by Reevik, Carl
They reached an intersection, Hans felt the brakes and opened his eyes. He recognised the street corner. The road straight ahead would take them to Helsinki University’s main building, a neoclassical Greek temple with yellow rendering and white columns. But instead of going straight, the car turned left onto a wide avenue that led north towards the isthmus which connected central Helsinki to the mainland coast. Hans had never been there, but it made sense that the medical school would be on a hospital campus and not in the old town. He closed his eyes again and felt the car drive through the city on a long straight path. No sounds, no music, no talk, no thoughts.
Hans woke up from the sudden vibrations as the car turned left, crossing the tramway line in the middle of the avenue.
23
Hans stepped out of the back of the police car, closed the door and waved the two policemen goodbye. As the car drove off, Hans turned around and took in the view of what was a whole sunny city of light grey, modern buildings spread over a wide campus.
He rubbed his eyes. He sensed that he was moving through a surreal world that was governed by the sort of self-evidence that existed inside a dream, where the dreamer also knew very well from the start where he was going and what he had to do, even while he realised at some level that his constraints were purely notional, and that all his actions were simulated and would have no consequences at all. It was much like his obvious task of crushing tiles with a little hammer, or of chopping away at timber with an axe that didn’t exist.
Hans approached a group of female students who were waiting for the bus and asked them for directions to the building whose name the policeman had told him. They all pointed simultaneously to one of the glass-and-concrete cubes. They didn’t say a word though. Hans didn’t look too good. They had been chatting away happily before he had come to them.
He walked over to the cube. He tried to walk slowly, not because his feet hurt, but because the pumping of his blood against the inside of his face was very unpleasant. When he arrived at the glass entrance he peered inside. There was no security guard, no receptionist he could see though the doors, and the reason for that was obvious. You had to have a badge or a keycard to unlock the door. There was no-one inside he could have waved to. There was a button, but it had the label of a private security firm glued to it. It wouldn’t have connected him to anyone inside that particular structure.
The campus itself was by no means deserted, though, there were people walking around in the sun. They were patients or their visitors who were getting some fresh air around the hospital next door. But Hans didn’t need patients, he needed researchers.
A man in his late twenties was walking down the street towards the bus stop where Hans had asked the students for directions. They were in fact still waiting there. The man wore a cord jacket, a white shirt with no tie, dark blue jeans and brown leather shoes matching the brown leather belt. Young academic, Hans concluded. He had seen plenty of them at his own university. This had been almost their uniform. The man was talking on the phone. Hans approached him, gesturing that he was sorry to interrupt. The man ended his conversation with a slightly worried expression on his face.
‘Sorry, I’m Hans Mäkinen from Tallinn,’ he said. ‘I’m the nephew of Professor Mäkinen, he’s in this building here but I can’t call him. They broke my phone.’
He stuck with the masculine, assuming Mäkinen was a man. If it turned out it was a female professor, he could still apologise for the mix-up, implausibly citing the fact that he was Estonian and wasn’t used to different genders.
The academic glanced at Hans’s clothes; they weren’t fresh now but they had been decent very recently.
‘Who broke your phone?’, the man asked, a tentative mix of wariness and compassion in his voice.
‘A drunk man on the ferry. A Finn, I’m sorry, but that doesn’t matter. Pejorative terms for Estonians, it was pretty bad.’
Hans sensed how the man’s shame for his compatriot’s behaviour generated the impulse of a wish to help, to compensate, to make good.
‘Could you perhaps call him from here,’ Hans asked, pointing at the building. ‘Just so he comes down? He’s in the university’s phone directory. Professor Mäkinen, medical sciences.’
The man was still holding his phone in his hand and seemed glad to do the unfortunate fellow from the Estonian cousin nation a favour. It wasn’t too big a favour anyway, and safe enough. He wouldn’t let Hans into any building himself, he would just call somebody else. The man looked up the number, touched the screen a few more times and held the phone to his ear.
‘Don’t say I’m his nephew,’ Hans whispered to him. ‘Just tell him it’s someone from Estonia.’
