The Dedalus Book of Finnish Fantasy

by Johanna Sinisalo (Translator

  Someone told Huttunen that there was a Private Määttä in the infirmary who might be able to help. His name was Aatami and compared to the other 1928 boys he looked as old as his name; he’d been through the war, done his fair share of probation, been in prison more times than anyone could remember, and was the most infamous skiver in the brigade. Despite all this Aatami Määttä should have been sent home a long time ago, but the corporals wanted to get their own back on him: the medical officer had refused to give a man festering in the infirmary the all-clear, and so Määttä had stayed put.

  The man winked and told Huttunen to go and have a chat with Old Aatami, ‘and don’t forget to take all the fags and daily allowance you’ve got,’ he added. Esko Huttunen bribed the duty officer with coffee and buns, went down to the infirmary after lights out and didn’t return until just before morning muster.

  Huttunen seemed perfectly strong and healthy, he was like a new man. The corporals and the head of the division, a vindictive old bastard by the name of Sergeant Kilpinen, had got wind of Huttunen’s illness and ordered a ferocious workout for the whole company, thinking Huttunen would collapse from exhaustion. But no: he took the onslaught of mock formation exercises with a smirk and afterwards went up to the sergeant major to report for leave; he later claimed he’d shown how fit he was by doing thirty press-ups. In any case he was allowed home and returned three days later with a smug, exaggerated grin on his face and a ring on his finger. In amazement Huovinen asked him about what had gone on in the infirmary, to which Huttunen replied simply that this Määttä had bought his illness. But quite how it had happened or how much he had paid for it and to whom, he was not at liberty to say.

  It was soon afterwards that their training session came to an end and the boys were sent elsewhere, and Huovinen saw neither Huttunen nor Aatami Määttä again before he was finally relieved of his duties.

  A few years later Huovinen found himself involved in logging work at the forest extremity north of Kitinen. As one of the stronger men he had agreed to carry the post to a logging site way out at Jätkälompolo. There was a phenomenal amount of snow and no certainty of how much weight the drifts would hold. On arrival, amidst a heavy snowstorm, he staggered into a cabin in which a group of men were midway through a very serious game of cards. Such things were expressly forbidden on all of Gutzeit’s premises, but here even the boss was sitting around the table alongside a dark-eyed Lapp and a long-necked stud poker shark from the south with quick and smooth, unchaffed hands. They were all knocking back the yeast ale and the table was covered in piles of four-figure banknotes. The Lapp had even gathered a few gold nuggets on the joker card in front of him. That was the reason Huovinen had come to Lapland in the first place. The gold rush to Lemmenjoki was still in full swing, though in the end he never actually made it that far. One of the players was an elderly bloke with a terrible cough. The pale, bleary-eyed old man was wrapped up in a turtle-necked jumper and a leather waistcoat, even though the air in the room was so hot and heavy that most of the other blokes were sweating in shirt sleeves.

  Huovinen was still so young and naive that no one would even have him as a kibitzer. He found himself a free bunk at the back end of the cabin and lay down. He somehow managed to keep up with things, as this was clearly no ordinary card game. Jurmu was firing on all cylinders. He was raking up banknotes like there was no tomorrow. Jurmu was the shrivelled old guy with the cough; tuberculosis, said a lad in the next bed. It’ll have him in the grave before the ground’s thawed.

  Huovinen had drifted off but woke up as the game came to an end. The Lapp had lost face and money, and slipped quietly out into the dark snowstorm. The shark had pulled a bottle of liquor from his bag and begun drowning his sorrows, but Jurmu slapped a crumpled note on the table and bought the bottle right from his lips. Jurmu had amassed a fine bunch of pocket watches and started scooping his gold nuggets into a clip-topped water bottle by the handful. He was coughing so much that most of them would have ended up on the floor – but of course there were plenty of people happy to lend him a helping hand.

  His voice squeaking with excitement, the young lad said that Jurmu now had enough money. What does a dying man want with so much money? You’ll never believe it, but there’s a bloke in there who’ll carry his illness for that amount of money.

