There’s something in front of me. I raise my hands. I feel first a chain then a hook. A meat hook. Strange, I think. What is Krista doing in an abattoir?
Then I hear her voice. She is nearby. And there she is, my wife, standing with her back to me. I step forwards. The water splashes and sloshes beneath my feet. Krista is talking to a man. This is the father of the child, that much I understand. I cannot see him; he is standing behind her, moves in time with her, remains invisible. The more I try to reach Krista, the more quickly the man disappears. I am right behind her and I cannot see the man at all. I don’t understand how he can have disappeared so quickly.
I raise my hand, and I am about to place it on Krista’s shoulder when something whooshes past my ear. The meat hook latches on to Krista and whisks her away. She is gone. I open my mouth but stop myself from shouting out.
In front of me is a pit, a black hole in the concrete floor. At the bottom of the pit lies a large man. He looks dead. I look at his face. Suddenly his eyes open wide. I take fright and turn around.
Only to be startled again.
Standing in front of me is Karoliina, the waitress from the Golden Moon. Her face is impassive; her expression tells me nothing of what she’s thinking. She is dressed in the same clothes as before – it’s quite a strange outfit for an abattoir, for this cold, stony, damp environment where meat hooks whizz above us and snatch people away.
Is that a bruise on her face? Is the corner of her eye swollen, or is it something else? A little smile, perhaps?
Her lips form a curve, the corners of her mouth rise slightly. I start to smile too. When I am finally about to speak she moves more quickly than anyone I know.
Her hand moves. Her fist is heading towards me; I can see it coming. Behind the fist her arm stretches out, and I can see her face. She says something. I can’t hear what, because the fist strikes me right in the middle of the face, I stagger backwards, fall…
From the chair. Slump, at least. I wake up. I manage to put my right leg on the ground, find my balance and stand up just as I realise I am awake and in the small staffroom at the War Museum. There’s a coffee cup on the table, the taste of grilled food in my mouth. It’s the early hours. The limbo between sleep and consciousness is gone in seconds.
10
I brush the snow from our front step before going inside. The morning is dark and quiet. I can see the lights in the house next door, the lady sitting there eating breakfast. She is at the table, reading the morning paper; the lampshade above her head looks like it is hanging in mid-air. The snow puffs up as I sweep it with the broom, forming small, silent whirls in the air.
I lean the broom against the porch, open the door, step inside. I take off my coat and shoes, hang them in the closet, walk through the inner door, close it behind me and find myself in the hallway. I stop.
I am home.
It feels as though I’ve been away for years, as though the journey back here has stretched over thousands of kilometres. After all the adversity, I am finally home again. Home, the place where Krista is. This is my destination; this is where I want to be, more than any other place in the world.
For a moment I simply stand in the hallway. The living room is through to the left. On the right-hand side a set of wooden stairs winds its way upwards. Straight in front of me is the kitchen. The smell of home, the house’s own, distinctive air. No other place is quite like it. The silence is pristine. Krista is presumably still asleep in our bedroom upstairs. Recent events flash through my mind in a series of images. I survived. Providence allowed me to come home.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath. I do it again. I manage to grasp the gratefulness, the warmth, the brightness and certainty that I experienced in the petrol-station workshop.
I remember that I resolved to hug Krista as soon as I got home, but it can wait. I can simply rest and … be. There will be plenty of time to tell her how much I love her, to let her know that everything is forgiven. I can wait. I am home much earlier than planned, a few hours at least.
I busy myself in the kitchen. I’m hungry again, starving. I fry six eggs, put some bread in the toaster. Then I stack the eggs on two slices of toasted rye bread, sprinkle them with sea salt and black pepper and eat. I make some coffee. It tastes better than last-night’s coffee – and it wakes me up more effectively. Still, the coffee, eggs and bread cannot hide the fact that every muscle in my body aches and that so many matters are, to put it mildly, up in the air.
