Emil went through his morning exercise routine, stretched carefully and tried to cleanse his mind of the chaos of dreams and reality.
For the first time in a long while he made himself a decent breakfast: fried eggs – sunny side up; rashers of juicy bacon; thick slabs of rye bread; liver pâté; frozen blueberries and fat-free yoghurt. And coffee, coffee, coffee.
He sat down by the window and watched the new morning growing brighter.
7
This was going to be a hellish day. I was lying on my back. Naked. Without a duvet. Disjointed fragments heaved through my body in waves, vague memories of what I’d said and done the night before. Particularly what I’d done. Maarit was asleep next to me. She too was naked. Our skin was pallid and white, uncovered. The wall clock, with its large, grey face and the black hands, showed me it was five minutes to nine. Pauliina had taken Ella to nursery half an hour ago. I was breathing through my mouth, trying to think of something other than running to the window and hurling myself down to the merciful embrace of the asphalt below.
This wasn’t the first time I’d been in this position, but it was the first time since I’d met Pauliina. I didn’t want to take the thought any further. I hauled myself into a sitting position and stretched out a hand to find my trousers on the floor. I managed to slip my feet inside and stood up. The clock stubbornly showed that another minute had passed.
‘There’s coffee in the cupboard above the machine.’
I turned round. Maarit didn’t look as though she’d had too much to drink.
‘If you want to make some,’ she continued.
Again I looked at the clock. I’d already missed the one thing I should never miss under any circumstances. I didn’t especially want to stay but didn’t see how it could make the situation any worse than it already was.
As I measured water and coffee into the machine I began to feel even queasier. It wasn’t physical; it was mental. I sat down at a small, square table. Under different circumstances I would probably have thought the studio flat beautiful and spacious: just over thirty square metres; an old spruce floor, nicely varnished; two tall windows on this wall and a smaller, square window on the opposite wall. We were high up. Glittering in the morning sunshine, the rooftops looked like a series of frozen waves.
The coffee machine puffed and sighed right by my ear. Maarit got out of bed, pulled on a light-blue T-shirt and walked into the bathroom. I flicked open my phone and checked the morning headlines.
Nobody else seemed to be writing about Suomalahti.
The thought didn’t cause me the kind of joy that it should have, and, anyway, reading was painful. The hangover slowed everything down. The text seemed lumpy; the beginning of a sentence was forgotten as I tried to make sense of the final clause.
‘Anything new?’ asked Maarit.
She was standing next to me, looking down at my phone.
‘Don’t think so,’ I said and darkened the screen with a click of the thumb.
When Maarit didn’t move, I raised my eyes. She looked at me as though she was about to say something, but turned instead, took two mugs from the cupboard, poured coffee into both and sat down across the table. I couldn’t be entirely sure of everything I’d said the previous evening and night. Maarit nodded towards my phone.
‘When will we have something to read?’
At first her gaze was direct and inquisitive, then suddenly hesitant.
‘Just a thought,’ she added quickly. ‘What with my father’s papers and all…’
I pushed my phone back into my pocket and glanced again at the clock. Ten minutes had passed since I’d woken up. I stared at the black hands, as if I could reverse them. As if I could reverse everything that had happened over the last twelve hours. At the same time I realised something.
I was my father, trying to return to something that no longer existed. For him the passage of time was thirty years, for me it was a matter of hours. We were both trying to undo what had been done. Neither of us would succeed. You didn’t need to look far for a good metaphor: we’d both dug our own graves.
‘If I said anything about Suomalahti last night,’ I began, ‘just forget all about it.’
‘You didn’t.’
Again Maarit looked past me. We sat in silence. I glanced into the hallway. I saw her denim jacket with all the badges and remembered what the owner of the petrol station had said while I was up north.
Three men, one woman. Environmental activists.
‘Did you want me to talk about it?’ I asked.
Maarit turned her head just enough so that I could look into her eyes. She raised her shoulders.
‘It’s an important matter.’
‘How important?’
Maarit adjusted her position in the chair. There was something impatient in her posture, something that had been brewing for a long time.
‘The things that are going on up there. Anyone with a brain will get it right away.’
‘Get what?’
‘There’s no such thing as sustainable mining. It’s always unsustainable. That’s its nature – always has been. When you dig for nickel, you produce manganese, phosphorus – you name it. You have to do something with all the slag. Hundreds of square kilometres of land and surface water, and millions of cubic metres of groundwater, are being polluted. When the mine is closed down, the local area will never return to its natural state. It’s the truth. And…’
‘And what?’
Maarit looked at me. Her earlier impatient look had been replaced with one almost of regret – at her own outburst, perhaps.
‘Somebody has to do something. A good start might be if a certain journalist got his act together and wrote a certain article.’
The hand of the wall clock jolted forward, the fridge whirred. Far below us came the hum of traffic.
‘May I ask you something?’
‘I already told you yesterday: you can ask, but I might not answer.’
