The Man Who Died

by Antti Tuomainen

  The good thing about death is that as it draws closer many things I used to think were important lose their significance. This doesn’t happen the way you’d think or the way you hear people saying: that your loved ones become more important, that money loses its meaning, that the spirit of god (or God) and an appreciation of an eternal afterlife flickers into being. In my case my loved ones have become my enemies, the success of my business is now the most important thing of all, and the flame of eternal life is merely something that burns Sami to a crisp and glows like an ember, slowly simmering as it awaits us all. My own thoughts scare me. People don’t know the depths of their own minds until they start to think about things like this.

  Sanni’s car pulls up in the yard.

  The clothes are the right size. I don’t know how it’s possible. I don’t think I’ve ever looked this relaxed and stylish: light-brown kneelength shorts, a red-and-blue checked shirt and a pair of black-and-white Adidas trainers. I look like an affluent tourist.

  We set off to fetch the car. We don’t speak on the way. I sit in the back seat so that I can lie down, out of sight if necessary. Once we get out of town I sit upright and look around. Sanni explains we’ll take the longer route, just to be on the safe side. Asko’s ex-wife, whom he visits from time to time and with whom he sometimes spends the night – don’t ask – lives at the end of a road off the more direct route.

  And so we drive along a stretch of dirt track, the landscape sloping off on both sides into large sandy meadows, some of which are now covered with undergrowth and small, attractive ponds. Young spruce trees grow along the shores and verges around the ponds. The ponds seem deep enough to swim in, the largest of them the size of several tennis courts. These small coves are like miniature versions of the paradise beaches in faraway countries. If I were still a boy, these sand dunes would provide the perfect setting for countless adventures.

  The sky darkens, the wind gradually catching at the boughs of the trees.

  Sanni takes a left onto an even narrower road. We drive along this track for about five minutes, until we turn right and find ourselves in a yard. We step out of the car and walk into a garden set between a wooden house and two smaller outbuildings, all painted yellow. The fourth side of the garden is open and faces the river. We are at the top of the embankment. A steep slope leads down to the river, which has almost entirely dried up after weeks of hot, dry weather. Sanni glances at me, looks me up and down and gives me an approving smile, content with how she has styled me.

  Matti appears – from where, I couldn’t say; perhaps from the gap between the house and one of the outbuildings. We shake hands. Matti is slightly older than Sanni, his eyes brown and intense. He has no hair at all and, like his sister, his build is similarly slim and sporty. He and Sanni have clearly already spoken about the matter, because we head directly towards the garage at the end of one of the outbuildings.

  Matti is obviously sizing me up. It’s perfectly understandable. He’s about to lend me his car, and out here a car has a significance all of its own; people think of them differently from the way people in the big city do. Out here a car is something almost sacred – more sacred and more untouchable than … Perhaps I should reassure Matti: lending someone your own wife isn’t without its problems either.

  The garage door opens. It’s not quite what I was expecting.

  17

  The Lexus is a sports-car model, and almost brand new. It is expensive, luxurious, top of the range. At first I’m horrified, then I realise that Taina won’t pay the metallic-coloured car the slightest attention. On the outside it looks like any other small car. Only a closer examination reveals what it really is – that and the sound of the motor if I put my foot down any heavier than usual, as I did accidentally while pulling out of Matti’s yard.

  I pull the Hamina Baseball Club cap that Matti has lent me further down on my forehead: if Taina decides to look closely in the car mirror, I’m just a strange man in a strange car. That said, I doubt she’ll be worried: I’m in Tallinn, nobody else is interested in what she gets up to.

  Somewhere nearby the rain is already pummelling the earth with all its strength. I think of how I’m going to tell Sanni I’m dying. At some point I’ll have to break the news to her. Even today she’s mentioned all the big European cities, talking about them and our mushroom business in the future tense. At the same time both my kidneys are sore and sensitive to touch. The stasis can’t last forever. Of course it can’t. Nothing is permanent.

