‘He’s my best mate,’ says Sami.
At first I say nothing. Then I remember what Asko said on the deck of the pub boat.
‘Asko said Tomi might have gone to St Petersburg.’
‘Asko?’
Sami’s blue eyes are glued to my own. He couldn’t possibly look at me any more closely. And still his left eye is looking off somewhere towards the terrace.
‘I met your boss,’ I say. ‘At least I assume he’s your boss. He came to see me.’
Again Sami licks his lips; they look dry and anaemic. ‘Asko doesn’t know Tomi like I do. He would have told me if he’d been going to St Petersburg. Tomi told me he was going to pay you a visit.’
I don’t want Sami to continue. He’s dangerously close to asking logical follow-up questions.
‘I’m in quite a hurry,’ I say. ‘If it’s all the same—’
‘Why did you run off when you saw me just now?’
Perhaps Sami hasn’t suffered as much brain damage as I’d thought. Even so, flattery might still be the best defence in this situation.
‘You cut an intimidating figure,’ I say, and I mean it. ‘You’ve got a certain … charisma.’
Sami seems to think about this. Then, for the first time that I’ve ever seen, he smiles. His smile is as skew-whiff as his eyes. It curves upwards on the right-hand side of his face, which only serves to highlight the tautness of his overall expression.
‘Keep that in mind,’ he says with an air of satisfaction.
I don’t plan on asking quite what he’s referring to. I nod all the same.
‘If I find out that you know something about Tomi and you’re not telling me, I’ll…’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ I say and flick the switch to start closing the window. The rising window seems to startle Sami and he nervously pulls his hands away from the doorframe.
‘We’ve got our eyes on you, remember that.’
‘I won’t forget it for a second,’ I say.
Sami is still bending over towards me. The window rises and the glass appears between us. Instantly I can breathe more easily. I turn the key in the ignition, reverse an inch and wrench the steering wheel. This is the driving school from hell, I imagine: a three-point turn in front of an instructor hankering for revenge. Eventually I manage to get the front of the car out into the road; Sami is standing so close that I’m worried I might crush his toes. It doesn’t happen. Sami remains standing in the middle of the road as I pull away and turn left.
It’s lunchtime, but the people of Hamina don’t go out for lunch; they drive home or eat a packed lunch at work. The lunch hour in downtown Helsinki looks like a wild carnival compared to what I now see before me.
A leisurely cyclist, a few cars, someone crossing the street with a walking frame. The local pizzeria is open, but there are no customers inside. The large elms in the park stand motionless like enormous, deep-green heads of broccoli. There’s no queue at the ice-cream kiosk; the vendor is sitting in a chair on the side nearest the park, her eyes closed, her face angled up towards the sky. The price list has yellowed in the sunlight, the images of the different ice creams fading; what was once banana could now be mistaken for vanilla.
I recall a song in which the protagonist, a young housewife, realises one sunny morning that she’ll never drive through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind fluttering her hair. I think I know what she must have felt like. I don’t mean that I feel the desire for the big city or to ride in a sports car. And I don’t have enough hair – be it in volume or style – for it to flutter in the wind. If we got up enough speed, my hair might just about shift position. I don’t believe even the protagonist of the song necessarily wanted all those things – Europe, a fast car, a dashing hairstyle – but what she realises is essentially that life is gone, dreams are only dreams, they never come true, there is only the here and now, and even that is only temporary.
I recall another thought, from one of the great philosophers. The basic idea is that it makes about as much sense to grieve for your own death as it does to grieve for the time before your birth. Of course, this theory isn’t entirely watertight. One particular weakness is that before I was born I couldn’t conceivably have had any experience of what it means to be alive, whereas when another cycle of infinity begins I will already have had that experience, and this in turn makes relinquishing that experience difficult. It’s such a challenge to find any point of comparison for life as we know it, it’s painful.
Another weakness in the theory is to do with the time before my birth: I simply cannot remember anything about it. I imagine a similar situation awaits me down the line, an endless cycle of unconsciousness and oblivion. Same old, same old, as they say. It doesn’t feel very attractive. It might very well be that this short life is the only one in which I will be able to walk around with my eyes open, to breathe the scent of the summer’s day wafting in through the window I’ve opened again.
My thoughts are confused, but I’ll allow myself that much.
How sensible can anyone expect me to be?
Millions of years of nothingness stretch out ahead of me, billions of years are behind me. There’s no way of knowing when the next period of oblivion will end: does it end when our earthly life ends, soon or slightly further down the road, or is our collective coma cut short only when the universe begins to turn in on itself, compresses and shrinks to the size of a pinhead? And if that event is the catalyst for the birth of the next universe, does my oblivion start all over again and do I have to wait billions of years until I’m finally woken up … and so on ad infinitum?
If and when I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that, with or without eternal life, this universe starts to feel like an unbearably stressful and exhausting place, especially when you think about it more closely. It’s like a workplace that you really want to leave, but you don’t have the courage because finding a new job might prove too difficult.