‘Have you been up there? To Suomalahti?’
‘I know what it looks like.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Exactly what I said. I’ve looked into the matter. Otherwise I wouldn’t spend time talking about it. Remember whose daughter I am. I study things, very carefully.’
‘One more question: did you turn up in Juttutupa last night by chance?’
Maarit drank the remains of her coffee. ‘I’m going to have a shower. I need to be at work by ten.’
A moment later I heard the sounds of running water. I had the distinct impression that I was in the wrong place. I rinsed out my cup, got dressed and left.
8
He’d kept the photograph all these years. It was dog-eared, faded and soft round the edges.
In the photograph a young family was eating ice cream next to the bridge at Seurasaari. A hot summer’s day; the bridge’s white railings freshly painted; colourful summer clothes – shorts and T-shirts (the 1980s were a crime against fashion); a one-year-old boy in a pram between his mother and father: a family that looked young and happy.
The day that photograph was taken was one of the best days of his life.
The day he’d been forced to turn his back on the people in that photograph was one of the worst.
Emil looked at both his telephones. One was the number he’d given his son and his mother. This phone had received a single text message, and nobody had called him. From time to time Emil looked at himself from the outside, from above, and he could see exactly how lonely he was. That eye looking down on him could see that there was a ring around Emil, a circle into which nobody had crossed for a very long time. Pulling down that invisible protective wall wasn’t easy.
He picked up the phone – the one whose number he’d given to the most important people in his life – and selected one of the two numbers in the memory. The phone rang, and a moment later someone picked up.
9
I found it just as hard to think about eating anything as I did to conside
r the man who’d spoken on the phone as my father. The fact was, I needed some fresh air. What I also needed – as crazy as it sounded – was a reliable, outside opinion. If the father who had been absent almost my entire life wasn’t an outsider, who was?
Again it had started to snow. I took the route via the square. Passing the door of Juttutupa would have been too much to cope with at this point. I took my phone from my pocket and, at the risk of freezing my fingers, decided to call Pauliina. The call went straight to the answering machine. I didn’t leave a message.
I passed the Ympyrätalo, the ‘Circle House’, a concrete edifice that had replaced a number of beautiful, early-twentieth-century art nouveau buildings on the same site, including the so-called Wendt House. Anyone who thinks the 1960s was the decade of love should acquaint themselves with the history of Helsinki architecture. Comparing what was demolished and what was built in its place, one thing is certain: the 1960s was a time of the utmost spiritual decline and immeasurable material destruction.
In keeping with the aesthetic spirit of the present occupant of the site, behind the building was a strange cluster of long-since closed-down fast-food kiosks and a mechanic’s workshop of some description. With its recesses and walls and plinths ideal for sitting on, the area was the perfect junkie magnet. It was only thirty metres to the pharmacist and the liquor store inside the building; a distance manageable even in the more advanced stages of oblivion. From early morning until late at night the small hideaway was full of noise and despair. That was the case now, too. A shirtless man with a cut at the side of his eye was howling at the snow falling from the sky and a woman beside him had pulled down her pants and was urinating into a pile of ploughed snow.
I walked up Siltasaarenkatu and turned left. In the house on the corner there was a Thai restaurant, now relatively busy given the lunchtime rush. My father said he’d booked a table.
Why now? Why now when everything was coming crashing down around me?
I remember how I’d hoped my father would return home and how I’d come up with various different explanations as to why he never did. I remember my mother’s awkward expression, her forced smile. When my insistent whinging carried on, her expression turned to one of impatience and eventually a look of sadness.
I’d continued explaining things to myself until my explanations came to have the same effect on me as they had on my mother. At some point in my adult life I noticed I hadn’t given the matter any thought for years. I didn’t know where it had gone, how it had worn away.
When I became a father myself, however, the matter took on a new significance. I had promised myself I would never leave Ella. Remembering that promise and the fact that I’d screwed up that morning brought more gloom to the already cold, grey day. I shook the snow from my shoulders and stepped into the restaurant.
My father was sitting against the back wall, facing the room and the door. He raised his hand, and in a few steps he was standing beside me. His handshake wasn’t exaggeratedly strong, but I could feel the power of his grip. At our first meeting I’d noted his movements, his body language. His hair was grey in a manner generally considered stylish. His eyes were expectant; his gaze the kind that seemed to read everything twice – first registering what he saw, then looking for what might possibly hide behind that which was immediately apparent. His body was slim; his sitting position light. I found it hard to believe he was sixty.
‘You look tired,’ he said once we’d ordered our lunch of coriander chicken and pork with chilli and peppers. ‘Too much work?’
‘Yes. Well, not exactly. I’ve got enough work. Too much of everything else though. I mean, not too much. A lot.’
He didn’t respond immediately. Then he continued in a soft voice. ‘I read your article about the mining company. That’ll keep you busy.’
‘You could say that.’
‘Has anything new come to light? Are we to expect any fresh revelations?’
