‘Where next?’ he asked.
Bruce looked at the bonfire, almost with a note of sadness. ‘Streets of Philadelphia,’ he said.
And with that Bruce disappeared from the light of the bonfire, somewhere beneath the stars.
The next morning Chico had woken up beside the cold bonfire, both hands wrapped tightly round his guitar. There was sand in his mouth, he was shivering with cold and his head was pounding, but it didn’t matter. He had a mission, he’d found a calling. Apart from Robin, he told only one other person about that encounter – one of the other lifeguards who these days washed vegetables for a living at a hippie commune on an island in the Turku Archipelago. It was a mistake. The story was just getting started: Bruce, the bonfire … and he was halfway through ‘Beach Princess’ when the eco-warrior stopped him and said, You didn’t build your bonfire out of those planks from the old boathouse covered in noxious paint, did you? The ones you’re not supposed to burn because the fumes can cause hallucinations and if you breathe in enough of it, brain damage even? Chico fell silent, forever. The most significant night of his life belonged to him and him alone.
Now, as he looked at the place where that fire had burned, where God had stood, he realised with utter clarity that he would have to act quickly before the fire went out for good. The embers were still glowing faintly, but Chico was filled with a sense that time was of the essence.
Robin had trouble understanding two things. First, that Nea was in his apartment at all, and second, what she was talking about. At that precise moment they seemed essentially like one and the same thing, as Nea had started talking the moment she stepped inside.
And there she now stood, her lips moving, there in Robin’s living room, right there in the middle. Her dark-blue stretch-denim jeans were tightly fitted, and Robin could see the camel toe. It was awful. He tried to concentrate and keep his eyes firmly focussed on Nea’s gleaming, tanned face. That wasn’t easy either. She was beautiful, more beautiful than ever, at her most beautiful, right there in Robin’s living room, between the old, black leather sofa and the new flat-screen TV, twirling on the grey tufted rug that used to belong to his Aunt Hilkka.
Only a moment ago Robin had been lying on the sofa watching his favourite show – each character better, each gag funnier than the last – when the doorbell rang. Robin was in his underpants, because in the summer the evening sunshine turned the room into a furnace, and Robin knew of no better way to cool off than the chill of the leather sofa against his bare skin. Of course, the sofa soon began to warm against his skin, turning first tacky with sweat, then sticky and eventually slippery, but the momentary relief was worth it.
Robin had walked to the front door, droplets of sweat running down him, and guessed it was probably Chico at the door. He looked out of the kitchen window and experienced something akin to a heart attack. Nea. Robin pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a jacket from the coat rack. Now he found himself sitting on the sofa in a windcheater and a pair of work trousers covered with paint, oil and grease stains from mending the roof and fixing his scooter. He felt altogether hot, bothered and filthy.
‘What has Chico ever done for you?’ asked Nea.
Robin thought about this.
‘I always get to come along for the action.’
‘But what do you get out of it?’
Again Robin thought about this.
‘He’s my mate. You don’t always have to get something out of mates.’
‘But what kind of mate just lets you come along for the action, though you never get anything out of it?’ said Nea, and spun around, and again Robin’s gaze left her face and wandered considerably lower down. ‘If you don’t get anything at all?’
‘What am I supposed to get out of it?’ he asked and mustered all the willpower he could to hoist his gaze back to those mesmerising eyes.
‘Robin,’ she said. ‘I’ve been offered ten thousand euros if I can find out who murdered that guy in Olivia’s house.’
Robin thought about this.
‘Ten thousand euros,’ he said. ‘This afternoon you offered us a thousand. Split in two. A thousand divided by two is five hundred.’
‘That’s what I told Chico,’ she nodded. ‘But I’ve had second thoughts. Let me explain again. I need somebody I can trust, someone who knows everybody. That’s you. Think about it. You work in a restaurant! You see everyone, you know everyone. Chico’s a bum. He thinks he’s a great guitar player, but he’s not. Where does he play? What does he play? I’ve never heard of any of his bands. He came by my store one day to put up a poster. Endless Cowboys, or something.’
‘Endless Cowboys is one of his bands, country-rock fusion. Then there’s Endless Enemas, that’s the heavy stuff. There’s even Endless Plato, which is more poetic, chilled out. I’ve never heard them live, and I don’t know where they do any gigs, but Chico told me.’
Nea cast her hand in an arc through the air, wiping clean an imaginary board.
‘Whatever. We’re different, Robin. We’re ambitious. I’ve seen the way you cook, the way you painstakingly put those dishes together; you’re so precise you’re like a stamp collector. In a good way. I work out twice a day. We can do this. Chico can’t. Ten thousand euros, Robin.’
‘It’s a lot,’ he said, and he really meant it.