I’m distressed, disappointed and agitated. I’ve never thought about matters like this before. But who wouldn’t rather spend their time pondering the nature of infinity and the universe than thinking about the fact that his wife and business partner has invited a group of Japanese associates to a meeting without telling her husband and principal shareholder in the company? And all this after murdering him first?
13
Things in the warehouse are in good shape.
Olli has been meticulous: the machines are gleaming, clean and ready, the refrigerators are humming at exactly the right temperature. Everything is ready for the switch to be flicked; only the mushrooms are missing. Raimo’s concerns about the punnets are needless. We have more than enough different boxes and packages. I have a sneaking suspicion Raimo’s worries might have more to do with his image of himself, what people think about him as a purchasing manager, how punnet merchandisers see him, how he views his status within the business.
Like everything, this too is only human.
Most things we do have little if nothing to do with anything concrete or necessary but are motivated by what we want other people to think of us. I’m a perfect example of this. I’m caught in a struggle between life and death, and I’m worried what I look like in the process. I remember Sanni and remind myself that I need something from her at the first possible opportunity.
The thought of Sanni causes a sensation that hurtles from my head to the bottom of my stomach and back again, leaving a painful, stinging void in my body. I can see her auburn hair. The sensation is dizzying, almost frightening. Either that or this is another symptom of the poisoning. Or infatuation and poisoning are so similar to one another that it’s impossible to tell them apart.
Did I say infatuation? Is that really how I think of Sanni?
The thought couldn’t possibly be worse. It’s catastrophic. To put such thoughts behind me I try to take comfort in concrete sensory observations. I run my hand along the cool steel surfaces in the dryer, I look at the equipment, the implements, naming a
nd registering them in turn. This takes my thoughts away from her locks of red hair and focusses them in the warehouse with its concrete floor, its metal, stone and brick.
This is my creation. Not only mine, of course, but this is what I have spent years building. And with things as they are at the moment, this is my life, my purpose. I have no heirs and I don’t have much time. What I have now is all that will be left of me.
The mushrooms.
At first it sounds small and nondescript, but it’s true. And for that reason it’s a powerful image. My purpose in this world is to find good mushrooms, to make sure they reach people’s tables and mouths, and to build up this little business. I won’t go down in history, but still, I have a purpose – one that will last the rest of my days.
My thoughts about the time after my death give me unexpected energy. Looking at things in perspective always helps, even now. Full of newfound energy I march into my office, say hello to Suvi, who is sitting with her back to the corridor and either does or doesn’t answer my greeting, and close the door behind me as I sit down to make a phone call. I’ve barely managed to lift up the phone when there’s a knock at the door. But the door doesn’t open, as it usually does in this firm the second after a knock. There is another knock.
‘Come in,’ I call out towards the door, though it feels idiotic.
Taina has never once knocked before walking into my office. And now she’s done it twice in the space of ten seconds. Her sleeveless summer blouse suits her and her broad-shouldered frame. Her tanned javelin-thrower’s arms are strong and feminine, and well worth showing off. Her thick, brown hair is tied at her neck as though she is about to perform an athletic feat. Her grey-blue eyes quickly fix on my own, and there’s a friendly smile on her lips.
I gesture towards the chair on the other side of the desk. The situation feels odd: I’m behaving as though Taina were just another member of my staff. Technically, of course, she is, if you think of the hierarchy of the business. But neither of us has behaved like this in the past.
Taina sits down, looks at me.
‘I’ve been thinking about what we’ve discussed,’ she begins.
‘What bit exactly?’
‘Everything,’ she says. ‘Absolutely everything, darling. I don’t even know where to start, what order to put things in. But I’ve been watching you these last few days and … thinking. About you. A lot. And I’m sure, given a little time, you’ll see things the same way as I do.’
‘If you mean the things I said about the business…’
Taina shakes her head. Not the way you shake your head when you disagree with someone, but the way you shake your head when you want to stop the conversation running off at a tangent. The movement is gentle but firm, full of a sense of adult certainty. I don’t know if I have any better options than to wait and listen. And so I wait and listen.
‘When I rubbed your shoulders last night I realised what this is all about. I saw it, understood it, and to be honest I felt it in your body – something I’ve suspected for a while now. You fell asleep, by the way. I sat and watched the rest of The Biggest Loser. It was Harri, the blond guy, who won. He’d lost thirty-eight kilos after his divorce. And when the presenter comforted him, he explained he lost another six and a half while he and his wife divided up their belongings. Then I put a blanket over you and decided I’d do it in the morning.’
There’s a sense of warmth and concern in Taina’s voice – as if she cares and wants to help. It’s more marked than I’ve heard from her for years. Maybe more than I’ve ever heard before.
‘And what is it you decided you’re going to do?’ I ask.
Taina turns to look at me. Her round, watchful eyes are attentive, full of a sense of genuine concern.
‘You’re exhausted, darling. You need a holiday. Right now. And I’ve organised one for you.’
