Dark As My Heart

by Antti Tuomainen

  It was a person: a body that the waves had pushed up against the rocks.

  Tanja Metsäpuro was floating naked in the water, badly swollen, rotted until she was nearly purple.

  Only one thing separated her case from my mother’s disappearance. She had been found.

  SEPTEMBER 2013

  THE FRAGRANCE OF fresh hyacinths filled the clean, well-lit room with the intoxicating illusion of spring. The sensation was powerful, as if the calendar and my own sense of the season were completely wrong. The chandeliers in the hall were lit, the black tray on the table contained an assortment of refreshments. I did as I was asked. I sat on the sofa and waited, watching the ice cubes melt in a crystal goblet.

  I’d taken a shower and come to the main house at the agreed time. I’d met Enni, seen the satisfaction and pride in her eyes and heard the happy tone in her voice. After a moment of chat she had put her hand on my shoulder and given it a few pats; I could still feel the warmth of her palm through my oxford shirt. The last thing she’d said was that it would go fine if I refrained from witticisms.

  I’d smiled at her, thanked her for the advice, and wondered what she would think if I told her Henrik Saarinen murdered my mother.

  The time would come.

  Even for that.

  Surrounded as I was by the subdued colours, dark wood furniture, silver candlesticks, and sparkling circles of crystal on the ceiling, the last ten years with all their twists and turns suddenly felt like another life, or like something that happened long ago. My mouth was dry, from thirst or other causes. I reached out to open a bottle of mineral water.

  I heard steps. Relaxed and purposeful steps, coming down the stairs.

  I pulled my hand back, got up from the sofa and stepped towards the antique table in the centre of the room. I’d been waiting twenty years, and I didn’t exactly know what for. Was I about to look into the eyes of evil and know it, or would my journey prove a waste of time, my instinct wrong, my obsession at an unhappy, anticlimactic end?

  Henrik Saarinen stepped into the brilliant, slightly golden glow of the chandeliers wearing a sunny smile. I don’t know what I felt. I know that I felt none of the certainty I’d had for the past ten years. But I didn’t need to. Everything didn’t have to happen instantaneously. I’d waited twenty years, I could wait a little longer.

  Saarinen looked exactly as I’d thought he would, powerful and charismatic. His presence filled the room and exuded the calm of inexhaustible certainty. He was dressed in expensive blue jeans, a white oxford shirt and a blue sweater with a little laughing crocodile on the breast. He was wearing soft leather slippers on his feet, no doubt expensive and comfortable.

  His first two words were, ‘Henrik Saarinen.’

  I took hold of his outstretched hand. It was large and warm.

  ‘Aleksi.’

  His release of my hand was as soft as his grasp. He looked at me through round-lensed glasses and pointed at the sofa. My eyes lingered on his perhaps longer than was natural.

  ‘Drink?’

  ‘Mineral water, thanks,’ I said.

  Saarinen opened two bottles of water and pushed one in front of me. Then he seemed to think again and walked to the serving table next to the wall and poured himself a whisky from a green bottle. He returned to the sofa with a thick crystal glass in his hand.

  ‘You have your first week behind you,’ he said, taking a taste from his glass. ‘How does it look?’

  I filled my own glass with mineral water. It bubbled and fizzed against the ice as if in excitement.

  ‘The work is interesting. The surroundings are beautiful. I’ve been enjoying myself.’

  ‘That’s good. I’ve always thought that work should be interesting. Here’s to that.’

  We drank. My mouth was so dry that it felt as if the water was reviving it from the dead.

  ‘You’ve met Elias. And Enni, of course,’ Saarinen said, facing the window. The sun was setting. Soon even the glow of red and violet on the horizon would fade and everything would be black. ‘And perhaps Amanda?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I wondered if I should mention our dinner, and decided not to. ‘I understand she enjoys fishing.’

  Saarinen put his glass on the table.

