Dark As My Heart

by Antti Tuomainen

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said you were really free after he died. What exactly was this freedom?’

  ‘And you’re just a maintenance man. Is that right?’

  I glanced at him again. He had the same thin little smile on his face as he had had when we’d left the hardware store. Thin, and rotten through.

  I flipped on the indicator and flowed into the exit lane that arched gently down to the right. Saarinen didn’t say anything, from which I assumed we were still going to the estate. I could see in the rearview mirror that we were the only vehicle exiting. As if everyone else knew of a better place to go. When we pulled onto the highway I accelerated and felt as alone as Saarinen had just guessed I was. He broke the silence.

  ‘You have an excellent grasp of things. Just think of the places we’ll go once we start to discuss our shared future.’

  SEPTEMBER 1993

  WELL, WHAT DO you want to be? my mother asks as we sit down to eat. Meat sauce is steaming in the cast-iron skillet and next to it is a pot of spaghetti with a ladle standing in it. Through the rising steam she looks as if she’s sitting in a fog across from me. She smiles expectantly.

  My teacher’s question has been bothering me, for many reasons. I listened in embarrassment to the answers of the other thirteen-year-olds and felt taken by surprise. Like an outsider. It wasn’t my classmates’ answers that caught me off guard, it was that they had an answer, their certainty on the subject. Policeman, doctor, singer, gamekeeper, baker. I’ve simply never thought that I ought to want to be something, to know what awaits me. I also noticed that many of the boys’ answers were their fathers’ professions.

  Help yourself while you think about it, my mother says.

  No. I’m not hungry.

  Are you feeling bad?

  No.

  You’ll feel better if you eat something.

  I sigh as audibly as possible and take hold of the ladle. I put some spaghetti on my plate and ladle on the sauce. My favourite meal. I sprinkle some cheese on top and watch as my mother fills her plate.

  Why don’t we know anything? I ask.

  Oh, honey, she says. Just eat.

  I pick up my fork. It doesn’t seem connected to the food on my plate at all. I ask again.

  Why can’t we at least know what kind of work he did?

  She stops eating.

  That has nothing to do with anything. You can be whatever you plan to be. That’s what the question is about. It’s about your plans. But everything will change along the way. Life is like that. You start from one place, and it leads you to another place, and that takes you to another. It’s very unusual to know when you’re thirteen what you’re going to be doing twenty or thirty years from now.

  Everybody else knows.

  They don’t really know. They just say what their mothers –

  And their fathers, I add. That’s the thing.

  She looks at me a moment longer and then continues eating. The kitchen window is open. I can hear familiar voices from the courtyard below. Boys and girls who don’t eat with their families at home, who never have regular, scheduled meals, are playing in the yard. My mother is strict about those things. We always eat the way we’re eating now.

  Do you feel bad about it? she asks.

  I can see in her eyes that this is hard for her, too. She’s not eating her dinner. She has her hair tucked behind her ears, she’s wearing a green hooded sweatshirt, and at that moment she looks ten years younger than she is.

  Sometimes, I say.

  It doesn’t matter what your mother or father’s profession is. It just doesn’t. You’ll see.

  She gets herself another twist of spaghetti and ladles sauce on top of it, more quickly than before.

  Well, what was it? I ask.

  What was what?

  His profession? What did he do?

  We’ve talked about this many times.

  You never answer me.

  Not everything has an answer.

  I drop my fork onto my plate with a clank and put my elbows on the table. I realise that soon I’ll be bigger than my mother. She seems to have shrunk over the course of this conversation.

  Maybe not everything has an answer, I say. But this does.

  I look her in the eye, as sincerely as I know how. A shadow flashes over her face, although the daylight is still coming through the window behind me and brightening her eyes.

  Sometimes the less you know, the better, she says in a soft voice. Besides, your father didn’t really have a profession.

  Was he unemployed?