The man nodded, switched to Finnish and asked for Professor Mäkinen. Then he listened for a few seconds, looked at Hans, and said some more words, basically asking the person on the other end of the line to come down and let in an Estonian visitor.
‘Mäkinen isn’t in the office, but someone will come downstairs in a second,’ he said as he pocketed his phone.
Hans’s tiredness was almost gone, his work had energised him. A few seconds later a young man opened the glass door from the inside. He was dressed more or less exactly like the man who had just called him to come downstairs. Academic standard issue. But he wasn’t as tall as the other man, or as Hans. He was skinnier, and he had a more delicate face. Thin blue blood vessels were visible underneath the paper-like skin on his temples. Then again it wasn’t difficult to have generally finer features than Hans, since Hans had just been beaten up.
‘I know I look horrible,’ Hans said to him. ‘Something bad happened on my way here.’
The man who had made the phone call saw the bus arrive, briefly wished Hans all the best and hurried off to catch it. The students were already preparing to get in.
‘My name is Hans Tamberg,’ Hans continued. ‘I’m working at the University of Tartu, in a project on Mo-99 medical isotopes, together with Professor Koopmans in Petten. I was just visiting for the weekend, but then I had to go to the hospital here, so I thought I’d see if someone from Professor Mäkinen’s team was in the office, since it’s next door. To maybe talk about your last publication.’
The young man’s initial desire to ask what exactly had happened to his visitor, and who the hell he was, was swiftly brushed aside by the dropped names and the prospect of recognition for his work.
Still, Hans’s host visibly hesitated whether he should ask first about the incident, which would have been polite, or about the publication, which was much more interesting.
‘I got mugged, sadly,’ Hans said to help the man decide. Hans was standing still; he didn’t want to be pushy by taking a step across the threshold. He wanted to get invited inside. ‘They took my phone, that’s why I couldn’t call you myself.’
‘That’s terrible, where did it happen?’
‘Near the harbour, just after I got off the ferry.’
‘Did you call the police?’
‘Somebody else did, a woman,’ Hans said. He was really getting into it. ‘The police took a description, but it won’t help very much. A guy in a hoodie, what can I say.’
‘Awful,’ the young man said.
So where was the invitation?
Hans asked, ‘Sorry, could I perhaps use the bathroom first to wash my face? Do you have a bathroom?’
‘Ah yes, sorry. Of course, please, come in. Marko Krohn.’
They shook hands and Krohn led the way to the second floor. Hans tried to keep pace with him as they climbed up the stairs. He neither wanted his physical state to slow him down nor to emphasise the incident. On the second floor they entered a corridor. All the doors were closed, the whole floor was silent.
‘It’s very quiet,’ Hans remarked. ‘Is it because it’s a weekend?’
‘Yes, and the teaching period is over. Some people are in the lab. The whole building is empty.’
Krohn showed Hans the door to a men’s room and said he’d wa
it for him at his office at the end of the corridor. Hans thanked him, went in, symbolically washed his face, and left to continue down the corridor towards the only open door.
Krohn’s office looked basically like Hans’s back in Brussels. Neutrally efficient, and relatively spacious. Krohn had the space to himself, too. The large window let plenty of sunlight in.
‘Would you like a coffee?’, Krohn asked. ‘The espresso machine with the capsules is broken, but I can boil some water for instant coffee.’
‘Yes please, that would be great,’ Hans replied, closed the door behind him and sat down in the visitor’s chair. There’s the difference, he thought. Back in Brussels he had two visitor’s chairs. If ‘back in Brussels’ still existed, if the term still had any meaning at all. Much would depend on the outcome of the chat over coffee that they would be having now.
The kettle hissed, and Krohn handed Hans a cup with coffee made from dissolved granules. He offered sugar, apologising for not having any milk. Hans accepted the sugar and the spoon that came with it, stirred his coffee, took a little sip of the hot beverage and put the cup down on the desk. A bunch of keys, including a car key, lay next to it. Hans took the spoon out, licked it dry and placed it between the cup and the keys. Krohn poured himself a cup, too. No milk, of course, and no sugar either. He sat down, took a big sip, and got ready.