  ‘And what about the grounds? What do you think of them?’

  ‘Everything seems to be in good condition. Next spring you might think about refurbishing the eaves and rain gutters, but that’s something to decide once winter is over. As far as the windows—’

  ‘What about the feel of the place?’

  ‘The feel of it? It feels very pleasant. Like the seaside. Peaceful.’

  ‘I agree. I bought it for the location, years ago. I thought I would sell the place if I got a good offer. But then I realised that somewhere like this could be very useful. In a way I had never appreciated before. As you can imagine.’

  He sat on the sofa like a king and looked at me from behind his glasses. I didn’t want to say what I could imagine.

  ‘I’m talking about solitude,’ Saarinen said, his eyes holding mine.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘That’s why I wanted to meet you in person as soon as I could,’ he said, smiling. His smile was like the one on his shirt’s green crocodile, ready to bite.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Elias said that you signed the contract without any questions.’

  I nodded.

  ‘So you understand the nature of the job as well as its duties.’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Saarinen took another sip and looked up at me again. I looked at his arms, his hands, each of his fingers. They were large-boned, thick, sturdy hands, his fingers long, and no doubt powerful.

  ‘This is important,’ he said. ‘It’s a delicate matter. You see, I’ve had bad experiences … with people who try to get near me and turn out to be something other than they’ve claimed to be.’

  He gave me a meaningful look. I took a drink of water. He did the same with his whisky. Noises drifted in from the kitchen. They sounded far away.

  ‘The previous caretaker was a person like that. A very unpleasant fellow.’

  This was the first time I’d heard anything about my predecessor. Elias Ahlberg had simply said curtly that his employment had been terminated.

  ‘What was his name?’ I asked.

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Was he a local man, or was he from Helsinki, like –’

  ‘It’s not important.’

  Saarinen sipped his whisky.

  ‘He seemed at first like a reliable sort. Older than you. We thought that was a good thing. Life experience, the wisdom of age, something like that. Everything went well at first. Then his less admirable qualities, shall we say deficiencies, and weaknesses, and so on, gained the upper hand. I’m sure you understand what I mean.’

  Did I understand? How many weaknesses could a person have? Thousands, no doubt. In this instance I imagined it was one of seven ways a man could get himself into trouble. My guess was greed, in case Saarinen was expecting an answer to his question.

  ‘Age doesn’t always bring wisdom,’ he said, pursing his whiskyed lips. ‘So we decided that the next caretaker should be young, fresh. And we hired you.’

  ‘A lucky break for me,’ I said, and meant it. ‘I’ve wanted a job like this for a long time.’

  Saarinen smiled.

  ‘Attitude shouldn’t be underestimated. I know that from experience. I wouldn’t be here if attitude didn’t matter. You should know what you want in life, and you should be willing to do whatever it takes to get it.’

  His gaze cooled.

  ‘Do you know what you want?’

  ‘Pretty well.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, lifting his glass to his lips again. ‘Some people drift. Never take their lives in their own hands. They don’t understand that it’s a struggle between the weak and the strong. Always. Every time. Bumbling amateurishness … The previous caretaker was an example of that.�
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  ‘Of what?’ I asked, when Saarinen didn’t continue.

  He didn’t answer right away. He was still looking at me, but as if from a distance.

  ‘A long week,’ he said. ‘Is there anything that comes to mind that you’d like to ask about, anything you need to know?’

  Why did you take a little boy’s mother away from him?

  It was the first thing that occurred to me. It came to mind naturally and spontaneously. A man sitting on the sofa. His words, the weight of his voice, his presence. I still didn’t feel the absolute certainty inside me that I’d felt twelve years earlier, but I felt something like it. Without even trying. It was all happening, on its own.

  ‘No,’ I said, putting my glass down. ‘I don’t think so. The work will teach the worker.’

  ‘Excellent. I’ll go in to dinner. Good night.’

