The Human Part

by Kari Hotakainen

  Kimmo stood up and walked across the intersection to a secluded pathway.

  A gang of young riff-raff swaggered toward him, covering the width of the path. They were boisterous and carefree. They seemed to find support and safety in each other. Kimmo’s head was full of talk, but after Armas he couldn’t get a single word out of his mouth. In his mind he spoke to them gracefully and humanely.

  I understand you. You have just graduated to unemployment. I understand that your expressions and gestures are not meant as an affront to me personally, but are rather simply some of the innate advantages of your position and age, clothing you in a certain haughtiness and pride. These characteristics form a thick wall between you and organized society, especially as a pack. And although I say I understand you, I can in no way conceal my contempt, which springs from the fact that I worked hard for the money one-third of which goes to supporting people like you, although I am comforted by the fact that due to the capital gains tax rate I am in a slightly better position than a middle-class wage earner. But the thing that most especially concerns me is that to some extent my future depends on you. I refer now to my pension. If your generation does not work, society will not have the resources to pay for my retirement, and for this very reason I have been forced to purchase second homes and other property to secure my old age, because I can’t count on you at all.

  Kimmo had not realized that part of his internal monologue had dribbled out as a mumble and that the group of youths had stopped to listen to the strange wanderer.

  The leader of the group was a pockmarked man tattooed up to his jaw. He looked Kimmo up and down, trying to find a place for him in his gallery of humanity.

  “What’s this guy mumbling about? Were you talking to us, or were you getting in touch with outer space?”

  “Sorry, it was nothing. I was just thinking … or, I wasn’t thinking … or, I was thinking … that, that what you … or, to say it in a word, I approve of you …”

  “That’s wonderful news. Now all that’s missing is for us to approve of you. Are you a communist?”

  “Me! Not in any way, shape or form. How could you even think …?”

  “It shows, doesn’t it, boys? You’ve come to convert us, right? You think that you can get our votes, but you’re wrong. There aren’t any votes to be had here. We keep our opinions to ourselves.”

  “On the contrary, I represent the opposite extreme …”

  “What do we hate even more than communism, boys? People who don’t dare stand behind their opinions. C.C.C.P. Not U.S.S.R. C.C.C.P. Cold Calculating Communist Pig.”

  “There must be some misunderstanding. I vote National Coalition!”

  “No, we vote Coalition. You vote Communist! Every last one of us is an entrepreneur. I’m an electrician, but I have my own company. These others are in the cleaning industry, and they have their own company. Everyone has a company nowadays. Do you know what a company is, comrade?”

  “Listen here, I’ve had three companies. I’ve been an entrepreneur my whole short life. You can’t lecture me!”

  “We’re off. Someone has to do the work around here!”

  Following their pockmarked leader, the group left Kimmo on the path. He had never been left like that. Of course, he had often been left alone with his opinions, but he found this to be much worse, because he did not feel physically safe.

  He noticed a street sign on the path that indicated the road was ending. He had always hated road signs. Their messages were always fixed, final. The roads don’t end and the traffic doesn’t stop, no matter what it says on the signs.

  Kimmo set off walking down the path. It ended in the car park of a large, old brick building. According to an ancient, partially disintegrated placard, the building had once served as a match factory.

  Kimmo sat on the massive concrete steps and thought about his life. Half of it was over, and he didn’t know what he would do with the second half. If you strike a match once, it’s gone, but you can scratch and tear and wear out a life. It’s never completely ruined. But Kimmo understood that his life had been a working life. There was nothing outside of that. No family, no friends, no hobbies. His family was the company, his friends were his business associates and his hobby was golf, which he hated but played because all of his business associates relaxed on the greens. If he didn’t, he might have missed hearing some important business matter. He remembered how he had wandered for kilometers over the endless grass fields, stopping every now and then to listen to Nyström in his plaid trousers commenting on how the torso guides the swing and how one foot should break fluidly in the direction of the stroke. Nyström also thought it was of the utmost importance to remember the irregularities in the surface of the grass and any variance in wind conditions. Even while playing Nyström found time to fiddle with his phone, which he switched for a new model at six-month intervals, always recommending the same update to Kimmo just for the sake of keeping up appearances. The same for the plaid trousers, the pink V-neck sweater and the spikesoled golf shoes.

