Little Siberia

by Antti Tuomainen

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘The way you often say that you don’t know or that you can only speak for yourself. It inspires … hope.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he says. ‘After our last conversation, I realised I must think very seriously about the plastic in our oceans, the extinction of marine ecosystems, the atrophying of the seas, their death, which will come very soon, and how it is in fact our death too – but I didn’t. I did as you taught me. I told myself that I can only do what I can do, and that everything else is beyond my reach.’

  ‘I’m not sure I really…’

  ‘That’s it. You are a very positive person. You gave me hope. It is exactly as you said. And now I can say it too. What do I know? It’s very liberating.’

  ‘I don’t…’

  ‘And when I was supposed to think about artificial intelligence – because we already know there will come a day when machines can develop machines that are more intelligent than themselves, machines that can decide to commandeer everything connected to the web, turn everything against humans, and if humans try to resist they will destroy us with weapons and in ways that, obviously, we can’t even imagine yet – I decided to think about it the way you would think about it.’

  The steel barrel of the rifle is pointing at the door, where I should be heading right now. But Ihantola’s monologue keeps me rooted to the spot.

  ‘And how would I approach it?’ I ask.

  ‘You would sit calmly in your chair and maybe you’d say that you don’t know.’

  I’m about to say I’m not at all sure I would do that, but I realise this wouldn’t please Matias Ihantola. The silence of the house is arresting. We are so far from other settlements, so far from everything, that the silence is like an air-tight seal around us; it comes in from outside, its pressure greater than any of us can withstand.

  Ihantola nods decisively and continues. ‘You realise there could be a market for this kind of philosophy these days? It’s the antidote to everything the usual snake-oil salesmen are touting: certainty, self-confidence, omniscience. And these days, with people thinking they know everything about everything, always taking a stance, shouting over one another because they are more right than the person in front of them, imagine how refreshing it would be if someone said simply, “I don’t know.”’

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ he says. He is clearly only getting started.

  I have to stop him. I turn the rifle in my hands, show it to him.

  ‘The cartridges,’ I say. ‘You have cartridges for this thing, right?’

  He hesitates, and his expression is overcast with that same anguish I’ve seen in him before.

  ‘Right,’ he says. ‘Like I said, I’d been having dark thoughts…’

  He reaches out his right hand, and now I realise what he’s been holding throughout his monologue. He holds his fist between us and opens his fingers, slowly. In the palm of his hand is a .308-calibre bottlenecked cartridge.

  One cartridge.

  I look at the cartridge, then at Matias Ihantola.

  ‘I feel I should apologise,’ he says, his voice a little hoarse. ‘But I’ll say thank you instead. This was for me. My insurance for the end of days. I don’t need it anymore.’

  He looks me in the eye as he drops the cartridge into my hand. His eyes are wet with tears.

  ‘You have given me hope,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’

  8

  Mercy. I hear the words of my former pastor mentor. Mercy means that we can help others by virtue of our own faults and shortcomings. And if not by virtue of them, then at least despite them. We can be of use despite ourselves.

  These words come to mind on an empty road as, once again, I speed back towards Hurmevaara. Matias Ihantola seems like a changed man. It looks as though the deeper into despair I have sunk, the more positively he has begun to view his own existence.

  The single-cartridge rifle is a source of some disappointment. I don’t have time to get my hands on more cartridges, let alone look for a new weapon. In the event that I actually need the rifle, I will quite literally have only one chance. The rifle is in the footwell behind the front seat – for now. The phone is in my lap in case I should receive a text message regarding Krista’s whereabouts.

  I arrive at the museum a minute before my shift starts. I decide to leave the rifle in the car for a moment longer; I have no desire to answer the questions it might elicit. I relieve those on evening shift; they loiter in the doorway longer than I would like. They chat about the meteorite’s last night at the museum.

  And this is the last night.

  In the morning a van will pull up outside the museum door and take the meteorite to Helsinki, and from there it will travel to London. These are the meteorite’s last few hours in Hurmevaara.

  The security guard on the evening shift tells me many times over how exciting this has been, explaining that the meteorite has shaken the village out of a daydream. I could tell him a few things that would raise the excitement factor considerably. But I decide to say nothing and take small, hopefully imperceptible steps to steer him and the museum’s part-time caretaker towards the front door and to guide them out into the yard. Finally they are outside in the freezing night, their breath steaming, and the door locks behind them with a click. They walk off to their cars. I can hear their chatter for a moment further; apparently there’s no shortage of things to talk about.

  Of course, the meteorite’s final night in the village gets me thinking too, but in a wholly different way. What’s more, I realise I don’t suspect either of them of involvement. They don’t even seem to see this side of the story; I can hear it from the way they talk, in what they talk about and how they behave in front of me and when in proximity to the meteorite. In recent days people like this have been in a minority in my circle, I muse. I seem to be surrounded by a whole list of people whose behaviour has changed beyond recognition.

  I soon hear their cars. They start their engines almost simultaneously; the second speeds away more urgently than the first. Then the sounds of their cars fade into the evening. I wait for a moment and open the door.

  It’s going to be a bright, starlit night.

