The Human Part

by Kari Hotakainen

  Kimmo was shaking. He removed his hands from the wheel and placed them on his knees. The moose rocked into motion. It traipsed across the road and forced its way through the bushes off into the darkness. Kimmo hated it. Not because it was a moose, but because it represented chance and irrationality. A moose could just appear out of nowhere and end your life. Because of this Kimmo never ate any food made with moose, even though he generally enjoyed all meat dishes. Once he had been served a moose stew but had refused it, saying, “I will only eat this enemy if I have killed him myself.”

  Kimmo patted the Audi’s dashboard and whispered, “It’s alright. Calm down. We’re still alive.” He started the car and accelerated to 120 kilometers per hour, even though he knew the Audi hated going so slowly. One moose often meant others, and Kimmo did not want to take the risk.

  He rewound his thoughts to the turning point in his life, to the moment when he had decided to make money with his head. He had thought that going to a college or university could open up superb possibilities, but that was a slow, rocky path. And there wasn’t necessarily a money tree growing at the end of it.

  He had realized the importance of capital. He had to get capital. Capitalis. Caput. Head. Capital. That one word captured everything. He had built up capital by working three jobs simultaneously for a year. After that he had slept for four days with the aid of sedatives and then marched into a bank with his capital. He had used it to take out a loan and purchase a dilapidated studio apartment. He had guessed right. Money didn’t grow on trees—it grew in buildings made of stone. Assuming the building was in a good location. And a good location is where there are jobs and people. Money accrues interest in buildings, and even if it doesn’t, it doesn’t disappear anywhere. In a few years the price of the small studio apartment had tripled. He had sold it and, with a small additional loan, purchased two more even smaller studios. He moved into one and rented out the other.

  Once his tenant had called to inform Kimmo he wouldn’t be able to pay his rent. Kimmo had said he would call back soon. He had seen an opportunity where someone else would have just seen an inconvenience. He informed the tenant that everything would be O.K. if he would agree to make two payments the next month at ten percent interest. The tenant had agreed. Over the next three years, Kimmo had taken rent at interest several times.

  Capital. Interest.

  Two important words.

  Interest on capital. Just putting one bit of interest in front of another, as Kimmo sometimes had a habit of expressing it in selected company as Friday turned to Saturday in an upscale restaurant.

  During the two-studio period, Kimmo had supported himself as a taxi driver and a doorman at a restaurant. In those jobs he had found himself possessed of a special gift: he knew how to talk in such a way that people were entertained, laughed, calmed down and started talking themselves. He spent his days standing at the door of the restaurant and his nights sitting in a taxi. And his mouth worked. He was a machine grinding out phrases about the weather, T.V. programs, the price of gas, refugees, what the opposition was doing, retail oligopoly, equality, football and Formula One. If a customer started in on a subject that was unfamiliar to him, he jumped on board, agreeing and easing himself into the new topic. He would say a few words, but was careful not to disagree with the customer. Soon he developed a large regular clientele, who never entered the restaurant or sat down in his taxi without uttering some light turn of phrase. And thus Kimmo gradually learned to understand the importance of speech in all human communication. Without speech there was only action, and action was from the old world, where everything was done by hand. Action is a good thing, but it has to be flavored with speech.

  Property and speech had value. Kimmo knew he had been born into a good world. He also very quickly realized that speech is valued even more if the speaker has status. Of course people listened to Kimmo’s stories at the door to the cloakroom and in the back seat of the taxi, but they listened even more intently to people who were somebody.

  Somebody.

  That guy.

  You know.

  From that show.

  Kimmo learned quickly. He decided to get status. He cut his taxi driving time back by half and began to study at the university. He graduated with a master’s degree in economics in three and a half years because he read with the intensity of a starving man and with the instincts of an animal. He didn’t internalize anything, but knew everything by heart. If he had been able to choose, the piece of paper would have said “speaker” instead of “master.”