  ‘You mean Old Aatami, Määttä’s son?’ asked Huovinen casually.

  The boy gave a start and asked whether Huovinen was here to collect Määttä. Huovinen assured him he had only come to bring the post and was travelling on skis.

  ‘He’s over there in the boss’s room,’ the lad whispered and pointed towards the far end of the cabin, the realm of the managers and the kitchen staff and a place the loggers only went when they were told. ‘They brought him here by horse from Tornionjokilaakso last week. They say he was on a black sleigh drawn by a black stallion frothing yellow spittle. Never in my life have I seen a man as sick as this Määttä.’

  ‘How did he know to come all the way out here?’ asked Huovinen, but never got an answer.

  Jurmu had gathered together his winnings, picked up his bag and the bottle of liquor and went up to the boss’s door. He knocked gingerly. Everyone kept an eye on him, but from a good distance, as if they were scouting at a bear’s den. Huovinen got up, joined the other men and stood up on tiptoes.

  ‘He hasn’t gone and died, has he?’ the lad whispered beside him.

  Jurmu knocked again. Was that a faint grunt? Jurmu certainly heard it, whatever it was, as he pushed the door ajar and slipped inside. Aatami Määttä was sitting on the edge of the bed; at first he looked almost angelic in his knee-length nightgown with his straw-blond hair. But angels don’t smoke pipes, nor do they have sunken, fox-like features streaked with a devilish smirk. Määttä eminated the strong stench of sickness, so strong that it wafted into the main cabin making the men back off instinctively.

  The door closed. The boss lay down on the bed nearest the door and told everyone to get some sleep. Gradually the whispering escalated into a chatter, and eventually the foreman got up and snuffed out the lamps, saying that there was a hard day’s work ahead tomorrow and anyone who didn’t settle down would be given their marching orders.

  Not a sound could be heard from the room at the far end of the cabin. Outside a terrible storm raged and howled, and Huovinen, exhausted from skiing such a distance, soon fell asleep to the sound of the wind.

  He finally awoke just as the men were about to leave for the logging site. Through the kitchen hatch he was given some of the remaining oat porridge and strong tea. As he ate, coughing could be heard coming from the boss’s room. Before long Jurmu appeared and walked right up to the hatch for some breakfast. He wolfed it down; he looked starving, but now he seemed more like a convalescent than a sick man. He finished his breakfast before Huovinen, to whom he then turned his back and started vigorously sharpening his saw. Every now and then a rasping cough could be heard from behind the door.

  Kaarlo Huovinen made all the usual enquiries, but would a man like Aatami Määttä even have a permanent address, let alone a telephone? That is, of course, if he were still alive.

  He wondered whether Esko Huttunen might be of any help and concluded that he probably would not. Instead he went to the police station. Over the years his run-ins with Superintendent Martikainen had cost him an arm and a leg, but he had no reason to be bitter. All down to his own stupidity or the excessive zeal of a young police officer. ‘Do you want some coffee?’ Martikainen asked and started talking about the good old days – from his hairline and the size of his belly you could tell he had more good old days behind him than he had still to come. It took a while before he finally asked:

  ‘Huovinen, what do you want?’

  ‘I need to find Aatami Määttä,’ he said and vaguely estimated the man’s age.

  The policeman went over to an old filing cabinet, found some papers, puffed and gave his neck a scratch. He then started tapping his computer keyboard as
if working with a volatile, dangerous piece of machinery.

  ‘He’s still alive,’ came Martikainen’s interim report; he then dug a thick instruction manual from his desk drawer and continued grappling with the computer, working up a sweat in the process.

  This all took a good half hour. Coffee was Martikainen’s fuel as smoking had been banned indoors. He was clearly pleased with what he eventually uncovered.

  ‘I’ll go and check in the records, but I can tell you now, you won’t get a penny out of him.’

  ‘He’ll be on the receiving end,’ replied Huovinen.

  So the man was alive after all, but even Martikainen couldn’t find out where he was. He said he didn’t understand why a no-gooder like Huovinen was bothering himself over the whereabouts of someone like Aatami Määttä.

