The Man Who Died

by Antti Tuomainen

  Tikkanen turns and we walk off the jetty and into the grass. The earth beneath my feet feels like the promised land, as though I’d only narrowly escaped something truly terrible. I pass Tikkanen and begin striding back towards the garden. Our house seems to flicker between the leaves of the trees. Tikkanen is like the burr of a burdock. I’m beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable.

  ‘Of course I know you and your wife,’ he says behind my back. ‘Though we’ve never met until now. It’s a small town, word gets round. There isn’t much goes on round here that people don’t find out about sooner or later. It’s hard to keep secrets. Tell one person and you might as well hold a press conference on the square during market season.’

  We arrive at the garden.

  ‘Your wife seems like a nice woman,’ Tikkanen continues.

  Parked on the drive I see a car I don’t recognise. It must belong to Tikkanen. I make a mental note of the make and model.

  ‘I really have to…’

  ‘…the harvest,’ Tikkanen completes my sentence. ‘I understand.’

  I reach the steps and glance behind me. ‘So, the matter is done and dusted, then?’

  ‘As far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘And you don’t suspect me of stealing the sword?’

  Tikkanen doesn’t answer immediately.

  ‘No.’ He says eventually then turns and is about to open his car door. For a moment I think the interrogation is over, but then he asks a final question. ‘Are you all right?’

  At first I don’t understand the question, but then I feel something beneath my nose. I wipe a finger across my upper lip. Blood.

  ‘Swimming sometimes does this,’ I say.

  ‘Right.’

  Taina is standing by the window, almost framed by it, and has her back to me as I walk inside. Around her a new day is beginning. When you’ve lived with someone for years, you can tell by the position of their head and body what kind of mood they are in. Taina does not turn around; doubtless she is keeping her eyes on Tikkanen’s car as it pulls out of the drive.

  I stop in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room. There’s a draught. By now my thighs are dry. And with that the feeling of contentedness that I’d experienced swimming in the silvery waters is gone. I’m annoyed and cold.

  ‘The police,’ says Taina.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What was he doing here?’

  ‘Asking about some kind of Samurai sword.’

  ‘I know that, because he asked me the same thing. But why would he be looking for something like that round here, at our house?’

  Still she doesn’t turn around.

  I don’t think I’ve actually seen her eyes since I thanked her for dinner last night and took a bowl of milk out to the garden for Veikko. Perhaps she’s trying to keep out of my way, avoiding eye contact. It’s understandable. There’s a difference between looking at the wife who makes you coffee in the morning and the wife whom only yesterday you saw merrily copulating with the company apprentice. Yesterday; twenty-four hours ago, when everything was different.

  ‘A misunderstanding,’ I say. ‘They must have the wrong information – they’re confusing me with someone else. Of course I haven’t stolen anybody’s sword. I’m not a thief.’

  ‘What did you say to him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What did you tell the policeman?’

  ‘The very same thing. What was I supposed to tell him?’

  Taina doesn’t answer immediately. She turns slightly. Despite her diminutive stature she’s an imposing woman. She’s wearing a tight-fitting pink T-shirt, and from this angle, in this light, her breasts look full and hefty. Again I find myself thinking of Baywatch, though I don’t really understand why, not after all these years.

  ‘Nothing. Of course,’ she says. ‘I’m just a bit startled, that’s all. It’s a small town – you know how it is. Police attention isn’t necessarily a good thing, particularly not for the business. Our reputation could suffer.’

  As she speaks, Taina turns around to face me. The light is coming in from behind her, casting shadows across her face.

  ‘But if this is only a misunderstanding, then we can draw a line under it and we won’t need to see Tikkanen round here again,’ she says.

  ‘I’m not about to invite him over.’

  ‘Well, there’s no reason to.’

  ‘No reason at all,’ I nod.