And he thought his head might explode, thought about how in the restaurant kitchen he only ever saw the backs of the familiar vegetable delivery people and the waiting staff as they hurriedly carried dishes out of the kitchen. He wiped sweat from his brow and chin. His sleeve felt rough – after all, the coat was made of thick fabric, designed to withstand the chill of October. If Robin had ever heard of the phrase cognitive dissonance, he would have been trying to process its meaning right then. He looked at Nea and wanted her so much that he felt a searing cold at the bottom of his stomach. He certainly couldn’t say no to ten thousand euros. Or was it five thousand because there were two of them and ten thousand divided by two was five thousand. But even that was almost exactly five thousand more than he had at the moment.
But more than anything, what was threatening to send his head spinning off his shoulders and causing him a certain amount of anguish – not least because it was also the key to Nea’s favours – boiled down to the fact that he knew perfectly well who had killed the guy in Olivia’s house: he had.
Wait a minute.
He – and Chico.
Chico.
It wasn’t an easy thought.
Robin looked at Nea.
‘It’s a lot of money,’ he said, his voice audibly hoarser than usual.
‘It’s enough for us to get out of this place,’ said Nea and looked at him.
Us. Something welled up inside him. He was closing in on something he’d always dreamed of. And he remembered something that now seemed dangerous. In his apartment he still had the wooden pasta fork that he’d swiped from Olivia’s kitchen. It had been hanging by itself on the wall, and Robin’s hand had grabbed it almost instinctively, automatically. But now it might be in the wrong place because … Robin didn’t know what to think about all this: Nea’s suggestion, Chico, and in particular the pasta fork with the long wooden handle. But perhaps it all had a meaning. What that might be, and how, and in what order things might happen was still unclear. The overall picture was painfully blurred and out of focus.
‘I’m going to be a personal trainer,’ said Nea. ‘What about you, Robin?’
He gulped. He knew what he wanted. But there were so many things in his way. It wasn’t an easy question to answer. He did his best to look pensive. That bought him some time. He guessed a solution would appear in its own time. That’s how things worked in the restaurant kitchen. If he ran out of an ingredient, he simply switched it for another, and nobody ever knew the difference. But this time the solution remained hidden; the kitchen cupboards were bare. The situation continued. Robin sat on the sofa, Nea’s thighs right in front of him.
And at that moment, the
very thing he yearned for yet feared the most looked like it was about to happen. Nea approached him, sat down next to him on the sofa, placed a hand on his thigh. Robin stared at her long, shiny red nails against his tracksuit. The room was unbearably hot. Rivulets of sweat were tickling his back. He focussed on her fiery red nails and found himself imagining what it would feel like if she used them to scratch his sweaty back.
Chico didn’t want to venture inside. He sat on the park bench and tried to imagine the sight: Robin half naked on his couch, his mouth drooping open, comedy sketches on television, men in women’s clothing, shouting, wild applause.
Chico leaned forwards, propped his elbows against his knees and glanced again towards the familiar terraced house in the distance. Robin’s flat was at the end of the terrace. The lights were on, so he was definitely at home. Chico was in no hurry. His old friend would wait faithfully. He might not be the sharpest tool in the box, but at least Robin was reliable.
Chico grabbed a bite of his last hot dog. It was lukewarm. He’d bought five hot dogs at the stand on the street, but they didn’t taste right. He had the same arrangement with the owner as he did with the pub: he bought stuff that was a bit old at a knock-down price. Five extra-long hot dogs for one euro. These had most definitely passed their best-before date. The sausages tasted of last summer. Chico carefully placed a spoonful of mustard along the last hot dog and lobbed it into his mouth. His mouth was full of mustard, but the sausage still had a stale, mushroomy taste, and the texture was tacky and slimy. He swallowed. The hot dogs were on their way to his stomach. One less thing to worry about. Which didn’t mean there weren’t still plenty of other things on his mind.
Chico sighed and stood up. The wind caught his hair. The evening was dark. He couldn’t spend the night out here on a park bench. He tried to explain to himself that Robin was a childhood friend and that nudity was perfectly natural and, besides, this was only going to be a temporary, one-night arrangement. Again. But the thought of all the unpleasantness kept him standing on the spot by the path watching the house…
As its front door opened.
Light escaped from the apartment, spilled out into the yard, and into the light stepped Nea.
Chico would have recognised her anytime, anywhere. Nea? He couldn’t begin to imagine what she might be up to at Robin’s place. Chico stared at the ensuing theatre as Nea blew a kiss to someone – it must have been Robin, as he lived alone – jumped on her bike and pedalled off in the direction of her own house.