  The stars glow and twinkle, almost trying to reach down to the Earth. I walk to my car, look around. This is a risky business. The letter said I would receive a text message once they see I have arrived at the museum. But I’m not sure I believe this. Nobody has been following me for the last few hours, of that I’m absolutely certain. Nobody could have followed me all the way out to Ihantola’s house without my noticing. Rather, I assume that the kidnapper knows what time my shift is due to start and will turn up and assess the situation. It’s only a question of how soon this will happen. I can’t see anybody. I fill my lungs with fresh air, wait for a few seconds. I open the car door, take the rifle from behind the front seat and return to the museum, the weapon in my hand.

  They say that the darkest hour is just before dawn. Maybe. But there are also moments when the whole idea of dawn seems only theoretical, something it’s pointless to wait for because the real battle will take place in darkness.

  I make some last-minute preparations at the museum. I eventually decide to conceal the rifle halfway between the meteorite room and the exit; I position it as part of a display of military uniforms. I am about to hide the gleaming, rust-free barrel of the rifle beneath the sleeve of an old army coat when my phone beeps as a text message arrives:

  Where are you? The lobby is empty.

  I make sure that the rifle is firmly propped in place, easily accessible yet hidden from prying eyes. The telephone is in my hand; I quickly search for the number and receive an answer immediately: the number you entered cannot be found. This means with almost one hundred percent certainty that this is a prepaid account. I don’t know whether I can draw any other conclusions from this except that it seems I’m not dealing with total amateurs.

  Keeping the phon
e in my hand, I take a deep breath and walk into the lobby. I approach with caution. I don’t want to walk straight into an ambush. Because the lights are switched on, I can’t see outside as well as I’d like to. But I do see that, except for my own car, the car park in front of the museum is deserted. I turn and look towards the forest. The large windows reflect the lobby and my own image, but still I can see the pure, untouched snow cover stretching all the way to the edge of the trees. I take a few steps forwards until I am standing in the middle of the lobby. At the same time I realise how lucky I am. I managed to smuggle the rifle into the museum just in time. I stand there for another thirty seconds or so, then my phone beeps again:

  Exchange at 0230.

  Don’t try anything, don’t be smart.

  Just act normally.

  The next instructions will arrive at 0215.

  You are being watched.

  Acknowledge that you understand.

  I respond immediately:

  I understand. Is Krista OK?

  I look in both directions. I can see no movement, no human figures either on the side facing the village and the car park, or the side looking towards the forest. I move calmly. Somebody knows where I am, someone can possibly even see me. It’s just gone nine o’clock. I do the things I would normally do: I brew some coffee in the staffroom, walk the length of the museum, making sure all the doors and windows are locked. I return to the staffroom, keeping the phone within arm’s reach. The phone beeps just as I return to the lobby with a mug of steaming coffee.

  Joel, it’s Krista.

  I am fine. I’m allowed one message.

  To prove it’s really me: Dubrovnik.

  I know immediately what she means. We’ve been planning a trip to Croatia this summer. So Krista is … somewhere. I can’t – and daren’t – imagine that she is safe. The message came from the same unlisted number. A few seconds later I receive the first message again:

  Exchange at 0230.

  Don’t try anything, don’t be smart.

  Just act normally.

  The next instructions will arrive at 0229.

  You are being watched.

  Acknowledge that you understand.

  I sit down in the caretaker’s chair, again acknowledge receipt of the message and that I have understood it. I place the coffee cup on the table and take my books out of the desk drawer: the Bible and James Ellroy’s latest novel. I place them on the table in front of me, though I know I can’t bring myself to open either. The coffee gradually cools at the corner of the table. I am neither hungry nor thirsty, I am not tired.

  I am waiting for my wife.

  And I wait until 2.19 a.m., when one of the windows smashes to smithereens.

  9

  The sound of the window smashing comes from the western end of the museum, the side nearest the forest. I stand up, a thousand thoughts whirling through my mind. The first are volleys of questions laden with curses. Then, once I’m already running, I go through the various scenarios and everything that might conceivably go wrong.

  It certainly can’t be Karoliina. To my mind we had an agreement, an understanding. On the spur of the moment I came up with a plan of my own, though one I have no intention of carrying out. I spoke for a long time as we stood there next to one another, close to one another. I said I would send her a text message from the museum once the coast was clear, but before that neither of us should be tempted to go off script. She brought her face even closer to mine, until eventually I felt her lips against my skin. She whispered into my ear that never before had she waited in anticipation for something like this, saying that I was exactly the kind of partner she’d been looking for. Then she moved away from me, pulled on a jumper and coat and left. For a good few minutes I remained sitting in the armchair in our half-darkened living room in silence, calmly steadying my breath.

  This is a complicated situation. I have a rifle, yes, but it only has one cartridge. If I use it, I’ll be up against the kidnapper with nothing but a prop. That cannot happen. I need something in my hand, something heavy. I remember that in the first room there is a life-sized war-time mess, and on the table in the mess is an old iron kettle. I pick it up and run off again.