  Far from it, but not all work is the kind that you can name. If a person cuts hair, then he’s a barber, but if he just thinks and watches what happens and makes decisions, it’s harder to know what to call it.

  You’ve never told me that my father thinks and watches. You’ve never told me what he did.

  Well I’m telling you now, she says. And that’s all I know. All I can know. Now let’s eat.

  She does what she says; she starts to eat. The long light of a summer evening suits her; she looks young and innocent. I feel as if I’ve been hit. As if there’s a moat between me and the world, a fortress wall, and behind the wall there’s an archer. It’s all impossible. Then I realise something, with a clarity I’ve never felt before.

  I know what I’m going to do when I grow up, I say.

  My mother raises her head.

  I’m going to look for answers.

  Her expression changes. There’s something in her face that I can’t quite read.

  SEPTEMBER 2013

  IT SEEMED IT was just Henrik Saarinen and me at Kalmela. There were no cars in the drive or in the parking area behind the main house. Even Enni’s Škoda was gone. Maybe today was some kind of general day off and they’d forgotten to tell me.

  The adrenaline that had kept me awake and alert on the drive, and for hours before that, was starting to clear out of my system. I’d been awake for a day and a half, and every cell knew it. My eyes stung, and must have been red, my stomach was growling and I was weak from lack of food. I stood next to the car for a moment regaining my balance. The wind blew waves of sea scent. It felt right and good. I let it cool me from head to toe, and wasn’t cold. The sun peeked out from between dark clouds, tenacious and bright, as I opened my coat and felt the little volume of poetry in my back pocket and remembered my mother’s name written in it.

  ‘We can leave these things in the car,’ Saarinen said, slamming the passenger door.

  When I didn’t follow him, he stopped and turned around.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘It’s nice to get a breath of fresh air.’

  Saarinen looked around.

  ‘Quiet. Splendidly quiet.’

  Having said this he turned softly again and started walking towards the main house. A large man against a large sea, forest, and sky. Thick, strong arms hanging at his sides like the stout ropes of a seagoing ship, ready for any storm. I shook the fatigue from my head once again and took the first step. I heard the phone ring in my pocket and saw Saarinen stop again, hesitating.

  ‘Go ahead and answer it,’ he said. ‘There’s no hurry.’

  I pulled the phone from my pocket.

  Amanda.

  Her first question was, ‘Is this a bad time to call?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said.

  I gestured to Saarinen that he could go on without me with whatever he was doing. He surprised me by obeying and continuing to the house. I took a few steps in the opposite direction so that my voice wouldn’t reach him.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ Amanda said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How did you end up there?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Eira, last night.’

  ‘Just a coincidence.’

  ‘A coincidence?’

  ‘I had to go to Helsinki. I had some business in town.’

  That was true. So why did I sound s
o defensive?

  ‘That makes three of us, then,’ Amanda said. ‘Three people who just happened to stumble onto the same street corner in the middle of the night.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, wondering where the conversation was going.

  ‘Did you hear what Harmala and I were talking about?’

  I actually hadn’t heard a word of it. Amanda interpreted my silence to mean the opposite.

  ‘It wasn’t what you think. I just wanted to tell you that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘I didn’t hear anything.’

  I didn’t want to hear about Amanda and Harmala’s relationship. Or I did, but this wasn’t the time.

  ‘I can’t figure you out, caretaker. Can I trust you?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, looking over the water to the horizon. The sea was blue and level.

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked suddenly, in a completely different tone of voice, light and carefree. Henrik Saarinen was just a little doll in the distance now.

  ‘At Kalmela,’ I said.

  ‘So last night you were here and now you’re there. You know who you remind me of? My father. He’s up all night and then he’s as perky as ever, even if he didn’t sleep at all.’

  Saarinen disappeared behind the house.

  ‘Does he do that?’ I said.

  ‘He always has. He says he can sleep when he’s dead.’

  ‘He’s here,’ I said.

  ‘My father?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She didn’t say anything for a second.