  Taina takes a step closer. Again I pull my stomach in. I’m beginning to understand the mechanics of how this works: when someone approaches me, I try to look somehow better than I am in reality. It’s a common enough phenomenon, I realise that, but at this stage in my life – or my death – it requires quite an effort.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about the suggestion you made yesterday,’ says Taina.

  ‘I suggested quite a few things yesterday.’

  ‘About lightening up on the food. You’re right. Our diet is too heavy.’

  I try to smile. It’s as though my face has become salted in the sea, and now I can’t move my cheeks.

  ‘You’re still prepared to cook?’ I ask.

  ‘With pleasure,’ Taina replies. ‘It’ll be an interesting challenge for me. I need something like that. Change is always good. Riding the same bike year after year can get a bit tedious.’

  Taina blushes. Perhaps I can guess why, perhaps not. I’m about to say something about maybe changing the saddle, but that would be too much right now. I have a responsibility to my investigation. It’s a responsibility to myself.

  ‘What would you like to eat today?’ she asks.

  I can’t say simply a glass of yoghurt. I have to remain my old self, the living me.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I say and remember something I’ve read in one of the women’s magazines at the barber. ‘As long as it’s got plenty of protein in it.’

  3

  The bonnet of the van is propped open, Petri is hunched inside it, working, shirtless and wearing a pair of red shorts. The sun has only just risen, but already its glare burns the skin. Petri is tanned, toned and excruciatingly young. I am anything but.

  Somewhere a moped engine sputters like a lawnmower whose voice is cracking. We are in the backyard of our premises. It’s about fifty metres to the edge of the forest. The pine trees look almost orphaned, as though they are in entirely the wrong world, as they stand beneath the baking sun.

  I know nothing about cars. If I ever have a problem with the car, I take it to the garage. I’ve never been remotely interested in what goes on beneath the bonnet. It seems there is plenty going on, because Petri is so focussed, he doesn’t hear me approaching. I walk round to the other side of the van, watch his hands as they work with the motor. They are strong, skilled hands; his fingers are fast, his biceps like something straight out of an athletics competition on TV. I watch him for a while. Finally, he gives a start and looks up.

  ‘Don’t let me disturb you,’ I say.

  His eyes only meet mine for a fleeting second, then his dark hair falls once again in front of his face. ‘There’s a leak somewhere,’ he says.

  ‘How’s that possible?’ I wonder. ‘It’s a good motor.’

  Petri’s hands do not stop. ‘It’s old,’ he says. ‘We should trade it in for a new one.’

  For a moment I remain silent. From his arm muscles I can see that Petri is twisting a wrench or a screwdriver.

  ‘That’s the plan,’ I say eventually. ‘As soon as our finances allow it.’

  ‘The thing is, I spend at least an hour or two fixing this thing every day.’

  Perhaps that’s a good thing, I think, otherwise we’d hardly be able to tell you and my wife apart from the local rabbits.

  ‘Patience,’ I say. ‘Everything will happen in good time.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Are you happy?’ I ask him.

  Petri places both palms on the side of the van and seems to straighten his back by pushing h
imself up on his forearms. Of course, this is unnecessary. He doesn’t need support to stand up straight. He’s got a washboard stomach and a swimmer’s back. He could stand upright even if he was lying on his back on a sun lounger at the mercy of an overly eager rider. He casts me a quizzical look.

  ‘With your work,’ I add. ‘Your position.’

  Petri continues to look at me. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How do you feel about your current responsibilities? Are you content with what you’re doing? I assume you know our local situation has changed somewhat.’

  Petri’s eyes move from the motor to the sky, from the sky to the rag in his hand. ‘Changed in what way?’ he asks.

  ‘We have a competitor now. Three men, there at the end of the road.’

  Petri glances around as though he expects the men of the Hamina Mushroom Company to be standing right in front of us, but there is nothing but a white brick wall and a scruff of grass yellowed in the sun. Then he looks down at the van and the motor and says nothing. He looks even younger than he did a moment ago.

