lahti