  I see Taina.

  She shrugs her large black sports bag from her shoulder and into the boot, then gets in the car. She reverses out of the driveway – our former garden – and the tyres grind the earth as she turns the car and drives off. She’s dressed in a relaxed and stylish way, just like me.

  And at that very moment, what has been forecast for so long finally happens: rain.

  The first fat, aggressive droplets splash to the earth with the promise of more to come. Then they become denser and more regular. Soon the ground is black, the road gleaming, the lights of passing cars refracted by the water. Rain, finally rain. After days of close, muggy weather this is liberation, salvation, and not just because of its effect on the air. I can almost hear the mushrooms growing in the forest.

  Taina’s driving is calm and uneventful. Following her is easy, I think as my phone rings. I look at the name of the caller and answer it.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ says Taina. ‘Are you already in Tallinn?’

  I stare at the rear lights glowing red up ahead of me.

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Is it raining there too?’

  ‘Pouring,’ I say. ‘I was just thinking this will do wonders for the mushrooms.’

  ‘The timing couldn’t be better. But you don’t need to worry about things like that. Did you have a nice evening?’

  Yes: I buried a man, crawled through the bushes and spent the night on a sofa.

  ‘Mostly places I’ve been before,’ I say. ‘A few surprises along the way.’

  ‘That sounds nice, dear. It sounds like you’re still on the ferry. I can hear the engines and the rain in the background.’

  ‘I’m driving in the rain. Listen, I forgot to mention this, what with everything else going on: Sanni has handed in her notice.’

  Taina is waiting to turn left at the intersection; a passing car splashes a puddle of water up against her windscreen.

  ‘Really?’ she says. She doesn’t sound like someone whose business has just lost one of its most important employees. ‘Well, I’m sure she’s given it a lot of thought and she’s doing what she thinks is for the best.’

  ‘I just thought that, because this is so out of the blue and comes at such a critical time, it might have quite an impact on our operations. The harvest is largely Sanni’s responsibility…’

  ‘We know where the mushrooms are,’ she says abruptly, and perhaps even she is surprised at how quickly the answer comes out. We’re driving along the edge of the market square, slowly. In front of us are people either looking for a parking space or trying to get out of one. The traffic is essentially at a standstill. ‘What I mean is, we don’t necessarily need Sanni.’

  ‘She might be moving to our competitor,’ I hazard. ‘The Hamina Mushroom Company. You know – Asko and his buddies.’

  ‘I know, I know. I’m not worried about them. What can Sanni offer them? More of the same. That’s not what we need now. And for the last time, darling, you’re raving about work when you’re supposed to be resting. I’ve got to go now. Have a lovely weekend.’

  The rain falls like a silver curtain right in front of the car. We start moving again.

  ‘Taina?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think something’s happened between us,’ I blurt out. ‘Of course, I don’t know whether it’s been there for a while and I’ve only just noticed it, but that’s the feeling I’ve got.’

  Straight ahead, turn to the left, then edge to the right: Taina st
eers the car to the edge of the pavement, almost at exactly the same spot as I did when I visited the Seurahuone Hotel. I drive past her as she speaks again.

  ‘Sounds like you really need this holiday, darling. Have a nice day. Talk soon.’

  The Japanese arrive. A minibus pulls up in front of the Seurahuone. I’m not at all surprised to see Petri in the driver’s seat. I watch as the group files out of the bus, and I recognise all of them except one. I assume this must be Shigeyuki Tsukehara. He is the same age and as stylish a gentleman as Kakutama, the man I know as the company director. Both are in their fifties, both are wearing a suit and tie.

