The Human Part

by Kari Hotakainen

  It went this way. When Pekka went to confirmation camp and they had to read the Bible out loud, everyone in turn, and when it came to Pekka’s turn, the Holy Word came from his mouth one syllable at a time, and as a man of words you can understand how that would sound. The priest there beside him of course thought that Pekka was intentionally trying to amuse his friends by mocking the Word of God. The priest put Pekka in detention in a shack by the lake without food for the day and then let him go to bed hungry. In the night Pekka borrowed a friend’s moped and drove home, taking some bread from the cupboard and then hurrying back to the camp. In the morning he gave the soft, fresh bread to the boy who had lent him the moped and to everyone else, and the priest found out. It meant no good for Pekka for the rest of the camp.

  Then came Confirmation Sunday and all the young people knelt before the altar in their white frocks. The priest came to Pekka with the bread and wine and mumbled about the Blood of God sacrificed on your behalf. Just as the chalice was placed in front of Pekka’s mouth, he said he couldn’t drink because he would be driving his moped.

  Afterward the priest came to Paavo and me in the churchyard, and before he could open his mouth, Paavo said that the whole family had come on that same moped.

  That was our Pekka’s foundation for adulthood.

  A human is a fledgling bird alright. It has to leave the nest even if its wings are transparent. I often thanked Paavo for those words there in the churchyard. Those words were wings. And a stutterer has the advantage compared to the rest of us that he remembers the things people say better than normal. Without knowing it, Paavo had been raising his son in that churchyard. He took his side.

  You can’t understand this exactly since you don’t have children.

  Or you may if you go home and think after you leave here.

  Alfred Supinen said once that he had no one and everyone in this world. I didn’t understand immediately, but he explained that as a person without a family, he treated all small people, whether they were children or those otherwise diminutive in stature, as if they were on loan to him, just like life is in general. With our children Supinen acted as if he had always been there, even though he was just visiting. He took the children seriously and answered their questions matter-of-factly and with precision.

  Of course Helena, Pekka, and Maija fell in love with him and were constantly asking when the display designer was coming. Pekka in particular followed him around, and even as an adult has marveled at why a person like that would want to hang himself. We didn’t expect it either, because you can’t see inside a person, even though it claims in the Bible that God can see all of our thoughts. That book exaggerates. Claims like that set God up as an utterly impossible being. No one sees everything. It would ruin your eyes.

  At least we couldn’t see into Supinen, even though he was so luminous. Sometimes the children were dazzled by how much time he had—or maybe he didn’t have any more than everyone else, but he took it. For each child he made time stand still. Children remember things like that forever.

  And of course I hope that now that I’ve told my life, you will go home and break your clock for Salme and think that for a little while there will just be this one old woman in the world and I will concentrate on her.

  A person only needs two traits: the ability to concentrate and imagination. Concentrate on what you are doing and imagine yourself in the other person’s position. That’s all—everything else will follow.

  I’m saying this too late and as an aside. In this world there isn’t time to raise your children, and once you start working things out, it’s already too late. I’m not even sure about my postcards. It could be that the kids throw them in the bin without reading them. I send them because I believe in the word, like you in a way.

  Apparently they actually print in the instructions for my children’s mobile phones that they have to answer no matter what. Maija even answered in the shower once. Find the sense in that. That was why I started sending the cards. So they can concentrate on reading them.

  Now I’m going to take this money and turn it into good energy.

  Before people used squirrel pelts as money. It makes you sad for the creatures now, after the fact, but it was for a good cause. I’m going to turn this money into squirrel pelts and cover my eldest daughter with them when she gets cold.

  THE STORYTELLER

  The author came home, transcribed what the dictaphone had captured, scanned his notebook and began to put the story together. He knew the task would be difficult, but possible. He incorporated into the story everything he knew of the world and everything he had only begun to suspect.

  He took out a large sheet of paper and drew Salme and Paavo and their children, Helena, Pekka and Maija on it. Around them all he drew a large box, which he labeled “Society.” Inside the box he drew ten more “X”s, which signified the unknown factors that always influence people’s lives.

  Then the author concentrated. He closed his eyes and thought about his own life. It was small and insignificant. Not much happened in it. But he decided to incorporate part of it into the story, and it was in this frame of mind that he wrote a letter to the person who had donated her life.

  Dear Mrs. Malmikunnas,

  Our last meeting has been weighing on my mind. My purpose was not to offend, but I am sure that I did.

  I ask your forgiveness. This profession of mine is difficult. I have to serve both truth and falsehood at the same time. Perhaps you will not understand, but for me truth and falsehood are twins. They avoid one another, they shun one another, but they cannot live without one another.

  When you sold me your life, I am sure I did not explain sufficiently clearly that I would be making my own version of it. Your truth is your own. My truth is the reader’s truth—assuming the book is published. If the book is not published, your truth will remain the only valid one.