  Saarinen got up nimbly from the sofa and headed towards the kitchen and dining room. I had gone as far as the doorway when I heard, or sensed, something. I turned. Saarinen was facing me. He was standing straight across the room from me. I remembered what I’d felt when I saw him turn on television. This time I hadn’t even seen that quick pivot, but I had known it, felt it happening.

  ‘There was one interesting detail in your paperwork, by the way.’

  A cold wind went through me. There’s no cause for panic, I told myself. You knew this moment would come. Saarinen doesn’t know who you are. Everything’s fine. Your papers are in order. Of course they are. A coolheaded administrator like Elias Ahlberg wouldn’t have hired me if they weren’t.

  ‘You have no family at all,’ Saarinen said. ‘No people to contact if anything happens.’

  ‘Let’s hope nothing happens.’

  Saarinen looked at me. The distance between us was ten or twelve metres, yet it felt as if he could easily lay a hand on my shoulder, touch me somehow.

  ‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘That’s what we’ll do.’

  As he turned and walked away his shadow followed along the wall and into the other rooms of the house.

  APRIL 2008

  ‘I CAN’T DO it,’ Ketomaa said. ‘The police don’t turn over that kind of material to just anyone. And no offence, but you are just anyone. It doesn’t matter that it’s been fifteen years since your mother’s death. Even if it were longer, I still couldn’t do it.’

  We hadn’t seen each other in three years. Ketomaa had lost weight. The sturdy knot in his dark-blue necktie looked noticeably wider. His face was an older, furrowed Buster Keaton, as if the screen legend’s famous stony face had been elongated and his cheeks and forehead had been gathered in deep folds just to accentuate his overall dryness, the absence of water, and life.

  Ketomaa was wearing a hat though we were indoors, because the cancer treatment had claimed the last bit of hair on his head. The intelligent, probing look in his eyes was luckily unchanged. I didn’t know quite why, but it felt good to see him again. Maybe this frail old policeman was the last remaining link to my past, to who and what I once was.

  We had intended to have lunch at Juttutupa, which was nearby, but we’d left without ordering. Ketomaa said there was no point. His food would just sit on his plate. So we were sitting in the back room of the Rytmi coffee shop.

  On the other side of the room a young man tapped at a laptop. His head of blond curls rocked in rhythm and now and then, after a particularly furious bout of typing, he would give a little nod. Outside the large window the usual assortment of drug addicts, office workers, hipsters and locals went up and down Toinen linja. The spring weather made everything limpid and bright.

  ‘I knew you would say that. Just thought I’d ask. And there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Ketomaa said quietly. He knew how to speak in such a way that you could only hear him if you were sitting directly in front of him. ‘Tanja Metsäpuro. The answer is the same.’

  ‘I don’t need the files. I just want to know where they are with it. It disappeared from the papers a long time ago.’

  ‘Let it disappear,’ Ketomaa sighed. ‘The case is going nowhere.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘I don’t know if that would be wise. I don’t mean for me. I’m talking about you. It’s nice to see you and see that you at least appear to be doing well. But … Neither one of us is getting any younger. Life is so short; you should use it for what matters.’

  ‘Tanja Metsäpuro,’ I said.

  ‘You would have made a good cop,’ Ketomaa said, and laughed dryly. He shoved his hat further back on his head and thought for a moment. ‘A good cop who wasted his life on hopeless cases. Chasing unsolved crimes his whole career, his whole life, and forgetting about little things like family, children, happiness, companionship, and not noticing until the end of his life that it was all a waste. This isn’t second-hand knowledge for me.’

  He looked at me, then at the street, then turned his face to me again.

  ‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘What you do with it is your own responsibility. It’s your life. I don’t really know what’s happening with the case, I’m not personally involved in it, but of course I hear a thing or two. As I’m sure you deduced from the newspapers, it started with the body. But then no other evidence turned up. They’ve tried every angle.’

  He sipped his lemon soda and looked at me almost expectantly.