  Petri is running around with an umbrella, trying to protect the men and their suitcases from the downpour. This is not easy, because there are six men in the delegation and there seems to be some confusion with the suitcases. Petri dashes here and there, carrying pieces of luggage and holding out an umbrella. Eventually he gives up and stands on the spot in the rain. He looks as though he’s just been swimming fully dressed only to find himself in completely the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Taina is standing at the door of the Seurahuone. She exchanges air kisses with the men as they step inside the hotel. A moment later the street is empty and the men installed inside, doubtless the focus of Taina’s welcome speech.

  Petri is still on the street, giving the umbrella a feeble shake. Something about his demeanour seems to change. His shoulders slump, his frame narrows. He doesn’t give the impression of a man who is about to make it big in the mushroom business through shrewd, innovative thinking. He remains standing in the doorway for a surprisingly long time, staring out at the rain then at his feet; then he turns and steps inside.

  As I see it at the moment, there are three camps operating at once:

  1) There is the business that I represent, which until a moment ago included Taina and Petri.

  2) There is a new enterprise, spearheaded by Taina and Petri, which is attempting to steal clients from my business and create a market of its own.

  3) There is the Hamina Mushroom Company: a new enterprise involving Asko (and formerly Sami and Tomi), who might, through Tsukehara, his new contact, be attempting to steer our collaboration in a completely new direction, leaving me and Taina and Petri to lick our wounds.

  Rain patters on the roof of the car. An hour passes, during which I worry about the pain in my kidneys, have a spell of dizziness and, once I have recovered, wonder how best to instigate a relaxed, natural one-on-one conversation with Kakutama. Taina and Petri are inside the Seurahuone. I consider using the fire escape, which would involve climbing up to the roof. But the tin-covered roof, slippery from the rain, my physical condition and the fact that I don’t know his room number discourage me from putting that idea into action. What’s more, I recall what Taina let slip: We know where the mushrooms are.

  Petri steps outside, returns to the minibus and starts the engine. Taina appears. She has swapped her clothes for waterproof Gore-Tex apparel and sturdy walking boots. Petri opens the bus door, Taina climbs inside, the door closes. Taina starts frantically waving her hands around.

  Soon the Japanese appear too. They too are now dressed for the weather. I note Kakutama’s bright-red, full-length overcoat, the only one of its kind in the whole delegation. Taina shows them to their seats. Her hands are moving more gently now, more slowly.

  The bus leads us out of the town.

  Taina may be a specialist when it comes to different ways of using mushrooms, recipes, tastes and the ‘final product’, as we call it in the business, but she’s also experienced when it comes to traipsing through undergrowth in the woods. The same cannot be said of me.

  We must be somewhere between the villages of Uski and Kattilainen. We’ve driven out into the countryside, taking ever-narrower dirt tracks leading deeper and deeper into the forest, and I’ve almost completely lost my bearings. Because of the heavy rain, even the location of the sun in the sky is a mystery. As it turns off its lights, the minibus disappears from view. I switched off my own lights as we turned onto this final track.

  It’s a good thing the delegation is dressed in bright colours. I catch glimpses of them as they move through the forest terrain. The red coat is what I’m looking for. Eventually I spot it as it catches up with the rest of the group at the top of a small hill. I glance in vain at the passenger seat. I don’t have a thin, waterproof summer jacket with me. All I have are the summer clothes Sanni bought me this morning. Kakutama’s jacket flickers between the trees as he brings up the rear of the group.

  Rain falls heavily from the sky. The air is warm and humid, the ground wet and squelchy. My brand-new Adidas trainers disappear into the undergrowth.

  If moving around in the forest was arduous in the past, now it’s many times worse. I look in despair at the distance between me and the rest of the group. Every step causes me to catch my breath and requires extra exertion. My stomach begins to ache, my ribs are sore – I don’t know whether this is my kidneys playing up again or something else, something new – maybe my lungs collapsing. Every now and then I support myself against a fir tree and try to keep low to the ground.