There’s a knock at the front door. Someone has rapped against the windowpane in the door, though there’s a doorbell right beside it and beneath that a small sign reading DOORBELL. Now whoever it is has started tapping the glass with their fingertips. There’s something familiar about it, something friendly. The tapping fingertips feel more intimate than a conventional ring on the doorbell or a simple rap of the knuckles against the glass.
I glance at the wall clock. Half past seven.
Why doesn’t whoever this is just ring the doorbell? I can see only a small section of the porch and cannot see the front door, at the right-hand side of the porch. I stand up from the table and move cautiously, walking round the kitchen and taking the other door into the living room. I crouch down, creep towards the window and peer out at the porch.
Looking from the street, our front door is technically at the back of the house, at the end of a short set of steps. At the top of the steps I see a man’s back. I recognise him. All the warmth I felt a moment ago disappears in an instant.
I straighten my back, quickly peer through the other living-room window, which looks out onto the street. I can’t see anything out of the ordinary: no movement, no other people, only the empty street and houses etched in snow standing along it. Then I walk to the door, my steps creaking on the wooden floorboards. I don’t give Jokinen the storekeeper any extra time to prepare for seeing me. I open the door quickly and concentrate on the expression I see on his face. The hiatus lasts perhaps only a few tenths of a second. Then he gives a broad smile, or at least tries to muster a smile.
‘Good morning,’ he says and holds up the paper carrier bag in his hand. ‘Home delivery.’
Jokinen is wearing a blue sporty jacket over his shirt. It’s a different shirt from the night before. This one has red stripes around the inside of the collar. Still, it’s as tight round him as all his other shirts. He smells of aftershave – lots of aftershave. His short blond hair is combed in a parting and patted down with a fresh layer of gel. His hair gleams; it might even still be damp.
‘Come in,’ I say.
‘What?’ he splutters before correcting his expression and posture. ‘No, no. I was just bringing…’
‘I’ve just made coffee,’ I say.
We look at each other. It’s obvious that he wants to be on his way as soon as possible. And that’s what makes this little visit so interesting. That and the fact that the bag of shopping he has brought isn’t even full but a small paper bag containing only a few items, or that the car outside is his own car and not the shop van usually used for home deliveries. Everything suggests this is no ordinary home delivery. But he can’t back out now without a decent reason.
‘Well, maybe one cup,’ he says eventually.
The paper bag crunches in the morning silence of the house as I show Jokinen to the kitchen table and take a cup and saucer from the cupboard. I am behind his back. The paper bag ends up by his feet. I tell him why I’m home already, though my shift on guard duty only officially ends at nine, as he well knows. I assure him I didn’t leave the museum unmanned. The security guard arrived earlier than planned, as did the maintenance man.
‘Right,’ says Jokinen. The fate of the museum clearly wasn’t his primary concern.
‘What’s in the bag?’
‘Where?’
‘Your home-delivery bag?’
Jokinen looks down at his feet as if he’s just remembered he’d brought something with him. ‘Right, this one. Some Belgian chocolates and Ital
ian biscuits.’
‘That sounds nice. I always thought home deliveries were a bit bigger and maybe contained more … actual groceries.’
Jokinen says nothing. The coffee is ready. I pick up the pot, sit down at the table and pour us both a cup. Jokinen’s eyes flit between the window to his left and the folded newspaper on the table.
‘You’re out early,’ I say.
‘Service is everything these days,’ he nods as he pours milk into his coffee. His hand is almost steady. I only notice a slight trembling once he’s almost finished pouring. ‘Customer focus. If you’re going to stay afloat, service is what’ll do it. Things are tight as it is, we’re just scraping by. You need to go to the customer. Like the mountain going to … like Moses … I can’t remember which way round it was.’
Jokinen is clearly surprised at his words bursting forth like this. There’s something on his mind, on his heart. I’ve seen and heard the same thing thousands of times.
‘The story goes that Mohammed went to the mountain,’ I explain. ‘How are you doing otherwise? Still ice fishing?’