  ‘Right,’ he nods. ‘Them.’

  ‘Have they asked you to work for them?’

  Petri hesitates. It shows in his hands. They are suddenly uncertain, they don’t seem to know nearly as much about what they are supposed to do as they did before.

  ‘You can be honest with me,’ I say. ‘There’s nothing wrong with someone asking you to work for them. I’d ask you too. A young man like you, with all your skills and boundless energy. A man with initiative who works above and beyond what might reasonably be expected of him.’

  Petri gives me an awkward smile. I know from experience how hard it can be to listen to compliments while hiding secrets about the very same topic.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘yes.’

  ‘So they have been in contact with you?’

  Petri nods.

  ‘Did they offer you a better wage?’ I ask.

  Petri looks to the side. He shakes his head. ‘A new van.’

  ‘You should have said something. You should have come to me straight away.’

  Petri looks me in the eyes. ‘But…’

  ‘We could have come up with something. We’ll deal with the matter of the van when the time comes. But before that I’m sure there are a few things you and I can reach an agreement on. You and I can really help each other out.’

  Petri lowers his eyes, stares fixedly at the insides of the motor.

  ‘I suggest we fix this,’ I continue. ‘We can start a two-man club, a think tank they call it.’

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Petri, let me tell you something in confidence. This is between you and me.’

  By now Petri’s hands are even less quick and certain. They are trembling. It’s subtle, barely noticeable, but I can see it all the same. I hold a long, deliberate pause and lean over the motor so that the bonnet almost forms a den around us.

  ‘I see more passion in you than in anyone else in this business. I’ve got the feeling you’ve got what it takes to do anything at all. That’s a good thing. Passion, drive, they’re good qualities in a man. You want to move forward in life, and so you should. You’re doing the right thing by sizing up your options. But I want to give you a piece of advice, as a friend. I can call you a friend, can’t I?’

  Petri says something, but it is mumbled towards his hand and is so quiet only the rag in his fist could possibly hear it.

  ‘A friendly word of advice,’ I continue. ‘You need a friend, you see. Someone you can talk to about anything and everything. I don’t believe a new van is all you want. You want more. Am I right?’

  Petri’s hands clench together, he extricates himself from beneath the bonnet, but his eyes remain cast down and he stands staring at his trainers.

  ‘I’m in a bit of a hurry…’

  ‘By all means,’ I say. ‘But we’ll come back to this, my new friend.’

  ‘I don’t know…’

  ‘Oh yes. As soon as possible,’ I say.

  I turn and walk away. Behind me, I can’t hear Petri making any movements whatsoever.

  4

  The biggest problem is, I don’t know when I’m going to die. I don’t know whether it’s going to happen in a minute or a week. On the other hand, isn’t this everybody’s – I mean, literally everybody’s – basic problem? Death: everybody’s final stumbling block; the moment when plans end and expectations are dashed.

  Nobody can avoid it. I will die, you will die, he / she / it will die. Everybody dies. With a quick look in the encyclopaedia I discover that in the history of humanity approximately fifty billion people have walked the earth in the last hundred thousand years. Every single one of them has died.

  All those of us currently alive – and leaving aside those already deceased, that leaves just over seven billion – will all die, and relatively soon too, when you look at it from a wider perspective. Every single person whose hand I’ve ever shaken, whom I’ve seen in the morning traffic, whom I know and have ever known or glanced at in passing.

  Everyone will pass away, will cease to exist.

  When you hold a newly born baby in your arms, the game is already up: death will come as surely as a bottle of milk, and with the same warmth and certainty. Death is the only permanent thing in our lives; in a morbid way it’s the only thing we can really trust.

  I lean backwards, breathe in and out, and wonder whether, on top of everything else, I really am losing my mind.