  And from then on, licensed by that piece of paper, Kimmo had spoken for everything he wanted. First a job in an advertising office, and then a partnership, and then the whole office, the sale of which now allowed him to live without doing anything.

  He had done things right and wrong, he had succeeded and failed, but the most important thing was that he had spoken. He had talked himself into situations and out of them. He had used speech to change frogs into princes and crises into opportunities. He had continued to speak even after everyone else had stopped. He had understood what this was all about: it didn’t matter what the product was like—it mattered how you spoke about it.

  Kimmo had a habit of speaking using examples and metaphors. Rich countries have ore, oil and other natural riches. Poor countries only have folklore. But thankfully those traditions are full of metaphors and illustrative stories, which Kimmo used as the basis for his marketing speeches. For example, primitive man didn’t buy an ax, he bought fire. The ax was the tool that ancient man used to get fire, light, warmth, the ability to cook food, perhaps even a woman, who might come to him drawn by the glow of the fire. That is, don’t sell the ax, sell everything that comes with it.

  Downtown Turku shimmered on the horizon. Kimmo slowed the Audi and glided toward the heart of the city at 80 kilometers per hour. He stopped on the edge of the market square, but did not immediately turn off the engine. He wanted to listen to the car, which had just covered a 165-kilometer trip at an average speed of 139 kilometers per hour. The sound of the engine was dispirited, but not broken. Kimmo sensed irritation and sorrow in the sound at having had its natural abilities sold short, that it had been forced to take into account speed limits set by the rabble.

  Kimmo turned off the engine and pondered contradiction. Contradiction is salt. Without contradiction, life has no flavor. And the last thing that had added flavor to the pot was that woman at the party.

  Blond hair attractively attached to an intelligent head, trim frame, tooth jewel, large black watch, generally relaxed bearing. But the woman’s speech and especially her actions did not fit the whole—they were more appropriate for toothless, bad-smelling people who had already given up and fallen out of sight.

  She had pulled his ear.

  Children were pulled by the ear. Or animals.

  Was there some symbolism in it? A hidden message?

  Kimmo was over being offended. Now he was considering the matter from a distance, clinically. At the same time, he also enjoyed the position of victim. By her poor behavior the woman had driven herself into a trap: she owed Kimmo—not money, but an explanation or an apology. Kimmo liked people to owe him things. Debt tied people to each other more strongly that anything else. The glue of debt held.

  Interest and debt, debt and interest. The Siamese twins of the market economy.

  Kimmo knew the woman was attainable. Everything was. Sooner or later.

  The winner was whoever could afford to wait. For prices to rise, for the next slump, for forgiveness. Before long whoever bites your leg will come trotting back to sit at your feet. And this time she wouldn’t bite, she would stroke and massage and spread balsam oil over those feet.

  The square was quiet. The cobblestones glistened wet. Steam rose from a manhole.

  Kimmo imagined a tribe living under the square, ignorant of our civilized society. One day it would rise from below and make everything anew. Our habits, the structures of society, our preciou
s law and order.

  But not yet.

  Kimmo started the Audi. It rumbled angrily at the tribe living beneath the square.

  POSTCARD, HIGH STREET

  Pekka, my only son!

  Don’t play with fire. No fooling around on the sea. Take responsibility even if it isn’t offered. Look people in the eye. We don’t buy Korean compass saws (Dad’s advice). In addition to these instructions, I also have to say: don’t mock your mother. Maija said you don’t have a blended family. Why would you tell me something like that, you brat? You’re good enough for me just the way you are. I’m making rosehip soup for the weekend.

  Your mother

  THE CONNOISSEUR

  Pekka Malmikunnas wandered the streets of the city, blowing here and there like a discarded plastic bag, driven by the weather and his moods. He found himself in parks, in alleys and at the harbor, in places where he had never been before.