Apparently I can’t even die quickly enough. That’s my first thought. My wife wants to send me away because I haven’t died in the timeframe she’d imagined. I keep my eyes fixed on hers, which now look like they could belong to a nurse with the gentlest bedside manner.
‘Really?’ is all I can manage.
It’s not the cleverest of questions, not even the most challenging, but it buys me some time.
Taina nods. ‘Starting today,’ she says. ‘I insist.’
‘That’s impossible. We’ve already agreed…’
‘Jaakko, honey bunny, listen to me.’
I look at Taina and do as she asks: I listen. Again, I have a few seconds to think.
‘You’ve been acting very oddly recently. At first I thought you were having some kind of midlife crisis…’
‘I’m thirty-seven years old.’
‘Exactly. But now you come home at all hours, you talk about the strangest things, the police visit our house because they suspect you of theft, and then there’s your erratic behaviour at work. For a while I was worried that you’d gone mad – totally lost the plot. But then I read an article about burnout and I realised what was wrong with you. And last night you fell asleep mid-sentence, while I was rubbing your shoulders.’
‘What sentence was that?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘What was I saying when I fell asleep?’
‘That doesn’t matter. Something about some heavy lifting you’d been doing, and that’s why your back was so stiff.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘I went to bed upstairs, but I couldn’t get to sleep. Because I was thinking of you. You, Jaakko.’
‘You lay awake because of me?’
‘Yes. But then I found the answer. We’re going to give you a little time off.’
‘How much time off?’
‘A long weekend to start with.’
I look at Taina. I understand my wife. She’s in a tricky situation. It seems I simply won’t die quickly enough. The Japanese are on their way, and I’m supposed to be dead and buried by now.
‘Where would I go?’ I ask her.
‘To a spa. I’ve booked a suite at a hotel in Tallinn. The ferry leaves Helsinki tomorrow morning. If you like, I can book you a hotel in Helsinki for the night too. That way you can enjoy a spot of nightlife.’
‘Nightlife?’
‘Visit the old bars and restaurants.’
‘They’re all gone now.’
‘You know what I mean,’ says Taina. ‘Have some fun, take it easy, rest and recover.’
‘I’m not burnt out.’
Taina gives me a warm smile, raises her hand and stretches out her forefinger. ‘The article I read specifically says that a person suffering from burnout is the last to recognise the problem. You’re showing all the symptoms. I can see it, poppet.’
Poppet? Seriously?
‘I’ve told the staff to cancel their plans and be prepared to work all weekend. What will they think if I swan off to a spa in Tallinn at the last minute?’
‘Of course, we won’t tell anyone about the burnout. You’re the main shareholder in this company. You have better things to do than crawl around in the forest. We’ll just say you’re on a business trip.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question,’ I say. ‘How will we get all our work done?’
Taina’s eyes are still friendly, emanating warmth, but she’s nervous too. I can tell because I know her. To some degree, at least.
‘So that’s settled then,’ she continues. ‘Shall I confirm the booking?’
‘Why this weekend, specifically?’
Taina does her best to conceal her frustration, but a hint of tension appears in her body language nonetheless.
‘Because this weekend, specifically, you’re so exhausted, darling. Not last weekend. Now. You need rest this weekend.’
‘It sounds like you’re really worried about all this.’
Taina nods as though I’ve finally hit the nail on the head and we are now both about to win a fantastic prize.
‘I am,’ she says, stressing both words. ‘Very worrie
d.’
‘Perhaps I…’
‘That’s right, darling.’
‘But who…?’
‘The rest of us, that’s who. All of us. Together. You know that I know how to run this business. You won’t have to worry about anything at all.’
Taina stands up and walks round the table before I have a chance to hide my email account from the computer screen. She stops behind me, places her hands on my shoulders and rubs gently, stroking and pressing; it’s almost a caress. The last time this happened was during the first four months after we started dating, and even then possibly only once.
‘And when you come back,’ I hear from behind me, ‘we can reassess the situation in a fresh light. You’ve been carrying so much responsibility that the stress has seeped into your body. These shoulders are rock-solid with tension.’
They’re rock-solid because there’s a cheating murderess standing right behind me.
‘You’re so funny, my little cuddlekins,’ she continues. ‘The rest of us know a thing or two too, you know.’
‘I don’t doubt it for a second.’
‘Shall I book some treatments for you too?’
‘Treatments?’
‘At the health spa. Massages, baths, saunas, thermacare, facials, foot rubs, the barber?’
Taina sounds like a walking advert for the place. I hold back my answer.
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ I say once I think I’ve kept her waiting long enough. ‘Maybe I’m a bit stressed. What say I think about your offer?’
Taina’s hands stop mid-stroke, then start again, rubbing gently.
‘You’re always so resistant to things, Jaakko, darling. Even things that are good for you. Particularly things that are good for you.’
‘I’m not being resistant,’ I say. ‘It’s just I don’t want to burden you with all these things. You’re in your element when you’re thinking about new tastes and recipes. But running the business – I’m not sure you really want to take on so much work, so much responsibility and worry. There are many things you might not have given any thought.’
The Man Who Died Page 15