  ‘That’s nice. You can get to know each other. If he can learn to trust you, like I have. You might get within striking distance, as they say.’

  I tried to gauge how ironically she meant this, but my thoughts were interrupted when Saarinen came out from behind the house. The distance between us was about a hundred metres. He walked to an open spot and waved to me with his right hand, beckoning. As if that and the phone call weren’t enough, a familiar car pulled into the drive.

  ‘Amanda, let’s talk a little later,’ I said, and hung up.

  Ketomaa stopped his old Citroën Xantia, on its last legs, and remained sitting in the car. I didn’t move either. Saarinen stopped at the corner of the house and dropped his bag beside him. We formed a nearly equilateral triangle, an arrangement that felt contrived, like a scene in an old western. And it was contrived, of course, at least in the sense that Ketomaa couldn’t have been there by accident. I walked towards his car. Saarinen did the same a second later. I couldn’t see whether he’d paused to watch me or made the decision on his own.

  Ketomaa got out of the car. Saarinen and I approached from two directions. Ketomaa didn’t look at either of us, keeping his eyes focused in front of him, between the two of us. As I got closer I saw him squint. Closer still and I saw that he was blinded, having just removed his sunglasses. He had painful-looking, purplish indentations on either side of his long, pale nose, distillations of the essence of his thin presence. His grey suit was both old and grown too large for him. The collar of his white shirt was yellowed and his blue necktie was neatly knotted but ready to fray. It was as if both the man and everything he was wearing might go to pieces at any moment.

  I knew Ketomaa and I knew that it was all a bluff. It was an impression he wanted to give: a wrinkled old man, forgetful of his appearance. So I wasn’t surprised when he offered me his hand and introduced himself audibly.

  ‘Ketomaa. Good day.’

  Saarinen came to where we were standing. I didn’t give him a glance, looked into Ketomaa’s eyes. They didn’t tell me anything. It was like looking at sky or water, his eyes were just there.

  ‘Aleksi Kivi,’ I said, letting go of his hand and stepping to the side.

  Saarinen thrust out a large, eager hand.

  ‘Henrik Saarinen. I’m glad you were able to come.’

  Ketomaa and Saarinen shook hands. I knew without looking that the grip was firm on both sides. Ketomaa had a small, agreeable smile on his lips.

  ‘It’s a wonderful spot,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you. It’s my pride and joy. That’s why you’re here.’ Saarinen turned towards me.

  Ketomaa had to make a half turn to face me. I stood without saying a word. I was careful to keep my expression calm and relaxed. What was happening behind my eyes and between my ears was another matter. My pulse was racing and I was afraid the throb of the veins on my neck was about as inconspicuous as a dog’s wagging tail. I could hear my own blood churning in my ears and I thought my weary, hungry, beaten body might fail me at any moment. The wind off the water ruffled my hair but I didn’t feel cooled in the least.

  ‘Aleksi, I’m sure you don’t mind if we finish a little later. I need to go inside and chat with Mr Ketomaa for a moment.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the things out of the car. Just tell me where to put them.’

  Saarinen looked at me and smiled.

  ‘Don’t bother. I want to keep them in the car. You can focus on your own job, your own work.’

  ‘And what is your job?’ Ketomaa asked.

  I looked at him.

  ‘Caretaker,’ I said. ‘I’m the caretaker.’

  ‘Be forewarned that this man is a private investigator,’ Saarinen said with a smile. It was a contemptuous, self-satisfied smile not very different from the grin I’d seen several times already that morning. ‘He won’t rule anyone out as a suspect.’

  Having said this, he turned to Ketomaa.

  ‘Although as far as I can tell Aleksi is entirely trustworthy. I’m rarely wrong about these things. In fact I have the impression that Aleksi is one of the most straightforward men I’ve ever met.’

  They were both looking at me now. I felt them studying my face, watching for my reaction. I knew I looked tired, but how tired? I didn’t say anything. I hoped the ground would stay firmly under my feet, both figuratively and literally.