  The smell of the forest is thick and pungent, a curious blend of growing organisms and dead, decaying matter. Quite apart from being hard work, reaching the group is a complicated affair. I’m not entirely sure what direction I’ve come from or where I left the car I’ve borrowed. Sanni’s brother will be thrilled if I tell him I’ve misplaced his Lexus in the woods.

  The back of Kakutama’s red jacket appears intermittently between the trunks of the pine trees, as though someone were flicking a light switch on and off. I struggle towards it, trying to keep out of sight as best I can. Taina is leading the group with considerable determination. The line of hikers must now be about twenty metres long; that’s what happens in the forest. Eventually the terrain clears and we arrive at the edge of a logging area. A series of large boulders looks like the statues on Easter Island. I hop behind them, one after the other, and come a few steps closer to Kakutama with each new rock. I’m almost close enough that I could call out his name, but I decide against it.

  There are two reasons for this: I can’t take a big enough breath, and even if I could, shouting out wouldn’t be a good idea. What’s more, the others would hear me. Another boulder, then another. I’m not worried about the sound of my footsteps. The group is snapping dead branches and twigs themselves, and probably cannot hear anything but the sound of their own boots. Kakutama is within reach, but I have to be quick. I can’t go for long stretches without stopping to take a good breath. As I step into a short ditch cut into the earth by one of the logging machines, an idea pops into my head. The ground has been churned up. I pick up a few suitable stones, take aim and throw.

  The first stone misses its target, but Kakutama slows down and looks to the side, but not behind. Perhaps people can sense objects flying towards them even if they can’t see them. I can’t step out from behind the boulder because I don’t want to reveal myself to anyone but him. And so I must make him – and only him – turn around completely and get him to notice me behind the boulder.

  I throw another stone. It strikes almost right in the middle of the red jacket.

  Kakutama lets out a squeal that is all too loud. I see him spin around. He looks the way frightened people in horror movies always look. The others start to turn too, so I have to drop to the forest floor, out of sight. I can hear loud conversation in Japanese and English. I recognise Kakutama’s voice, then Taina’s, and make out the words ‘maybe’ and ‘bird’.

  The ground is sodden and, given the recent stretch of warm weather, surprisingly cold too. The rain is even, constant and unrelenting. I can feel the cool and damp of the forest floor rising up my body as inexorably as water in a bathtub. The one positive thing about lying down is that it gives me a chance to catch my breath.

  The rest of the group moves further away. Kakutama is still looking for something on the ground, maybe a bir
d, a small, stunned little creature. Again I wave my hands. Kakutama doesn’t look up until I whistle. I can’t quite imitate birdsong, but Kakutama raises his eyes in eager anticipation all the same, hoping to solve the mystery of the bird. He sees me instead.

  Again he gives the frightened look familiar from horror movies, but only for a second. I thank my lucky stars when I see his expression change, first to one of confusion and then one of curiosity. He is about to say something, but I manage to hold a finger up to my lips. The freeze-frame situation lasts a few long, rain-filled seconds.

  Once I am certain Kakutama will remain quiet without the help of my forefinger, I use the same hand to beckon him closer. He hesitates and glances back at his group, most of whom have already reached the other side of the logging area. I appreciate Kakutama’s confusion, but there isn’t much time. My hand is moving as though I’m whisking cream in the air. Kakutama nods and walks towards my boulder, each step a source of renewed anguish for me.

  At the same time I realise what is now crucially different from our previous meetings: this time there is nobody with better English to help us communicate. My English is, if not quite that of a rally driver or a drunken tourist, then at best stiff, my vocabulary rather limited. Kakutama’s pronunciation meanwhile makes it hard for me to understand him, even under the best of circumstances.

  Kakutama has recovered from the shock. His eyes are curious and surprised, but friendly.

  We shake hands.

  The others must not know that we are talking, I say.

  Kakutama nods.

  What has happened? he asks.

  It’s a long story, I say. I need your help.

  Your wife says you are no longer in the mushroom business.

  Believe me, I am.