The Year of the Hare

by Arto Paasilinna

The driver glanced back. They were heading out of town through the night forest and not going anywhere in particular, apparently. Furtively, the driver transferred a pistol from the glove compartment to the seat, between his legs. Uneasily, he studied his passenger.

  At the top of a rise, the passenger said: “Stop here.”

  The driver eased the pistol into his hand. The drunk, however, got out of the car peacefully and began shouting at the forest: “Vatanen! Vatanen!”

  The night forest didn’t return even an echo.

  “Vatanen! Hey, Vatanen! Are you there?”

  He took off his shoes, rolled his trousers up to his knees, and set off into the forest, barefoot. Soon he’d vanished in the darkness. He could be heard yelling for Vatanen among the trees.

  You get them all! the driver thought.

  After about half an hour in the dark forest, the passenger returned to the road and asked for a rag. He wiped his muddy shanks and put his shoes on his bare feet; the socks seemed to be in his jacket pocket. They drove back to Heinola.

  “You’ve lost this guy Vatanen, have you?”

  “Right. Left him there on the hill this evening. No sign of him there now.”

  “Didn’t see anything myself, either,” the driver said sympathetically.

  The next morning, the photographer woke up in the hotel at about eleven. A nasty hangover was splitting his head, and he felt sick. He remembered Vatanen’s disappearance. Must get in touch with Vatanen’s wife at her job, he thought.

  “He went off after a hare,” he told her. “On this hill. Then never came back. Of course I kept shouting, but not a squeak from him. So I left him there. Probably he wanted to stay there.”

  To this, the wife said: “Was he drunk?”

  “No.”

  “So where is he, then? The man can’t just disappear like that.”

  “He did just disappear like that. Hasn’t turned up there yet, I suppose?”

  “No, definitely not. God, that man’ll drive me crazy. Let him figure this out on his own. The thing is, he’s got to get back home right away. Tell him that.”

  “How can I tell him anything? I don’t even know where he is.”

  “Well, ferret him out. Get him to call me at work, right away. And tell him this is the last time he takes off this way. Listen, I’ve got a customer, I have to go. Tell him to call me. Bye.”

  The photographer called in to the magazine.

  “Yes ... and one other thing: Vatanen’s disappeared.”

  “Oh. Where’s he off to this time?” the editor asked.

  The photographer told him the story.

  “He’ll turn up in his own good time, won’t he? Anyway, this story of yours isn’t so drastic we can’t shelve it a day or two. We’ll run it when he gets back.”

  “But what if he’s had an accident?”

  The editor calmed him down: “Just get back here yourself. What d’you suppose could have happened to him? And, anyway, it’s his business.”

  “Should I tell the police?”

  “Tell his wife, if you want. Does she know?”

  “She knows, but it sounds like she can’t be bothered.”

  “Well, it’s not really our problem, either.”

  2

  Statement of Account

  Early the next morning, Vatanen woke up to birdsong in a sweet-smelling hayloft. The hare was lying in his armpit, apparently following the flitting of the swallows under the barn’s rafters—perhaps still building their nest there, or maybe feeding chicks already, judging by their busy dipping into the barn and out again.

  The sun was gleaming through the gaps in the barn’s warped old beams, and the piled-up hay was a warm bed. Lost in thought, Vatanen lolled in the hay for an hour or so before he got up and went out with the hare in his arms.

  There was an old meadow, full of wildflowers, and a brook murmuring beyond it. Vatanen put the hare down by the brook, stripped, and took a cold dip. A tight shoal of tiny fish, swimming upstream, took fright at the slightest movement, invariably forgetting their fear the next moment.

  Vatanen’s thoughts turned to his wife in Helsinki. He began to feel depressed.

  He didn’t like his wife. There was something not very nice about her: she’d been unpleasant, or at any rate totally focused on number one, all their married life. His wife had the habit of buying hideous clothes, out of style and uncomfortable; she never wore them for very long, because they soon lost their allure for her, too. She’d certainly have discarded Vatanen as well, if someone new were as easy to find as the clothes.