  Kimmo noticed himself losing his temper in retrospect. He had never known how to show his feelings in the heat of the moment. Now he felt like striking a match on the wall of the factory, using it to light a torch, walking to Nyström’s loft and turning his two holes into eighteen. Kimmo wanted to smell burned flesh and see black holes.

  Rage rioted in his head, smashing all of his wants and desires and dreams into an unrecognizable, gurgling, stinking pulp. Suddenly he wanted to start a family, to get divorced and to be granted visitation rights. He wanted to drive his kids to their activities and stand as one of the anonymous fathers waiting in the car parks of ice-skating rinks and the lobbies of music academies. He wanted a normal life he could ruin with his selfish behavior. He wanted a rented studio apartment in a bad part of town and an unregistered car. He wanted income support payments and an ugly girlfriend. He wanted earnings-linked unemployment insurance and prepackaged liver casserole. He wanted what he hated. He hated what he wanted.

  And he agreed with himself that it was all Nyström’s fault.

  He began to hear a creaking sound on the path.

  A young boy was pushing a wheelbarrow full of broken tape recorders, bread machines and electric water kettles. Just a few years ago they had been the latest thing, what every consumer was supposed to respond to with shouts of joy. The idea came immediately. Kimmo rushed over to the boy.

  “I want to buy those.”

  “This is trash. They’re going to the recycling center.”

  “No they aren’t, if we can agree on a price.”

  “Do you have both oars in the water, mate? These are worthless.”

  “They have utility value for me. Is that phrase familiar? I’ll use them as an extension of my desires, so I’m willing to pay for them. I’ll give you one grand if you cart them to the address I give you and dump them out front. No one will be home.”

  “A grand?”

  “Two crisp five-hundred-euro notes. Do you know why I like the five-hundred-euro note in particular? Because its pictorial motif is the modern era. Do you like the modern era?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  “I do, and after this I’m going to like you too. I’ll write down the address where I want you to take this junk. In addition to your reward, I’ll give you fifty for a taxi.”

  Kimmo dug his wallet out of his breast pocket, handed the crisp notes to the boy and wrote down the address.

  “My friend collects old electronics. I only collect experiences. Isn’t it great that you’re about to walk into the sunset one thousand euros richer? When I was your age, I walked back and forth along the same dirt road with twenty pennies in my pocket.”

  “Aha.”

  The boy left, the wheelbarrow creaking.

  Kimmo was in a good mood again.

  Evil does a body good. Evil is energy. Evil is the beginning of everything good.

  His rage subsided.

  His mood leveled off.


  Joy welled up within him.

  Kimmo called the taxi control center and asked for the longest, whitest car they had. The controller said that what showed up might be brown and short, but it would have four wheels. Kimmo asked the controller’s name and said he was going to complain about their service to the Taxi Association. The controller encouraged him to do so, but reminded him that even brown taxis didn’t like coming to the address in question, because there weren’t any residential buildings in the area. Kimmo said he had just bought the whole area and that he was going to build residential units there once he had a free moment.

  The controller was silent.

  Kimmo laughed and said he was just joking, because no one could sell anything in this world anymore with a straight face. Jokers have the heaviest wallets, if you know what I mean, miss. The miss said she was a missus and that the car was on its way, and that its make was Škoda. Kimmo said he was happy because the blossoming capitalism of the Czech Republic will line all of our coffers in the end.

  The Škoda came.

  It was driven by a man whose first syllable betrayed him as an Estonian. His head was shaved and there were red insect bites on his neck. He turned toward Kimmo. His left eye was glass. Kimmo was taken aback. He was sure that the power of the damaged eye had been transferred to the other, because the gaze of the right eye was so sharp. People with two eyes look. People with one eye aim.