‘So you’re from Tartu, are you are researcher?’, Krohn asked.
‘The board is selecting projects for possible Baltic co-funding, it’s a new scheme they are thinking about. And that’s where we could work together, they say. It’s about your most recent work.’
‘The optimisation of the mix of different isotopes for radiotherapy on children?’
‘I’m sorry, I’m not a medical expert myself,’ Hans said. ‘May I ask where Professor Mäkinen is?’
‘It’s Saturday, he’s grading exams at home,’ Krohn said, frowning. He was slowly starting to realise that he’d made some kind of mistake. ‘I’m sorry, but I know nothing about any Baltic funding, frankly. What did you say your name was?’
It hadn’t worked. He had to practice more, Hans decided. But he’d heard and seen enough already. The main point so far had in any case been to get inside the building for a quiet talk.
Hans took his cup and held it in both hands, keeping the content hot.
‘Okay Mister Krohn,’ he said. ‘I work for the Estonian police. I didn’t get mugged, I was in a fistfight with a Russian this morning. He’s in prison now. But that’s not why I’m here. You are doing your radiotherapy here. At the same time A&C’s uranium is getting diverted from Holland. Are you following?’
Krohn looked completely puzzled.
Hans kept pushing. ‘Right now Finnish police are on their way to arrest Professor Mäkinen. You’re next, because you work with him. I’m your chance to save your career.’
Krohn still had the same incredulous expression on his face. Then it changed to irritation. He said, ‘But there’s nothing wrong with our uranium?’
‘It gets diverted from Rotterdam to here, from Russia to here, that’s what’s wrong. I’ve just been to the harbour. What do you think the freighter Karelia brought from Tallinn to Helsinki today?’
Krohn shook his head. ‘But it’s not diverted. It just comes, from Yadrotech in Moscow, not A&C. You know, I’ll call Professor Mäkinen right now, and see whether the police are already there,’ he said to Hans. ‘And if not, I’ll call the police myself. In fact, I’ll call them right now.’
‘As you wish. Let’s just go there straight away. You take me to Mäkinen and join the party. We talk to him together. I see you have a car. Maybe it was just a mistake.’
Krohn shook his head and leaned over his desk to reach his phone.
Hans released the left hand from the cup he’d been cradling and threw the hot coffee into Krohn’s face. The man shrieked and pressed his back against his chair, covering his face with both hands. Hans clenched his teeth, pressed his lips together, jumped up from his chair, formed a fist and bashed it against the back of Krohn’s hands. Then he pushed him backwards from his chair, abruptly but carefully enough not to hurt his neck or skull. Then Hans sat on his stomach and started hitting him on the hands above his face. He knew he couldn’t just hit a person once and then apologise. He’d have to go through with it. One strike, then the next, then the next, a sequence of strikes with alternating fists. Then he used the lower edges of his palm, and the punches became more effective. He kept hitting him, faster and faster. At first he was restrained. His inhibition, which he had overridden for a second to throw the coffee, had returned. It was as if his upper arm was pushing with full force, but his lower arm resisted, cutting the force in half. But he needed to get over the restraint. To be credible you had to become an animal. An animal that didn’t care about credibility. His punches grew more forceful as he kept battering the man’s hands and face.
Krohn’s helpless voice was muffled by his own hands, blood started running through his fingers. Hans roared at him, like a soldier, a warrior who was himself scared shitless but whose life depended on scaring the enemy even more. Hans grabbed the man’s ear and forcefully twisted it. Krohn struggled, kicking around with his legs in pain. ‘I’ll break your fingers!’, Hans hissed, catching his victim’s hand with his own left and forming a fist around his middle finger. He jerked it upwards. ‘You fucking cunt, take me to Mäkinen.’ He’d pressed the words through his clenched teeth. He didn’t want to shout in case someone was in the building after all. Krohn tried to free his finger with his other hand, but Hans grabbed the other hand, too, and pulled up the man’s ring finger. Then he let go and punched him in the now exposed nose with his clenched fist, and spit in his face. The saliva landed on Krohn’s eye and ran down his temple. The blood was now streaming from both nostrils. Hans forced himself to remember how robust his own face had proven to be when hit by a much stronger foe than himself, and he forced himself to assume the same would be true of his victim now. He punched him again, with full force, with the edge of his palm, right in the delicate nose.