  Early in the marriage his wife had single-mindedly set out to assemble a common domicile, a home. Their apartment had become an extravagant farrago of shallow and meretricious interior-decoration tips from women’s magazines. A pseudo-radicalism governed the design, with huge posters and clumsy modular furniture. It was difficult to inhabit the rooms without injury; all the items were at odds. The home was distinctly reminiscent of Vatanen’s marriage.

  One spring, his wife became pregnant but quickly procured an abortion: a crib would have disturbed the harmony of the furnishings. But the real explanation came to Vatanen’s notice after the abortion: the baby wasn’t Vatanen’s.

  “Jealous of a dead fetus?” his wife spluttered when he brought up the subject. “You can’t be!”

  Vatanen settled the young hare at the edge of the brook, so it could reach down for a drink. Its little hare-lip began lapping up fresh water; it was astonishingly thirsty for such a small creature. When it had drunk, it began tucking into the leafage on the bank. Its hind leg was obviously still painful.

  Maybe I should head back to Helsinki? Vatanen was wondering. What would they be saying in the office?

  But what an office, what a job! A weekly magazine, everlastingly creating a stir about supposed abuses, while craftily keeping mum on any fundamental ills of society. Week after week the rag’s cover displayed the faces of no-goods—minxes, models, some rock singer’s latest offspring. When he was younger, Vatanen was pleased to have a reporter’s job on a major journal, particularly so when he had the chance to interview some misrepresented person, ideally someone oppressed by the state. That way he felt he was doing some good: such-and-such a defect, at least, was getting an airing. But now, with the years, he no longer supposed he was achieving anything: he was merely doing the absolutely necessary, satisfied if he personally was not contributing any misconceptions. His colleagues were in the same mold: frustrated at work, cynical in consequence. No need for marketing experts to tell journalists like these what stories the publisher expected. The stories were churned out. The magazine succeeded, but not by transmitting information—by diluting it, muffling its significance, cooking it into chatty entertainment. What a profession!

  Vatanen got a reasonably good salary, but even so he was always in financial difficulties. His apartment cost hundreds a month: rents in Helsinki were so high. Because of the rent, he’d never be in a position to buy his own place. He had managed to get himself a boat, but for that, too, he was in debt. Apart from sailing, Vatanen had no particular pastimes. His wife sometimes suggested going to the theater, but he had no wish to go out with her: he got enough of her voice at home.

  Vatanen sighed.

  The summer morning was getting brighter and brighter, but his gloomy thoughts were getting darker and darker. Not till the hare had eaten and Vatanen had put it in his pocket did the wretched thoughts leave him. Purposefully, he set off westward, the direction he’d taken the evening before, shunning the road. The forest murmur gladdened him. He hummed a couple of snatches. The hare’s ears poked out of his jacket pocket.

  After an hour or two, Vatanen came to a village. Walking along the main street, he found a red kiosk. A girl was bustling around it, just about to open her little business, apparently.

  He went over to the kiosk, said good morning, and sat down on the bench. The girl opened the shutters, went in the kiosk, slid aside a glass partition, and said: “We�
��re open now. Can I help you?”

  Vatanen bought some cigarettes and a bottle of lemonade. The girl studied him carefully and then said, “You’re not a criminal, are you?”

  “No ... do I scare you?”

  “No, that’s not it. It’s just that you came out of the forest.”

  Vatanen took the hare out of his pocket and let it bumble around on the bench.

  “Hey, a bunny!” the girl exclaimed.

  “Not a bunny, it’s a hare. I found it.”

  “Aw, poor thing! It’s got a sore leg. I’ll get it some carrots.”

  She left her kiosk and ran into a nearby house. Soon she was back with a bunch of last season’s carrots. She washed off the soil with a dash of lemonade and eagerly offered them to the hare, but it didn’t eat. That made her a little disappointed.

  “He doesn’t seem to take to them.”

  “He’s a bit sick. You don’t have a vet in the village, do you?”