  Kimmo said the address, which the Estonian punched into the G.P.S. A green road appeared on the screen. At the end of the road was an arrow. The car jerked and then glided along the green road through the ugliness.

  Kimmo thought about Nyström, who had called the week before, inquisitive about Kimmo’s luck with the ladies. Kimmo had said something inconsequential. Nyström had reminded him that men have a biological clock too, and he said he could hear the ticking of Kimmo’s a mile away. According to Nyström, Kimmo should start his facelift with his mobile phone. Using a two-year-old model signaled to women that his voicemail was full.

  Kimmo thought about Nyström and everything money could buy.

  He asked the Estonian driver what he would do if he got a lot, really a lot, of money. The driver looked in the rearview mirror with one eye and said he might buy something useful for his wife and children. Kimmo said he had just bought a lot of something completely useless, which would probably give him more pleasure than something useful.

  The driver didn’t reply. He sped up.

  POSTCARD, WINTER SCENE

  Well now, Helena!

  Grandma said to me once, “Salme, you should get along with people.” When I was young, it was enough that I got along with animals. What can I say to you? Keep an eye on your brother. He isn’t answering his phone. And give my love to Sini, my little buttercup.

  Your mother

  THE ESCORT

  Helena Malmikunnas looked at Kähkönen and the sea. She should have only been looking at Kähkönen, but Helena was drawing strength from the sea, which was glistening far off outside the window, able to do whatever it wanted. The sea surged and rippled and raged. A person who sat admiring the sea, awaiting its next whim, could accept anything. But when the market economy follows its whims for a moment, the person rebels, whining, “This isn’t what I ordered when I asked for a force of nature.”

  Helena looked at her watch. She had half an hour to tell the man sitting in front of her that there was no longer a place for him in the organization. 47-year-old Kähkönen was a marketing professional, an extrovert, optimistic and energetic, but in the diagram drawn by the new C.E.O., Kähkönen’s spot was blank. Helena had hoped that the guillotine would have fallen five millimeters above Kähkönen’s balding head, since he had three school-aged children and a house with a mortgage.

  The new C.E.O. had emphasized to Helena that he didn’t like doing this, but that they had to react to the new market conditions. Kähkönen is an embolus, a drag on the company left over from the old guard. The investors will wait, but not for long. If we don’t exercise, soon we won’t have any abs at all. But remember, we aren’t firing anyone, we’re just coming to an understanding.

  Helena looked at Kähkönen as he clicked his pen and thought about what turn of phrase she would use to come to an understanding with Kähkönen. Helena felt like saying things just as they were, but if she did, next week she might be sitting where Kähkönen was.

  Helena stood up and said she was going to get her calendar. She walked from the conference room straight into the office of the new C.E.O. without any regard for the secretary, who waved after her. The C.E.O. said into the phone that he would call back in a moment and looked inquiringly at Helena.

  “Imagine a problem like this. I have in my hand a pig made of clay, and I’m supposed to say that it’s a deer. How would I convey it?”

  “I don’t think I understand what you’re getting at, Ms. Malmikunnas.”

  “Kähkönen. How do I convey the boot I’m going to give him? He’s sitting in there waiting. Since this is an exceptional circumstance, can I just speak in plain Finnish?”

  “Finnish is a very flexible language. You can water it down a little. You don’t have to pour the coffee in his lap if it’s possible to pour it on the floor. It’s a matter of the difference between escorting and shoving. A difference in tone—you understand that. In general what I meant by conveying was how you formulate the message when you deliver it to the staff.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Helena walked back to the conference room and said to Kähkönen, “There isn’t a place for you here anymore. You’re fired. The new C.E.O. is the one firing you, but I had to come and tell you about it. This is just how the market is now. Don’t ask me how that is, because no one knows. Do you remember the days when we laughed at the humanities types because they didn’t understand anything about business or the economy? No one is laughing now, because even the economics gurus don’t understand. You can leave now, but I’m going to spin the whole thing so handily that it will look like you wanted to leave.”