  The doctor mentioned something about possible brain damage. Is that what this is? I don’t know. If we are about to lose our minds, do we even realise it’s happening? Doesn’t losing your mind mean that your mind disappears and madness takes its place, making it almost impossible to recognise the loss? I sigh and decide to comb my hair, which is still tangled after my morning swim.

  Be that as it may, death will be the next room into which I step. It’s there, behind my office door. Death is something concrete, a meeting that’s been arranged on my behalf and that I can’t pull out of. And it won’t let me forget about it either.

  This morning: nose bleed, sudden headache, stomach and kidney pain, strange flashes at the edge of my field of vision. It’s hard to say whether they were there before or whether they’ve now increased.

  Death could come this very minute. I could close my eyes and never open them again; look outside and see nothing more; tie my shoelaces but never take another step.

  There’s a knock at the door; ergo, I’m still alive.

  I place my palms on the table and turn my head towards the door. I can’t say how long I’ve been lost in thought – or caught in mental anguish; it’s hard to say which – but judging by the brightness of the room, I’m still living through the same early morning as a moment ago. I know it’s Raimo before I catch a glimpse of him. The knock is quick, irregular, robust, and with that the door is abruptly wrenched open.

  Raimo always seems to walk into a room as though he doubts the efficacy of the door hinges. Raimo is our purchasing manager, a middle-aged man with a dark beard and someone with whom I’ve had more arguments in the course of my life than with anyone else. He’s dressed in jeans, a light-blue shirt and a burgundy jacket, though the outdoor thermometer showed 25°C when I went swimming.

  ‘Got a minute?’ he asks.

  I nod, Raimo steps inside, shuts the door behind him. In addition to hinges, it appears he also doubts the functionality of door handles. The door slams shut, and Raimo sits down in the chair on the other side of my desk.

  ‘We have to get our hands on some of those durable plastic punnets; the deeper model with the holes in the sides. That means the product can breathe properly, and we can guarantee freshness.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because those guys have ordered twenty thousand of them.’

  ‘You mean the Hamina Mushroom Company?’

  Raimo nods. He looks at me more closely, as though he’s noticed something out of the ordinary. He says nothing. />
  ‘How do you know they’ve ordered so many punnets?’

  Raimo clears his throat, though his voice has been clear enough so far. ‘I just happen to know.’

  This has been Raimo’s gift to our business. He hears everything, learns everything and, after much arguing and bickering, always finds us the best prices at the most reliable wholesalers.

  ‘The biodegradable model?’

  Raimo nods. ‘They’re all for this harvest, which means in their first year of operations they’re planning to pick double the volume of mushrooms we picked in our third year, which was our best so far.’

  Again he nods. It’s hard to read anything into his expressions, or rather his expressionlessness. Like me, he is a heavy-set man: a man whom food and the passing years have taken somewhat by surprise. But for him the extra weight has settled more evenly across his body. I carry a beach ball filled with sand round my waist, whereas Raimo’s excess energy has spread across his body like butter on a slice of bread.

  ‘And they look better too,’ he says. ‘People like them. If you put the old punnets next to the new ones, customers will always choose the new one, regardless of the mushrooms inside.’

  The story of my life, I think to myself. Raimo strokes his moustache. The whiskers remain stubbornly in place.

  ‘I can see a few small problems with that; in fact they’re not very small either,’ I say. ‘We have enough of the old, non-biodegradable punnets to last another season. Sure, the new, biodegradable ones are great, but they’re more expensive too.’

  Raimo straightens the hem of his jacket. He wants to say something but is holding back.

  ‘Besides, it can’t only be about the punnets,’ I say. ‘We still have the best product and, I guarantee you, the best pickers.’

  ‘That’s right, because we’re investing in them,’ says Raimo quietly. He won’t look me in the eye but stares out of the window, then lowers his gaze to the back of the computer, halfway between us. There can’t be anything particularly interesting there.

  ‘We’ll invest in the punnets when the time comes,’ I assure him. ‘But right now…’