Jokinen looks at me. It might be a look of surprise. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Lake Hurmevaara is full of pike perch at this time of year. We’ve made a few holes in the ice, put down some nets. A slightly bigger net, you know.’
‘I could join you some time.’
‘Ice fishing?’
‘Ice fishing, net fishing, whatever’s going.’
He doesn’t look too enthusiastic. And he says nothing, simply raises his coffee cup to his lips.
‘I thought it might make your lives easier if I take all the night shifts.’
My words seem to take him off-guard. He looks at me across the brim of his cup, then lowers the cup to the saucer. Nothing is as quiet as a wooden house on a winter’s morning. The clink of the cup against the saucer is like an orchestra right next to my ear.
‘But last night I got the impression that you find the idea somehow unpleasant. Can you tell me why?’
‘I didn’t notice.’ Jokinen adjusts his legs, positions himself better in the chair.
‘I truly hope it’s not because you doubt my ability to look after the meteorite,’ I say.
‘No.’ Jokinen shakes his head. Then he nods. ‘I mean, yes. We do trust you. I’m sure it’s … perfectly safe.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ I say, then prop my elbows against the table and lean towards him. The meteorite is only one matter, and there’s no need to talk about it anymore. At the same time I realise a now familiar cold, slimy feeling within me is gaining in strength. Who brings someone chocolates and biscuits before daybreak? And above all, why?
‘I always make sure there are staff at the museum before I leave. As I said, today I could leave a bit earlier than planned. Two hours earlier, to be precise. I haven’t even woken Krista yet…’
I leave the last sentence hanging. Jokinen is either thinking about how to answer or simply concentrating on stirring the milk into his coffee. He is silent, staring at the swirls in the cup.
‘Would you like me to wake her now?’ I ask.
Jokinen looks up. ‘No need,’ he says quickly.
‘But you brought her Belgian chocolates and Italian biscuits.’ I’m not proud of my cold tone of voice, of the way I stress every single word. It’s not normally my style.
‘I can leave them here,’ he says, nodding at the paper bag. ‘They’re nothing special, just a little … Something she might like. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’
You don’t mean to disturb us? Is that why you’re drumming on the front door with your goody-bag at seven-thirty in the morning? I need to control myself.
‘Shall I give her a message?’ I ask.
Jokinen takes a last sip of coffee. He makes to leave; starts to stand up from his chair without actually standing up.
‘Greetings…’ he stammers, ‘from the grocer.’
The foreplay is over. Jokinen gets up.
‘What kind?’
By now he is almost upright. ‘What?’
‘What kind of greetings? She’ll know they’re from the grocer.’
I’m not in a good mood, far from it. Jokinen doubtless notices it. He seems to hesitate.
‘Tasty greetings?’
We look at each other.
‘Right, I’ll give Krista tasty greetings from the grocer,’ I say.
Jokinen blinks first. He turns and walks towards the front door. The floor creaks. He doesn’t look behind him. I hear him on the front steps, hear his car starting outside, hear it drive away.
11
In Ancient Rome, Christians were routinely tied to four horses by their four limbs. Then the horses were whipped into a trot, and when they reached full speed the ropes began to tighten. It feels as though something similar is happening to me, but instead of horses I have thoughts.
My breath steams up in front of me as I walk towards the Golden Moon Night Club. The snowdrifts glint in the morning half-light. I grip my phone – the phone that only sends a certain type of message to a certain recipient.
It isn’t easy to admit.
Jealousy isn’t just the loss of our everyday common sense; it’s a degenerative disease. That much I understand. Judging by everything that’s happened, I have reached the stage where I think – secretly, in the back of my mind, in the deepest, darkest recesses of my soul – that I have the right to look around. Of course I know that when someone sufficiently plagued by jealousy says he is just looking around, he is either planning a murder or heading off in the early hours to play away from home. This logical conclusion begs the self-righteous question: if Krista has, shall we say, made more than a passing acquaintance with one of the villagers, why can’t I do the same? This is pure madness, I know that. I recall seeing and hearing hundreds of people whose lives were more or less ruined after they decided to avenge their perceived wrongs at the hands of a wayward partner. It’s hardly surprising because more often than not those wrongs are only imaginary. It’s hard to cure madness with more insanity.