  But he was. And it was urgent. ‘Is there no other way?’

  Martikainen hesitated for a moment. He did have some old friends from the academy, blokes who had nimbly scaled their way up the career ladder. They might know about certain registers to which the police shouldn’t technically have access.

  The following day Huovinen was once again sitting opposite Martikainen with a mug of coffee in his hand. The superintendent seemed ill at ease, absent-mindedly rubbing his chin and hiding his mouth behind his mug.

  ‘Why did you have to come and plague me with this bloody Määttä?’

  ‘Out of pure friendship; you’ve always been such a fair bloke.’

  ‘Police officers don’t have friends. You can’t have any in this job,’ Martikainen retorted and angrily stared Huovinen in the eyes from behind his coffee mug. Huovinen stared back until the policeman finally lowered his gaze.

  ‘Alright. But I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into,’ he said.

  ‘Yes and no, but I don’t have any choice.’

  Huovinen had heard somewhere that the skeleton of an adult male weighs only fifteen kilos. He had to believe it when he saw Aatami Määttä writhing in pain, strapped in between the raised sides of a hospital bed. A network of tubes and cables travelled between his tortured body and the various contraptions keeping him alive. A monitor showed his erratic pulse struggling in vain.

  The man didn’t look wicked, but there was certainly nothing of the heavenly angel about him. His angular skull was covered in short, bristly hair. His toothless mouth gaped wide open, his lower jaw sagging down towards his chest. His breath came in rasping wheezes. All his fading energy was concentrated on slowly killing him. The eight-bed ward was full of similar patients, older but hardly weaker than Määttä, all off in their own clouded worlds. Huovinen tried to attract Määttä’s attention. He didn’t respond to speech, but when Huovinen gently shook the man’s shoulder and clasped his cold hand in a greeting, he came to.

  In the glare which shone from deep within the man’s skull, Huovinen thought he could see a glimmer of that same cruel malevolence, a way of warding off people looking for help.

  ‘I won’t buy anything again. I’ve got enough troubles of my own. How did you find me?’

  ‘Our path’s have crossed before.’

  Huovinen began talking about his days in the army. At this Määttä seemed to perk up like any ex-serviceman; you could even see it on the monitor. He started rattling on about them soon having to close the division for the holidays and send home the fitter men like him; he’d get to spend the summer months gallivanting around the countryside like when he was younger.

  ‘Alright then. What have you got for me?’

  Huovinen whispered that his insides were riddled with cancer.

  ‘I could see that straight away, ha-hah-hah!’

  Määttä seemed prepared to make a deal, though he admitted such a serious illness might prolong his own return to health. Then, he said, he’d buy himself a train season ticket, live it up in cheap hostels and relive old memories at the harvest fairs.

  ‘I want a decent price, mind. You know that,’ the old man spluttered.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘As much as you can afford.’

  ‘That’s quite a lot.’

  ‘For some people maybe, not for others. It’s your cancer.’

  After a spot of car dealing Huovinen had scraped together a hundred thousand marks in the bank. He’d withdrawn the lot in cash. It was quite a tidy sum for a dying old man who, according to Martikainen, had spent most of his life in squalour living as a vagrant. Hundreds of times he had spent the night in the police lock-up, in prison wagons and countless different institutions. He was continuously being taken to hospitals and emergency rooms within an inch of his life. The internet had yielded numerous doctors’ statements, all manner of death sentences, which Providence had then decided not to carry out. Määttä had never had a home or an address, though his pockets were often bulging with cash. This would have to be enough for him, as he would never again be able to walk out of this hospital on his own two feet.

  Huovinen had also brought a deed, drawn up and signed in advance, in which he signed over his house to Määttä. He was hardly going to need it.

  The old man had dozed off again without agreeing the exact sum. Huovinen woke him and asked how long the operation would last and where it could be carried out.

  ‘Huh, it’ll only take a minute. Right here’s fine.’

  ‘So what took all night back in the army, or at that logging cabin at Jätkälompolo?’