  On really cold days he gravitated toward the large department stores, whose buzzing entrances sucked all sorts of passers-by into their warmth. Pekka had no way to buy anything, but even with empty pockets he was able to enjoy the material abundance. All sorts of jars, Christmas decorations, gadgets, gizmos, implements and contraptions had been produced for the enjoyment of man. It was fun to fiddle with them and think that had the stars aligned differently, he too could stroll about in a smoking jacket like that and open a bottle of red wine with a hundred-euro corkscrew. With good luck he too could wrap himself in the cashmere a goat plucked from his wanderings on sunny mountain slopes had surrendered for this very purpose.

  Pekka’s senses became more finely attuned when he experienced want. He saw everything he could not buy and smelled everything he could not eat. He preferred to roam near the meat and fish counters in the food departments of the stores, but he avoided eye contact with the salespeople. He looked at the red meat and thought for a moment of the cow that had sacrificed its body on our behalf. A memory of his grandmother’s house flooded into his mind: the sun, the field and that cow next to which he had fallen asleep long ago. He had supposed that his grandmother’s house had its very own sun, different from the one in other places, but his father had said that it was the same sun everywhere. Learning that made the world smaller.

  Pork chops lay next to the pieces of cow. He looked askance at these, because the life of a small pig had made him feel bad even as a child. The narrow pen, the squelching muck under hoof, the dirty snout, bellowing and squealing until someone whacks you in the head with a shock pistol and cuts your stomach open. The effects of a life like that carry over to the other side, i.e. to the food processing plant, Pekka thought. The pork chops retained the aura of that short, sad life.

  One day, which was supposed to be just like every other day, a new world opened up for Pekka. He noticed a man dressed in a chef’s hat and white clothing standing behind a separate refrigerated counter. The man seemed to be speaking to himself, but upon closer inspection, he was speaking into a small microphone which curved from behind his ear in front of his mouth. He was announcing that at the counter before him he was offering genuine, authentic Jelpunen Brothers’ Processed Meat products: sliced ham, sausage, frankfurters and jellied aspic, and that all these things were free for the sampling. He said that meat was always the star in Jelpunen products and that only insignificant supporting roles were reserved for fillers.

  Pekka carefully approached the counter, ending up behind two older ladies. The ladies grabbed toothpicks on the ends of which jiggled jellied veal. When one of the ladies shoved the toothpick into her mouth and flicked the nugget down her gullet, Pekka began to feel hunger in every fiber of his being. He had last eaten a hot meal the day before yesterday—ever since he had been living on white bread, oats mixed with milk, and water. He suddenly felt like shoving the women out of his way and chomping down every last piece of aspic on the counter. However, he contained himself. He knew that if he proceeded with patience, the tasting table would offer him lasting happiness.

  He looked at each product carefully. He did not know how to decide which of them would be the best and the most flavorful. Each seemed to radiate savor and nutritional value. His mouth began to water and then went dry. His gaze moved from the ham sausage to the sausage links and from there past the aspic to the frankfurters.

  Then Pekka began to inspect the man who stood behind the counter smiling, moving his tongs from one product to the next, as if attempting to guess what the customer’s next choice would be. There was a name tag on his white coat that read “Kauko Pyrhönen, consultant.” He looked like his products: full of flavor, easily approached, jelly-like and clearly a family man. He exuded a fundamental happiness, as if he had been born in a sea of frankfurters with a little sausage crown on his head.

  Pekka drove out these feelings of jealousy, for in his innermost self he felt that he and Pyrhönen belonged to the same tribe, even though they approached the matter from different sides of the counter. Kauko represented bounty, and Pekka represented hunger. The world could reverse their roles in a second. This is what had happened two months ago when Pekka had said goodbye to his sports coat and hello to the windbreaker.

  Pyrhönen brought his tongs to a halt over a piece of aspic and tapped it in a fatherly way. After this they had a conversation that stuck in Pekka’s mind, if only for the reason that it functioned as foreplay for an extended act of pleasure.