‘Stop it,’ Krohn whispered. ‘Stop.’
Hans said quietly, ‘I will take you to Mäkinen’s home now.’
A pause, a breath. ‘What?’
‘Repeat it, you idiot. I will take you to Mäkinen’s home now.’
Hans’s self-provoked rage subsided, he felt his inhibitions return. But he had to keep the pressure up. So he continued breathing heavily, even though his lungs didn’t strictly need it.
Krohn stammered, ‘I will… I will take you to Mäkinen. Now.’
‘To Mäkinen’s home.’
‘I will take you to Mäkinen’s home.’
‘Now.’
‘Now.’
‘Is he at home now?’
Krohn nodded with his blood-smeared face. ‘Yes.’
His voice sounded nasal because blood was still coming out of both nostrils.
Hans got up. Later he’ll remember it for what it was, he thought. He’d beaten an unsuspecting skinny academic, and he’d done it in a pretty girly way, too. He understood that he had been ill-trained in the delivery of pain to fellow human beings. The grenade-lobbing in the army had been a joke. But today had been a start, and for now he needed to keep the momentum.
‘Get up,’ he said to Krohn. ‘Sit down. Is Mäkinen’s address in the phone book?’
Krohn nodded. He was still lying on the floor.
‘I said get up and sit down.’ Hans kicked Krohn in the ribs, and he grunted. Strangely Hans’s use of his legs to administer pain was much less restrained than the use of his fists had been. He could have kicked him in the face, too.
Krohn slowly moved, sat up, then pulled himself up on the chair and sat down.
‘Open it.’
Krohn started typing carefully. His two twisted fingers were swollen red. Blood was dripping onto the keyboard from his nose, he used his free hand to hold it against his nostrils. He moved the mouse around and made so
me clicks, then typed again.
The screen showed a name and address.
‘Do you have a satnav in your car?’
Krohn nodded, but said, ‘I know where he lives.’
‘I want to see where you’re taking me. Where is your car?’
‘In the underground garage,’ Krohn said quietly, nasally.
‘Do you have a first-aid kit here?’
Krohn nodded and pointed at the closed door, meaning a room opposite his own.
‘Go get it,’ he told Krohn. ‘And wash your face with cold water against the burns. I’ll come with you.’
Krohn got up and stumbled over to the other room which turned out to be a small kitchen. Hans always remained one step behind him, saw that the corridor was still empty, and entered the kitchen as well. Hans opened one of the drawers, then the next one. Bingo. The drawer was full of cutlery, including one robust-looking steak knife. Hans took it out and kept holding it in his hand as he closed the two drawers.
Meanwhile Krohn carefully moistened his face above the sink, opened a first-aid kit on the wall, and took out a few rolls of dressing material.
‘Bring the whole kit back to the office,’ Hans said.
Krohn complied. He walked back and put the rolls and the kit down on his desk. Hans followed and closed the door behind him.
‘Sit down,’ he said. He gave Krohn a piece of cloth from the kit to hold against his nostrils and walked over to him. Krohn had already sat down in his own chair. Hans put the knife on the window-sill behind him and opened the plastic sealing of one of the dressing rolls. Then he started wrapping the white material horizontally around his victim’s face so that it covered his nose and the cloth. He unrolled it very carefully around his skull and just above his ears, with great dedication, trying not to bandage his nose too tightly. Krohn sat completely still. Perhaps he had closed his eyes. Hans lightly covered Krohn’s ear with his cupped hand, almost sensing the pain that had to be pulsing underneath the reddened skin. He gently touched Krohn’s left temple with the tip of his ring finger. He held it there for a few quiet moments.