  But one thing unites us. You need money for a good cause, and I need this book. Without a book I disappear. Without a book there is no me. You may think that might not be such a terrible loss, but in my profession the fact is that an author only exists through his books.

  During our meetings you lost your temper with me several times. This was caused by the fact that we have such different views on literature. Or more correctly, and excuse me for saying so, by you having no view at all. You suppose that writing a book means putting down on paper everything someone has seen and experienced. That system would give us some pretty thick, unreadable books. But I want to believe that if and when you read the book made from your life, you will understand what I mean. In my previous letter I used an example of a whooper swan, attempting to explain from how many different perspectives it would have to be described for both the reader and the swan to be satisfied.

  Now let me use a pig as an example.

  We see it in the pigpen along with others of its kind. It grunts and roots around, scraping at the ground. It evokes strong feelings.

  If I were to write a story about it, I would begin with the assumption that it is there in the pen for us. Before long we will be killing and eating it. I would describe it from this perspective and feel empathy toward it.

  This is the human perspective. The pig has another.

  We do not know what the pig is thinking, but I suppose it does not think of the future, living only in the moment. It pushes others out of the way, trying to get to the food trough and out to walk around. If it sees a bird in the yard, it might be jealous. Perhaps. We do not know. Perhaps it would think the bird is an optical illusion, because it supposes there is nothing in the world besides the pig itself and its master. The pig does not remember yesterday, does not consider the future, and yet senses something when the rubber-suited men approach it. The pig fears the men, and with good reason, because the men will soon be applying an electric shock to end the pig’s life.

  Then there is the perspective of a child. In the pig, a child sees Christmas, but not its path to the Christmas table. A chil
d thinks the pig is cute, calling every pig “piggy.” Piggies have even been the main characters in films, because adults remember their own childhoods. Children’s books are also full of their socket noses.

  Now we have three perspectives of the pig’s life. If we were to write a story from only the pig’s perspective, the story would be short and unconvincing. If I succeed with my book, we will see the sow and the boar in the pen. Their children, that is their piglets, have left the hog house and gone out into the world and are trying to get along and avoid the slaughterhouse. The life of a pig has changed from previous times such that the sow and boar are no longer able to keep up with everything that happens to the piglets. Then something bad happens to one of them (let me remind you, Mrs. Malmikunnas, that I am speaking metaphorically now, and that of course I do not consider you a pig but rather am simply attempting to describe my intentions as though in a fable), but luckily the other pigs and a monkey come to the rescue.

  And so on.

  If I succeed, your life will become rich and full, something that others besides the permanent residents of the hog house will be able to relate to.

  Best wishes, A

  Four days later, the author received two postcards, an autumn scene and a lake scene. The text was split between them.

  Dear Author,

  I am sitting here in a beautiful place with Helena not feeling any desire to quarrel over ugly things. By the way, do you eat berries? Nature is constantly giving us tips for a better life. Lingonberries, blueberries, sea-buckthorn berries and the rest. Paavo and I eat them daily. This is a hint. And I have one request as well. When the

  (Continues on lake scene. Didn’t fit on one card. Sorry.)

  book appears, could you say at the book fair or wherever it is presented that it is completely made up? I could even pay you a little for this favor, since we sold our old car. This is extremely important to me. Did you know, by the way, that the sea-buckthorn berry has almost all the vitamins a person needs? Salme

  THE SPEAKER

  Kimmo got into the car, taking hold of the sturdy door handle and pulling. The heavy door thumped closed so tightly that none of the commotion of life could penetrate it. He had paid 55,000 euros for the car, but now it felt like every single one was paying itself back. In fact, he knew he had paid a small sum for the soundproofing and the ergonomic seat that conformed to every contour of the human body. For the same money he could have bought a small studio apartment in a bad part of town, but the accessories could easily have included noisy neighbors and junkies in the stairwell.

  Kimmo worked himself deeper into the cupping seat and thought: For the first time, I have a car that accelerates from zero to one hundred faster than its owner and whose torque in the lower gears is stronger than its owner’s pull against a customer’s biases. Kimmo was so deeply happy about his new vehicle that he closed his eyes and imagined its path from the production line to his driveway.

  Two months before a Turkish finisher named Turkai Göz woke up early in the morning on the outskirts of the city of Ingolstadt, trimmed his sideburns, said goodbye to his wife, drove his little Volkswagen Polo the twenty-kilometer journey to the Audi factory complex, clocked himself in, walked to his line and crouched next to an Audi S3 automobile.

  Turkai knew that he was the last person between the factory and the auto dealership. After him the car would move to the delivery hall and then on to the dealer, who would sell the car to the customer. Turkai felt important and responsible, even though it didn’t show in his salary. Professional pride made up for the missing euros.

  Kimmo thought of Turkai with warmth, although he did slightly dislike the thought that his car had been inspected by a Turk who smelled of kebabs rather than a German with millimeter precision, but in a world of freely moving capital and labor, one couldn’t whine about minor blemishes.