  ‘They were fretting over the second condition. Didn’t I say? You should pay as much as you can afford, but not so much that you’ll come to regret it once you’ve recovered. If you regret it, the sickness will come back.’

  Thinking like that’ll send you round the twist, thought Huovinen. Right then he felt a searing pain wrenching at the bottom of his stomach. He handed over the cash and the envelope containing the deeds to the house.

  Määttä didn’t bother counting them; he told Huovinen to put them in the drawer by the bed so he could take them when he left. Then for the operation. It was a fairly blunt procedure, no prayers or healing rituals. The old man asked whether the other patients were conscious and as they were not he asked Huovinen to turn around and drop his trousers.

  Kaarlo Huovinen felt a hand fumbling around his anus and a bony finger boring its way deep into his rectum. An instinctive shudder turned his knees to jelly. Nothing any worse than that happened. He heard a slurp. Was that him licking his finger clean? Huovinen felt sick.

  ‘Have you already been to the quack about this?’ asked Määttä. Huovinen explained the situation.

  ‘Then you’d better let them operate, just to keep them happy. So you won’t run into any problems with them later on.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘That is right.’

  Kaarlo Huovinen was amongst the first to go out ice-fishing that winter. Martikainen had retired and he was a keen fisherman too. They walked out on to the ice together, though Martikainen was somewhat taken aback by Huovinen’s recklessness.

  ‘Look how the ice is shaking! You may have got through that operation, Kaarlo, but you’re not immortal.’

  ‘Yeah, pretty embarrassing for the stomach doctors. It wasn’t cancer, after all their promises. Well, good to know things can turn out that way too for once.’

  ‘A clean bill of health, just like a baby. No worries, no house. How’s a free spirit like you getting used to life in a high-rise?’

  ‘It’s easy enough.’

  ‘How did you do it? Only a minute ago you had cars, a house and the lot. And now you’re renting a bedsit and living off the odd fish.’

  ‘I had a load of old debts and what have you. It’s a burden off my shoulders.’

  ‘Come on, you old fox. You must have a fortune stashed away somewhere. You’ll regret selling that house, especially now you’ve got your health back. I can hardly keep up with you!’

  ‘I won’t regret anything, not a thing,’ said Kaarlo Huovinen as he looked out across the lake at the dazzling ice stretching beyond the hor
izon.

  Chronicles of a State

  Olli Jalonen

  One of the trademarks of Olli Jalonen’s (born 1954) work as a prose writer is his desire to bring together his earlier works to form part of new, larger entities, thus making his texts comment upon one another. His writing shows a delight in playing with the nature of reality, be it in an analysis of the power relationships between humans or dark, dystopian visions. Jalonen was awarded the Finlandia Prize in 1990 for his novel Isäksi ja tyttäreksi (‘Becoming Father and Daughter’). In addition to his highly respected, pioneering, large-scale novels Jalonen’s output also includes a significant body of short fiction: the story ‘Chronicles of a State’ is from the collection Värjättyä rakkautta (‘Dyed Love’, 2003).

  I have no reason to lie. There has never been a reason for me not to give my name.

  But if someone here were to ask me who I am, then perhaps I should answer, quite simply, the man who wrote the history of the State of K. A book so well known that I need not say my name or give myself any greater introduction.

  An abridged version was made for schoolchildren as soon as the book was ready to be published as a full-length history book. That complete version was eventually never published; it was shortened instead and given the same name as the abridged version. It had to be changed quite a lot and large sections of the manuscript were omitted so that the book would fit better into the schools’ Know Your Neighbours series. The Modern Age. A Short Course for Intermediate Students.

  Work books were produced, along with supplementary texts and interactive learning material, everything necessary was done, audio material was compiled and illustrations added to the text to form a single, gleaming package. It was very well received in schools. Over fifty thousand schoolchildren have had to read extracts from The History of K, or at least look at the pictures or take part in the activities.

  And so I have never had to introduce myself further because people simply know who I am. They wouldn’t know my name in any case, because the publisher thought it wise, for reasons of layout and marketing, not to print the author’s name on the front cover or in any advertising, and eventually it was omitted altogether.