  “What shall it be today? As I just said, the Jelpunens don’t skimp on the meat. This is a matter of family pride. Old man Jelpunen would rather cut back on other expenses in the business. You don’t see any Mercedes in their car park. So, what sort of treat would your tummy fancy today?”

  “I don’t really know. There’s so much to choose from.”

  “People have been liking the aspic. And of course the ham sausage. And the meaty frankfurters are always a hit with the children.”

  “The twins have been trying to get over an ear infection.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. We need to have tubes put in ourselves. What about pâté? It has everything a body needs in a compact form. Even for the most gentile table.”

  “We just had it last week when our eldest had his confirmation.”

  “We wouldn’t want to repeat ourselves then. What about sausage links? An old favorite. No additives, not too much filler, Jelpunen’s specialty. Shall I cut you a little three-centimeter head start?”

  “Well, I guess I could have a little.”

  And so Pekka tasted a piece of sausage. He tried to chew the bite with as much care as he could. His empty stomach was a brittle-walled canyon into which he did not dare dump large servings all at once; but rather, filling it had to be started by dropping little pieces in along the sides.

  Pyrhönen watched Pekka’s fervent chewing with an expectant expression. Pekka nodded in approval and moved his gaze to the aspic. Pyrhönen sensed his customer’s desire and cut a two-centimeter slice from the jelly. Onto the cutting board fell a memento of the cow and pig that just a short time before had been sauntering about their farm in southwest Finland, ignorant of the fact that they would soon end up encased in jiggling jelly on the end of a toothpick.

  Pekka felt the salty, moist flavor of the aspic in his mouth. He felt like closing his eyes as he did as a child when a fresh sweet roll and cold milk mashed together in his mouth. He did not close his eyes. He waited. He knew that the moment would yet come when he would be able to enjoy the jelly privately.

  Pekka nodded to Pyrhönen, who snapped up three slices of ham sausage with his tongs. Pekka was not able to focus on the nuances in flavor of the product because he was already thinking feverishly of what would follow. He superficially praised the marriage of ham and starchy fillers and then said he was going to meet the rest of the family in the textiles department and would contemplate his final purchasing decision for a moment. Pyrhönen smiled and said he would be at the counter until closing, ready to expound upon the eternal marriage of man and meat, which began du
ring the stone age when our forefathers saw both a threat and an opportunity in every approaching bear.

  Pekka promised to return to the hunting grounds before closing time because the Jelpunen’s products had made an unforgettable impression on him. Pyrhönen smiled and traded his tongs for a long sheath knife, which he used to spear a frankfurter out of the bowl, offering it to Pekka. Pyrhönen was of the opinion that it was an uncomfortably long way to the textiles department, so provisions for the journey were in order, provisions which could at the same time also function as a sort of amulet, a good luck charm.

  Pekka thanked him for the frankfurter, walked slowly behind the fruit and vegetable displays and leaned against a large pile of oranges. He calmed the pounding of his heart and slowed the racing of his thoughts. He had to come up with a plan. He had to see past hunger and pleasure. He had to separate the important from the trivial. A piece of advice from his father came to mind: if you have to choose between a rose and an onion, choose the onion.

  In ten minutes his plan was complete, and he was relatively satisfied with it. The main ideas were straightforward and logical, and there were no holes in the overall framework. He believed the details would work themselves out in the course of a practical trial.

  He walked to the clothing department and chose a pair of khaki trousers, a brown sports jacket and a baseball cap. When he came out of the dressing room, he looked like a carefree consumer who had already made up his mind about what he was going to purchase, but who did not yet care to exit the world of possibilities for the frigid winds outside.

  He stopped in front of a large mirror and was pleased with what he saw. Making a decision changes a person immediately. His face loses the reddish flush of cheap soap, his hair seems as if it has found its place on the lumpy surface of the crown of his head and his ears no longer stick out from the sides so unfortunately, looking like they were pasted on as an afterthought. The overall impression is of a person who has found his place in the world and intends to keep it.