  “Oh, yes, there’s Mattila. He’s not from around here, of course—from Helsinki. Always here in the summers, away in the winters. His villa’s over there, by the lakeshore. Climb on the roof, and I’ll show you which it is.”

  Vatanen climbed on the kiosk roof, and from down below the girl told him which way to look, and what color the villa was. Vatanen looked toward where she said and spotted the villa, then climbed down as the girl supported his bottom with her hands.

  The vet gave the hare a small injection and carefully bandaged its hind leg.

  “It’s had a shock. The paw will heal all right. If you take it to town, get it some fresh lettuce. It’ll eat that. Don’t forget to rinse the lettuce well, or it might get the runs. For drinking, nothing but fresh water.”

  When Vatanen got back to the kiosk, several men were sitting there with time on their hands. The girl introduced Vatanen: “Here he is, the man with the hare.”

  The men were drinking lager. They were fascinated by the hare and asked a lot of questions. They tried to reckon how old it might be. One of them related how, whenever he was going haymaking, he first went around the hay-fields shouting, so that any young hares hidden there would run away.

  “Otherwise the blades’ll get ’em. One summer there were three. One had its ears cut off, another lost its back legs, another was cut in two. The summers I’ve chased ’em off first, not one got caught in the machine.”

  The village was so agreeable, Vatanen stayed on there several days, occupying an attic in one of the houses.

  3

  Arrangements

  Vatanen took the bus bound for Heinola: even in an agreeable village, one can’t hang around doing nothing forever.

  He sat on the rear seat of the bus, with the hare in a basket. Several countrymen were sitting at the back, so they could smoke. When they spotted the hare, they started building a conversation around it. There were, it was soon established, more young hares than usual this summer. They tried to guess: was it a doe or a buck? Did he intend to slaughter and eat the hare when it was fully grown? No, he had no such intention, he said. That led to a consensus: no one would kill his own dog; and it was sometimes easier to get attached to an animal than to a person.

  Vatanen took a room in a hotel, washed, and went downstairs to eat. It was midday; the restaurant completely deserted. Vatanen sat the hare on the chair next to him.

  The headwaiter observed it, menu in hand. “Strictly speaking, animals are not permitted in the restaurant.”

  “It’s not dangerous.”

  Vatanen ordered lunch for himself, and for the hare fresh lettuce, grated carrot, and pure water. The headwaiter gave a long look when Vatanen put the hare on the table to eat the lettuce out of the dish, but he didn’t go so far as to forbid it.

  After the meal Vatanen called his wife from the hall telephone.

  “So it’s you, is it?” she cried in a fury. “Where on earth are you? Get back here at once!”

  “I’ve been thinking, I may not come back at all.”

  “Oh, that’s what you’ve been thinking, is it? You’ve gone completely crazy. Now you have to come home. This lark’ll get you fired, too, that’s for certain. And besides, Antero and Kerttu are coming over tonight. What am I going to say to them?”

  “Say I’ve skedaddled. Then at least you won’t have to lie.”

  “How can I tell them something like that! What’ll they think? If you’re looking for a divorce, it won’t work, I can tell you! I’m not letting you off that way when you’ve ruined my life—eight years down the drain because of you! I was insane to marry you!”

  She began to cry.

  “Cry quicker, or the call’ll get too expensive.”

  “If you don’t come back here at once, I’ll get the police. That’ll teach you to stay at home!”

  “It’s hardly a case for the police.”

  “Believe me, I’ll phone up Antti Ruuhonen straight-away. That’ll show you I’ve got company.”

  Vatanen hung up.

  Then he called his friend Yrjö.

  “Listen, Yrjö. I’m willing to sell you the boat.”

  “You don’t mean it! Where are you calling from?”

  “I’m in the country, Heinola. I’m not planning to come back to Helsinki for the moment, and I need some cash. Do you still want it?”

  “Definitely. How much? Seven grand, was it?”

  “Okay, let’s say that. You can get the keys from the office. Bottom left-hand drawer of my desk—two keys on a blue plastic ring. Ask Leena. You know her, she can give them to you. Say I said so. Do you have the money?”