  ‘Are you trustworthy?’ Ketomaa asked.

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘One hundred per cent.’

  ‘And you’re not mixed up in any way in what I’ve come to investigate?’

  It was Saarinen’s turn to interject. ‘Aleksi doesn’t know anything about it. He doesn’t need to.’

  Ketomaa kept his eyes on me. I had no idea what they were talking about. It felt like a nightmare, a bad dream where you can’t run or move your limbs no matter how hard you try.

  ‘About what?’ I asked.

  ‘Even in a beautiful place like this ugly things sometimes happen,’ Saarinen said. ‘We can talk about it later.’

  ‘Talk about what?’ I said, aiming my question at Ketomaa this time. Not that I expected him to answer. I just wanted to hear him talk.

  ‘I’m bound to strict confidentiality. But the two of you will have a chance to talk later.’

  His face was as solemn as the grave. He seemed to mean every word he said. Even Saarinen stopped smiling.

  ‘We should be going. Please follow me.’

  Ketomaa looked at me one more time. I still couldn’t read anything in his eyes or his face. He turned. He was so thin and his suit coat was so large that the turn seemed to occur in two movements, first the man inside the coat, then the broad shoulders of his jacket.

  I watched them disappear into the house. The large black doorway swallowed them quickly and easily.

  I knew that I had to get something to eat and lie down. I headed inside, to my own small apartment above the storage shed. I climbed the stairs and opened the door, which was unlocked. The rooms were as quiet as a mouse. I made a sandwich and sat by the window to eat it. The soft oat bread, pepperoni, and melted cheese tasted delicious and set off my dormant hunger. I trotted back and forth between the kitchen and the table making more sandwiches and eating them. After the sixth one I made some coffee and drank it while it was too hot, burning my tongue and my throat.

  I thought I would be too tired to think, but I wasn’t. Everything that had happened revolved in my mind in confu
sed fragments that I tried to make sense of. Ketomaa was here. That alone stoked a thousand separate fears. Fear that Ketomaa would reveal who I was and tell Saarinen what I was doing there. How had Ketomaa turned up right here, right now? He was here in a private investigator’s capacity, that was clear. But why? If Saarinen wanted to hire a detective, how was it that the one he hired happened to be Ketomaa? And what was it he was here to investigate?

  I was completely spent. I hurt all over.

  My biggest question was this: had I lost the only person I had from the past, the only person I could trust? Was I as alone in the world as I sometimes felt I was?

  I leaned my right elbow on the table and tried to keep my eye on the Citroën in the yard. Falling asleep seemed like an impossibility, but my body knew better. It knew more than I did.

  There was a short series of three knocks on the door, each one progressively louder. The last one could have been heard all the way to Helsinki. I instinctively looked out of the window. Ketomaa’s car was still outside. I got up and almost fell over. The pain was suddenly awakened, my gut and side reminding me of the beating I’d taken. I held onto the wall for support and looked at the clock. I’d slept on my right arm for an hour and a half and it was completely numb. I jiggled my shoulder and opened the door.

  ‘There’s been a change of plans,’ Saarinen said. ‘We can do it later. I have to go to Helsinki.’

  I’d just woken up and probably looked like it. Saarinen’s eyes were covered by large, black sunglasses.

  ‘You look like you’ve had a shock,’ he said. ‘Has something happened?’

  The question sounded empathetic, but there was a trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth that didn’t express fellow-feeling.

  ‘No. I think I dozed off. What plans do you mean?’

  ‘We were supposed to spend the day together, remember? But I have to return to Helsinki right away.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  Saarinen didn’t answer immediately.

  ‘Nothing that affects our work.’

  ‘Our work?’

  ‘As I said this morning, I see you as something more than a handyman. We need to discuss your job duties later. And other things, too, of course. But right now I have errands waiting for me. I have to go.’