  Turkai inspected the locks, the seals, the seat rails, the chrome surfaces, the details of the control system, the breaks and the remote control. He placed a protective covering over the driver’s seat, sat down, turned on the car and went over the computer. Everything was in order. At this point Turkai often found himself thinking somewhat childishly: I deliver you to the road and wish that your journey be not so full of thorns as mine and that of my family, but that you move lightly, without so much as a backward glance

  Turkai collected the protective coverings from the front and back seats and pressed a button. The Audi S3 jerked forward, and immediately another, identical, appeared in its place. They only became individuals in the driveways of people like Kimmo.

  Kimmo blessed Turkai and his family and the whole of the German–Turkish minority who toiled in a foreign land so that all European nations could have the opportunity to partake of the fruits of German engineering. Kimmo thought sympathetically for a moment of the Islamic faith, although he shunned the basic idea in all religions that there is some greater purpose behind everything. There was no hidden purpose, but at that moment, sitting on the leather seat of his new car, Kimmo vouchsafed Turkai Göz and his family the shreds of comfort they received from their false religion and the calls to prayer of their muezzins echoing from the minarets.

  Kimmo started the car and pressed on the accelerator. The car growled. He floored the pedal. The car howled. He lifted his foot. The car hummed. Yes. That was right. It was an animal that he had tamed. It obeyed him, but without discipline it would run wild, bolting off wherever it wished. You have to make it clear to an animal right from the beginning who’s boss. If you don’t set limits for an animal, it feels insecure. The Audi now knew that Kimmo had the power. And Kimmo knew that an Audi can be a rowdy scallywag if you give it any slack.

  Kimmo set off driving along the coastal road. The Audi obeyed his every command. Sometimes it would sniff a Japanese or Korean rump, but then it would brush past at Kimmo’s command. The road extended toward the sunset, with Turku beyond. Kimmo didn’t have any business there, but the Audi had caught the scent. He gave the car its head, but took care that it didn’t run too fast. One hundred and eighty kilometers per hour was just the right speed. It let the animal’s temperament show through, although its true personality naturally lurked at an entirely different speed range.

  The Audi sensed it was approaching its native pastures—a motor knows the motorway. Its four paws, which in this case were sheathed in low profile tires, probed the road, conforming to its every dip and depression. The Audi wanted to run as fast as it could, but it also wanted to obey its master, who was clearly lapsing into a deep, contemplative state. This always happens to the Master when he takes time for himself and goes out roaming in nature. Of course I’m still a pup and can wait for my real time to run, but my paws are already itching for it. Mountains and rocks have been blasted out of my way and a smooth path has been laid beneath my feet. It rankles to lope along at half power, especially since some upper-crust French mongrel just cruised by and Master didn’t let me follow him. On the other hand, the mongrel was screaming his head off, obviously giving everything he had to show me his backside.

  Kimmo decided to creep along at 140 kilometers per hour all the way to Salo so he could think about life.

  Life. After having lived two-thirds of it, he understood it as a story. Life isn’t interesting—the story is. Especially when he had recognized that not all successful people’s lives are stories by any means. They were usually a creamy mixture of privileged background and obvious choices, lives that only leave behind cold numbers and carefully cropped close-ups. If you’re born with a golden spoon in your mouth, there’s every chance of losing your sense of taste early on.

  Kimmo had started out the only way possible for a good story: from nothing. When you start from nothing, you’re sure to know fulfillment when you find it. “I came to this city as no one, with nothing, from nowhere.” He used that phrase at the beginning of his presentations, most recently during Idea Days.

  From nowhere.

  Yeah.

  In retrospect it w
as possible to see purpose and meaning in it, but then, ten years ago, everything had just felt hard and unfair. He had delivered newspapers, toiled away on building sites and at the docks, collected empty bottles, cleaned stairwells and sat in a drafty car park tollbooth.

  Personally, he considered the turning point to have been the moment when he had finally had his fill of toil and poverty. Millions of people have that same moment, but only one in a thousand seizes it. In that moment Kimmo had decided that he would never again in his life dirty his hands. He decided to make money with his head.

  Something gray flashed in his field of vision three hundred meters ahead. Kimmo braked. The Audi acquiesced to a speed of 100 kilometers per hour. The grayness took on the form of a moose climbing up the embankment toward the road. Kimmo put the brake pedal to the floor. The shocks compressed, the car coming to a stop at the last second. Kimmo saw a brown, tapered mass in front of him, swaying back and forth in slow motion. It was a head, and the eyes set on each side of it were moist and drowsy.

  The moose stared at the windscreen and the creature behind it. The creature had its mouth open. Its forehead was against the glass. The moose had seen these creatures before—they came into the forest to collect berries. Sometimes they flew through the glass onto the road, his late father’s brother had said. More of us die than them, the moose thought. Even though they sometimes have shells and glass around them, they still die. They’re flimsy and wobble around on two legs. They build these strips through the middle of our forest. They come with shells, but their shells break easily. My father ran into a creature like that.