  “Yes, I do. Are you including the mooring?”

  “Yes, that’s included. Do it this way: go straight to my bank and pay off the rest of my loan.” Vatanen gave him his account number. “Then go to my wife. Give her two and a half thousand. Then send the remaining three thousand two hundred express to the bank in Heinola—same bank. Is that all right?”

  “And your charts come with the deal as well?”

  “They do. They’re at home, you can get them from my wife. Listen. Don’t land that boat on a rock. Take it easy for starters and you won’t get into trouble.”

  “Tell me, how do you have the heart to sell it? Have you lost your nerve?”

  “You could say that.”

  The following day, Vatanen was off to the Heinola bank, carrying his hare. His step was light, his manner carefree, as might be expected.

  Much has been said about the sixth sense, and the closer he got to the bank, the more distinctly he began to feel that matters weren’t quite as they should be. He was already on his guard when he got to the bank, though he had no idea what was awaiting him. He supposed that even a few days of freedom had sharpened his senses, an amusing thought that made him smile as he entered the bank.

  His intuition had been right.

  In the lobby, back to the door, sat his wife. His heart leaped; anger and fear flooded his body. Even the hare jumped.

  He dashed out again and ran down the street as fast as his legs would carry him. Oncomers stopped in astonishment to see a man bolting out of a bank with a basket and two small hare’s ears poking out of it. He tore to the end of the block, ducked down a side street, found a little tavern door, and slipped straight into the restaurant. He was out of breath.

  “If I’m not mistaken, sir, you’re Mr. Vatanen,” the headwaiter said, looking at the hare as if he recognized it. “You’re expected.”

  At the other end of the restaurant sat the photographer and the chief editor. They were drinking beer together and hadn’t noticed Vatanen. The headwaiter explained that the gentlemen had asked him to direct a person looking like Mr. Vatanen to their table, and that he might have a hare with him.

  Again Vatanen had been trapped.

  He slipped out, sneaked back to his hotel, and tried to think. What had gone wrong with his arrangements? Of course, goddamned Yrjö was behind it.

  He phoned Yrjö—the nitwit had told Vatanen’s wife where he was se
nding the remainder of the money. The rest could be imagined: his wife had ganged up with the office, and they’d come to Heinola to grab him. She was sitting in the bank waiting for him to collect his cash.

  The money had been sent to the bank, but how could he get hold of it without a scene? This needed thinking through.

  He hit on what to do. He phoned down to the receptionist and asked her to make out his bill, but added that three people would soon be coming to meet him in his room, a woman and two men. Then he wrote a few words on a sheet of the hotel stationery and left the note on the table. This done, he looked up the number of the restaurant where he’d just been dancing like a cat on hot bricks, grabbed the telephone, and called; the headwaiter replied.

  “This is Vatanen. Could you get me one or the other of the two men who’re expecting me?”

  “Is that Vatanen?” came a voice shortly. It was the editor.

  “Speaking. Morning.”

  “You’ve had it. Guess what: your old woman’s sitting in the bank, and we’re right here. Get over here fast, and then we can all get back to Helsinki. Enough of this.”

  “Listen, I can’t get there this minute. Come here, all three of you, to my hotel room. It’s number 312. I’ve got to make these two long-distance calls. Pick up my wife from the bank, and we’ll sort the whole thing out together, the four of us.”

  “Right, okay. We’ll be there. Stay where you are, though!”

  “Of course. Bye.”

  This said, Vatanen rushed out to the elevator with the hare and paid the receptionist for the room and his calls. He told her, though, that he’d like her to let in three people who were coming to meet him. Still on the run, he slipped out into the street.

  He took a side-street route to the bank. Peeping through the glass doors, he saw that his wife had not gone, damnit! He retreated and lurked around the corner.

  Soon two men emerged from the tavern nearby, the editor and the photographer. They entered the bank. Shortly they appeared again, accompanied by Vatanen’s wife. All three set off in the direction of the hotel. Vatanen could hear his wife: “I told you this was the only way we’d get him, didn’t I?”