  ‘Eventually they arrested her ex-husband as a suspect.’

  ‘The one who was in jail when it happened?’

  Ketomaa tugged at his collar.

  ‘The idea was that it all had to do with drugs. That the crime was meant to send a message. That’s their strongest theory at this point. That’s all I can tell you. I’ve already told you more than I ought to. Chalk it up to the radiation. What do you say? Are you satisfied?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Of course not. How did I guess.’

  We sat silent for a moment. The young writer put on headphones. They were large and black and covered half his head, leaving just his rosy, eager nose, soft, boyish cheeks, red-pimpled chin, and bountiful curls sticking out in every direction. His fingers hammered on the keys.

  ‘Did Tanja Metsäpuro know Henrik Saarinen?’

  Ketomaa’s expression didn’t waver. I repeated the question. He leaned back. His suit jacket looked almost empty.

  ‘Aleksi, can I tell you something?’

  ‘Did she know –’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about this disease,’ he said. His arms were crossed over his chest, his face open and innocent. ‘Thinking about what cancer is. Cancer cells spread without understanding that by spreading they’re destroying the thing they live in. Their greed is like that, endless. They’re killing themselves. They destroy, only to be destroyed.’ The lemon soda rose from the table and disappeared between his lips. ‘Given a choice, why would you do that?’

  And what if you have no choice, I wanted to ask. What if the choice was made for you? I didn’t say anything for a moment. Ketomaa’s question hung between us. I took a sip of coffee and waited. Ketomaa looked at me again.

  ‘So you don’t want to answer my question, but I’m supposed to answer yours.’

  ‘It’s important to me,’ I said.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘It’s not going to kill you.’

  ‘It’s a fifty-fifty chance.’

  His face continued unflinchingly expressionless. Finally he spoke.

  ‘Yes. Tanja had been seeing Henrik Saarinen.’

  ‘Christ,’ I said. ‘I could have told you a thousand years ago that you ought to arrest Saarinen.’

  Ketomaa suddenly looked absolutely furious and frustrated. I didn’t remember ever seeing him like that.

  ‘I’m only telling you this so you’ll come to your senses. Their connection ended about six months before she disappeared. And it wasn’t a close connection even before that. It was one of those things between an older, richer man and a younger woman.
’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘The police had a chat with Saarinen, of course.’

  ‘They had a chat with him. What the fuck did they chat about? Why not arrest him and convict him?’

  Ketomaa opened his mouth a couple of times as if he was gulping for air.

  ‘My mouth gets so dry these days.’

  He poured some more soda in his mouth as if he were watering a tender plant, and said, ‘Of course they didn’t just chat with him. They investigated everything and kept all their options open as long as possible. They looked at Tanja’s phone records and emails and everything they’d collected in their investigation, all the depositions and reports, they combed through everything. People were brought in for more questioning.’

  He leaned forward and set his elbows on the table, his eyes drilling into me.

  ‘And there was nothing. Nada. Not one meeting for the whole six months. There was no trace of Henrik Saarinen in Tanja Metsäpuro’s life.’

  He leaned closer.

  ‘Do you understand, Aleksi? Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  I looked at him. ‘You have a 50 per cent chance of survival. That probably doesn’t sound like a lot. But if you compare that to a 20 per cent chance, it’s a hell of a lot. And if you compare it to zero, it’s a gift from heaven.’ I paused for a heartbeat and asked, ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  SEPTEMBER 2013

  AFTER MEETING HENRIK Saarinen I couldn’t sleep. Naturally. The past was a bramble, dense and thick with thorns.

  My little room and kitchen felt cramped and unfamiliar. The night sky outside the window was brilliantly cloudless, the stars bright as approaching aeroplanes. The floorboards let out low creaks as I paced from the foot of the bed to the kitchen and back again. I finally tired of walking, made some tea, and sat down at the table.

  Twenty years, and where was I?