  The intruders didn’t choose the western wing of the museum at random. Admittedly, the window they had to break is rather big – it’s what you might call a panorama window – but the route to the meteorite is shorter and more direct. I approach the meteorite room, trying to move silently, and make my way behind a large anti-aircraft cannon. Now I am only one door away from the meteorite room. I hear footsteps.

  I’ll have to improvise, that’s for sure. But how much?

  The meteorite is housed in a new glass cabinet, much stronger than the previous one. The casing is taking a battering. I creep from behind the cannon towards a wall of bazookas, then make my way behind them until I reach the wall of maps opposite the meteorite room. I edge towards the doorway, crouch on one knee and peer into the meteorite room.

  There’s no mistaking the enormous man. He is attacking the glass cabinet with a hammer. There’s power behind his blows. The thick glass is cracked and will soon be in pieces. I can’t see anyone else in the room. I wait and listen. All I can hear is Leonid smashing the cabinet and the squeak of his shoes against the floor. Whichever way you look at it, his behaviour is utterly mindless. And if he’s operating alone, it’s even more mindless. And that’s what it looks like. Except for him, the room is empty.

  The glass smashes and clatters to the floor. Leonid picks up a hiking backpack, which looks like a school satchel, and prises the meteorite from its stand. I know the meteorite weighs less than four kilos. He stuffs it into his bag, closes the bag with a drawstring and clips and shrugs it over his shoulder.

  I can’t fathom what is going on. Leonid takes a few steps towards the window. I give him a head start, clench the iron kettle in my right hand. Once I am sure he is walking so quickly that he won’t hear my steps, I position my legs so that I can leap out behind him and—

  I recognise it immediately. It is exactly the right size and weight, and all it needs is the support of a familiar voice. The barrel of a gun is pressed forcefully into my neck.

  ‘Change of plan,’ comes the voice. ‘Stay where you are.’

  I am leaning slightly forwards, my left knee still touching the floor. Leonid stops and spins round, and from his expression I realise he was expecting this sudden turn of events. I have rushed headlong into an ambush, though that is specifically what I have been trying to avoid. I have experience of ambushes. And still I made a mistake like this. Before long I realise why. I can’t smell any perfume. I haven’t given the matter the least thought; I’ve internalised it. The perfume was supposed to warn me.

  ‘Get up. Slowly. Don’t do anything unless I tell you to. And keep that pot in your hand.’

  ‘It’s a kettle.’

  ‘Then hold your kettle. Stand up.’

  I shift my weight to my right leg and slowly push myself upright. The barrel moves away from my neck.

  ‘Walk into that room, the one where the meteorite was.’

  I try to turn, to look behind.

  ‘Don’t turn around. Walk. Calmly.’

  Leonid watches as I go. It’s hard to read his expression. The vitrine is in smithereens on the floor. I stop before stepping on the shards.

  ‘Forwards,’ says Karoliina. ‘Right up to the cabinet.’

  ‘There is no cabinet,’ I say.

  ‘Of course there isn’t. You smashed it,’ she says. ‘Smash your kettle against that pedestal.’

  I glance over my shoulder. I recognise the pistol she is holding. It’s the same gun that was once in Grigori’s hand – and it was pointing at me then too. Karoliina is wearing a woolly hat. The hair visible beneath the hat is wet; that would explain the lack of perfume.

  ‘Smash it,’ she says.

  I look over at Leonid. He might be smiling. I’m not sure I would smile if I were him; I don’t know if
I could trust anything I’d agreed with Karoliina. But a person in love will see whatever they want to see, even if it ends up killing them. I weigh the kettle in my hand and try to gauge my distance from Karoliina. About six or seven metres. There’s no way I’ll be able to reach her before she has a chance to pull the trigger. And I’m not sure I’d hit her if I tried to throw the kettle.

  I decide to buy some time. I can basically guess what she’s up to: she wants it to look as though I decided to steal the meteorite, but that my accomplice shot me and disappeared with the meteorite alone. I turn and strike the pedestal with the kettle a few times.

  ‘What do you call that?’ Karoliina shouts. ‘For the love of Jesus, you look like you’re doing the dishes. Hit it, man.’

  I hit the pedestal another few times, so hard that my hand hurts. I hit it because every blow gives me the extra seconds I need to think. The noise of metal against metal hurts my ears; it’s dizzying. The room is echoing, booming. I stop. My ears are ringing. I guess this must be the case for all three of us.

  None of us could possibly have heard the arrival of a fourth person.

  10

  Karoliina and Leonid cannot see the masked man. He is standing behind them. They look at me. The broken window is behind the man; that’s how he has come in. All four of us are in some kind of infernal chain, each part of which is linked to all the other parts. The masked man is aiming a rifle either at me, Karoliina, Leonid or all three of us. Probably all of us.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he says in a booming voice. ‘Or I’ll shoot.’

  Karoliina turns her head slightly, keeping her pistol aimed firmly in my direction. Her expression is a mixture of rage and disbelief.

  ‘Drop the gun,’ says the man.

  Karoliina’s head is turned towards him. She must be able to see the rifle. The pistol is pointed at me. Long seconds elapse. Eventually her fingers relax and the pistol drops to the floor.