  Helena walked to the window and looked out at the sea. Ships were trying to leave their mark on its surface. In vain. The sea was invulnerable and overpowering. The ships looked like little scraps of steel on it.

  Helena heard Kähkönen clearing his throat and turned around. He was white, sitting hunched over.

  “I … I didn’t do anything … wrong … At least I haven’t received any especially negative feedback from clients …”

  “Of course not. No one has done anything wrong. That hasn’t been what this is about for ages. The old world of guilt and innocence is gone. Do you have any suggestions about what sort of wording you’d like to use in the memo I’m going to write to the staff?”

  “How can this be happening so fast? I’m not just going to roll over and accept this … this diktat! I’ve been here almost twenty years … Helena, you can’t …”

  “No, I can’t, but I have to. I have a template ready for the memo. I wrote it for myself. You know my nerves haven’t been exactly in the best shape lately, so I was sort of expecting this for myself. But it could work for you too. Listen.”

  Helena took a piece of paper from a folder and read.

  “‘Helena Malmikunnas has resigned from her position as marketing director and is moving on to new challenges. She has been heavily involved in reforming the company’s business practices and moving the firm toward greater participation in the new globalized marketplace. Malmikunnas will be replaced by Tapani Kähkönen who has previously served … and so forth.’ Your name is in there now, but we’ll replace it with someone else’s. I don’t know whose. Something like that. How does it sound?”

  “I haven’t reformed anything and nothing is moving toward greater participation in the globalized marketplace.”

  “Of course you haven’t and of course it isn’t. They’re just words, Tapani. I have to write something along these lines. Or would you rather that I write that the old nags and dead wood had t
o be got rid of and that Kähkönen happened to represent both groups?”

  “No, I don’t. But you know just as well as I do that there won’t be anything for me after this. I can’t go on to new challenges—I can just go home. Or into a ditch. Preferably home. And what will happen there? If this is what I take home, we’re going to have to sell the place. What do you say to that?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing. Or, well … for years I’ve been clipping help-wanted ads from the newspapers. My favorite is for a job as a substitute bingo hostess at the Itäkeskus Mall. Now don’t get excited, Kähkönen. I’m serious. My brother has had all sorts of jobs since he slipped and fell out of the business world, through no fault of his own. He was innocent too. The worst thing for us is how well off we are. How can you go out there on the street and bray about how the politicians need to wake up because you just got tossed out from your six-thousand-euro-a-month salary? Those are two things you can’t demand at the same time, money and empathy. Would you leave your laptop on your desk when you go so we can look through the material on it? You can pick it up next week. We’ll be having our own discussions about a send-off party. In these economic conditions all we’ll be able to manage is some anonymous retro rock band, I’m sorry to say. And I’ve come to an understanding with myself that you’ll get six months’ severance.”

  Kähkönen took the Timo Sarpaneva vase from the table and threw it at the Kuutti Lavonen painting on the wall. The vase sliced open the plangent Madonna’s cheek, falling onto the Indian rug, in which it left a crease. The vase split into six pieces.

  Helena looked at Kähkönen, who had tears in his eyes. The total cost of the Sarpaneva, the Lavonen and the Indian rug was around ten thousand euros. She couldn’t say that to Kähkönen yet. In fact, she couldn’t say anything to Kähkönen. She was supposed to have soothed Kähkönen, but Helena couldn’t do that. Kähkönen should have been escorted to the seashore and shown that most imponderable of all the elements. Kähkönen could swim in the sea. Kähkönen could become a seal. Kähkönen could swim to Estonia and perform as a human freak of nature, a victim of the free enterprise system who, always adaptable, had succeeded in middle age at combining the habits of a seal and the intellectual world of a human.