Everybody is interested in this case. Everybody except Pauliina.
‘I hope so. I’m doing my best.’
‘I’ll be interested to see how it all pans out. It’s nice to see you take your work seriously. Work has always been important to me.’
More important than your own family.
‘How long are you planning on staying in Helsinki?’
The question took on a different tone from the one I’d meant. Now it sounded like an attack. My father’s eyes (would it be more natural to say Emil’s eyes?) remained impassive; his body didn’t flinch.
‘I’ve been thinking of moving back here. I notice how much I like it. The people who are important to me live here.’
‘Can you find work here?’ I asked and was relieved to hear that my tone was friendly, neutral.
‘I very much think I will.’
‘The same work you’ve been doing before?’
My father took a sip of water.
‘Can I show you something?’ he asked.
Before I could say anything his right hand was in his jacket pocket and he carefully placed the something on the table.
‘You, your mother and me.’
I looked at the photograph. I stared at it for a good few seconds. I had never seen this photo of the three of us. The small image said a lot. My chest winced; a cold knife sliced through my stomach. A family of three. What had I done? What had we both done? My mother had often taken me to Seurasaari; we used to take a picnic and spend entire summer days there. I don’t remember ever seeing the family in that photograph on our picnics. And the next thought to flash through my hungover mind: Is this how Ella would look at photographs of her mother and father; the family of her childhood? Would she think so-and-so is missing from this one, someone else from that one?
The waiter brought our meals. A bowl of steaming rice raised a curtain between us.
‘That was a wonderful day,’ said my father. It sounded to me as though he was saying out loud a thought that had run through his mind thousands of times. ‘One of the best days I can remember.’
I forced myself to eat. It became easier with each mouthful.
‘Is there anything you’d like to talk about?’ he said, out of the blue. ‘You look as though something’s bothering you.’
I looked at my father. We were essentially two complete strangers. But there was something about the man sitting opposite me that … I swallowed a forkful of rice, soft with coconut milk, felt the burn of chilli on my tongue. The thought appeared of its own accord. It was powerful, independent, unshakeable. For ultimately, who can a son trust if not his own father?
‘I think I might be being followed,’ I said. ‘Because of my work.’
‘Really?’ he replied, his expression unruffled.
‘Late last night, when I left the office. I wanted to go for a walk, needed some air, you know how it is. It had been a tough day, and things at home were a bit tense when I left. I walked down to the shore at Siltasaari…’
‘Lovely place,’ my father smiled. ‘One of my favourite spots in the city.’
‘Likewise,’ I agreed. The small interruption confused me, though at the same time I felt oddly safer. ‘I went there to get some fresh air, and I was about to walk back when I thought I saw a man who had followed me once before. He started walking behind me. Then another man—’
‘Do you know why he was following you?’
‘I can guess. If it was the same man, it must have something to do with Kari Lehtinen—’
‘Who is he?’
‘A reporter who left behind a lot of papers. Lots of material regarding Suomalahti. Why do you ask? Do you know him from somewhere?’
At first my father said nothing. ‘No,’ he replied eventually.
‘Lehtinen is dead,’ I said.
My father looked at me. ‘You said you were walking away from the shore and the man started following you. What happened then?’
‘I was scared. I’d already been kicked in the face once. I ran into a bar for cover.’<
br />
‘Is that why you’re so hungover?’
His smile was brief but warm.
‘What happened next?’ he went on.
‘I ran into an old friend.’
‘What about the men following you? What became of them?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you’re certain they were following you.’
‘What else could it be? They were the same men I’d seen up north.’
My father’s gaze focussed now; he lowered his chin, raised his shoulders a few millimetres. Nothing dramatic, but noticeable all the same.
‘So you know who they are,’ he said. His voice had dropped half an octave and he almost growled.
‘I think they’re the same men I met in Suomalahti,’ I said, ‘at the mine. I was writing a story and interviewed one of the guys – the head of security at the mining complex.’
My father didn’t immediately reply. The lunchtime rush seemed to be dying down.
‘I’m glad you told me,’ he said quietly. ‘You can always talk to me, about anything you wish.’
Perhaps it was the hangover, perhaps the argument with Pauliina, perhaps Maarit, or the fright I’d got yesterday; perhaps it was something to do with my long-lost father who was now sitting opposite me. Probably it was a combination of all these factors.
‘Do you mind if I take a picture of you?’ I asked.
For the first time I saw a flash of bewilderment and uncertainty on his face. It disappeared instantly, replaced by a cautious smile.
‘Of course not.’
I took my phone from my pocket and raised it. The man who had been missing for thirty years appeared in the viewfinder. I pressed the button. Twice.
We looked at each other. Something had happened, something more than the taking of a photograph.
If my father was suddenly so important to me, someone who had never had a father … I thought of Ella. I looked down at my plate. I lifted a forkful with a good combination of meat, vegetables, rice and sauce. To my relief my father had taken the photograph from the table and replaced it in his pocket.
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