I pass my workplace.
The church looks as though it has been flung into the snowy woodland, out of reach. It is surrounded by tall pine trees and behind that a row of thick spruces. Situated slightly to the west, the church office is still in shadow. The beams of the rising sun catch the tall, narrow metallic cross on top of the church. I’ve often wondered at quite how durable that cross is. This morning it looks even flimsier than usual as it reaches up into a new day, alone and vulnerable.
The low stone wall around the graveyard is covered in snow. I can see the car park serving the church, the graveyard and the church hall. There appears to be a car parked in the furthest parking space. I recognise the car and make – a Volkswagen Jetta – but I don’t know who it belongs to. The sun is shining into the car windows at such an angle that I can’t see if there’s anyone inside.
I try to formulate a message. I’m going to try one more time. I know I’m only accruing more things for which I’ll eventually have to apologise, but that is certainly not the only matter in which I am conflicted. It feels as though my whole life is a contradiction. The rising sun gleams between the snow-covered trees. Its beams cut through the grey; it tears, giving way. The same can’t be said for my state of mind.
Just before reaching the car park at the Golden Moon I stop and look at what I’ve written:
My love. I’m sorry I ran away. When I saw you, I panicked. You affect me in so many ways. Meeting you would have been too much right then. I want to ask for another chance. Can you forgive me?
I send the message, drop the phone into my pocket and glance once more at the darkened windows of the night club. Naturally I can’t see inside, but I know that the DJ this morning is not the village barber. Mornings are the busiest times at the salon.
And why am I heading back to the Golden Moon?
Because it’s an instinctive reaction, the kind that my opponent – for I have one or more of them – isn’t expecting
. The element of surprise is at the heart of every victorious campaign or battle. But also because I need to retrace my steps, both my own and the steps of the investigation I’m undertaking. And, of course, because of…
The official version, the one I’m telling myself as I open the Golden Moon’s door, still stiff with morning, is that meeting this woman again is an essential part of my investigation and the suspicions that have arisen through it. When I see her behind the counter, my heart immediately beats more ardently and there’s a current inside me that doesn’t just warm me but strengthens the very sense of being alive. I tell myself that it must have something to do with the situation, the stress and the fact that she might be the person who knocked me unconscious.
Karoliina is pouring a pint of weak beer for a middle-aged man leaning against the counter with both arms. The man’s dark-brown hair juts in all directions as though a small bomb has gone off in his head. He is wearing a suit that looks not only as though he slept in it but as though he probably had a wrestling match in it too. The man appears to be at the very limits of his capabilities. His tie is astonishingly straight and tightly knotted, as though he had tried to pull himself together but forgotten about everything else. Karoliina places the pint in front of him. The man picks up the glass, raises it to his pouting lips, gulps down half. Karoliina angles her head towards me but keeps her eyes on the cash register.
‘What’s it to be?’ she asks.
‘I don’t really know, to be honest,’ I reply.
Karoliina looks up, turns slightly. ‘Pastor,’ she says, straightens her posture and brushes a hair from across her face. ‘Or am I supposed to call you Reverend Huhta?’
‘Joel is fine.’
Karoliina steps closer. I have positioned myself at the same end of the bar as yesterday. Even during the daytime, the Golden Moon isn’t a bright place. Here there is a perpetual dusk where people drink beer for breakfast, their hair a tangle. Here works a woman in ripped, holey jeans, a black polo-neck jumper, heavy make-up and dark-red lipstick. Her long hair, darker than dark, covers her face, her lips flicker like a lantern amid the shadows. When she is finally standing in front of me, I can’t see any discernible difference in her expression. If she really is somehow involved in the events of the night before last, you’d never know.
Little Siberia Page 12