Chico stood by himself in the darkness for a moment, then picked up his guitar and sports bag and began walking towards Robin’s house. The front door had shut, of course. Chico was walking slowly under the weight of his assorted belongings. He rang the bell and heard footsteps, more animated than usual. Robin opened the door. Shirtless. He looked … disappointed, perhaps. Surprised, at least.
‘Chico. Hi.’
‘Hi,’ Chico replied and knew straight away that he shouldn’t mention Nea unless Robin brought up the subject. He didn’t know where this certainty came from, but the matter was absolutely clear. ‘You said I could crash here.’
Robin didn’t answer immediately.
‘I guess so,’ he said eventually.
Neither of them moved. They stood at the door.
‘What’s up?’ asked Chico.
‘Not much,’ said Robin. ‘I was watching TV.’
Robin’s eyes were fixed on the floor between them.
‘A night in front of the box? Okay,’ said Chico. ‘Anything good on?’
‘Yeah.’
Robin continued to stare at the floor.
‘What?’ asked Chico.
Now Robin looked up at him. He was clearly confused. ‘What d’you mean, what?’
‘You said there’s something good on, I asked what. What’s on the box? What were you watching before I rang the bell?’
Robin tried to avoid eye contact. What was it Chico had thought only a moment ago? Robin might have been a few cans short of a six-pack, but he was still faithful and trustworthy. Chico took a firmer grip on his guitar case.
‘Alright if I bring my stuff in?’ he asked.
Robin didn’t say anything, but opened the door wider and took a step backwards. He turned. Chico stepped inside into the bright light of the hallway and almost dropped his guitar case. Robin’s back looked like he’d been wrestling with tigers.
15
Holma counted the money. Again. Twenty-five thousand, two hundred and forty-five euros. More than he’d thought. He gathered the notes into a pile, moved it to the middle of the table, and in the early-morning light he saw not only the pile of banknotes but a world of possibilities. Naturally he’d already been able to think about things on his drive through the night.
A holiday fund. Gambling chips. Bargaining chips. And fun, for sure.
Money made people go crazy. The sum didn’t really matter. The most important thing was how quickly and easily you could hoard it. Whether it was ten cents or a million euros. Nothing excited people like the thought of winning the lottery. This Holma knew from experience. He’d spent years visiting people who had become blind. Some for a shorter time, some longer. Once he had helped open their eyes, eventually they had all woken up.
Holma counted out ten thousand euros. That would go to Olivia Koski – for the time being, until he’d had a chance to deal with whoever had killed Antero. Holma dreamed of a long, extravagant meeting with that person, an event that would require some planning and a suitable location. He would find one.
This left just over fifteen thousand on the table. Holma thought of those brown, firm buttocks, glistening with sweat, and thought of how much use he had for them. If he lent Olivia Koski ten thousand, he could lend Nea the same amount. The sense of competition would be interesting for many reasons, from the perspective of Holma’s own amusement but first and foremost with regard to results. Which of them would be able to lead him in the right direction the quickest?
He laughed.
His laughter was cut short.
Holma thought of the man who had rented him this chalet. The man who owned this place. Holma hadn’t listened to half of what the man had said, but the general gist had been about his desire to expand. Expand his business, grow it. Holma knew plenty of men like this, or at least he had in the past. Men whose businesses were on the verge of taking off. Men for whom Holma had provided a parachute of his own when their upward trajectory suddenly – or not so suddenly – came to a halt. Holma couldn’t remember the owner’s name, though they’d shaken hands. It didn’t matter, he thought. He would introduce himself again. It was only natural, seeing as he had a business proposition of his own.
Once he had shaved and dressed – tight black jeans, a yellow pique T-shirt, a pair of golden Asics trainers – he picked up the bundle of notes, placed it inside the microwave and pressed the door shut. Not a very safe place as stashes go, but there couldn’t be many criminals wandering the streets in a place like this. Holma made the bed, brushed his teeth, opened the door and stepped out to the porch.
The morning was cool, but someone was sitting on the veranda outside the neighbouring chalet. The man from next door had introduced himself, but Holma couldn’t remember his name. He had a habit of forgetting insignificant people in a hurry. If they were of no use to him, why store them in his head? It took up capacity that he could put to better use. This morning’s aphorism: Remember that the sun will rise when … the sun…
‘Morning,’ said the man next door.
When Holma looked at him more closely, the man looked like a tramp. His hair was long and tousled, his stubble was on the verge of turning into a fully-fledged beard, a faded brown T-shirt, and on top of that a red-and-white checked flannel shirt hanging open and slightly askew. How could someone like that be on holiday? And where had he come from? Since when had the job centre started sending the long-term unemployed on beach holidays?
‘Morning,’ Holma replied and gave a
smile. ‘Up early?’
‘Windsurfing lesson starting shortly. I’m learning to surf. It’s only my second lesson.’
Perhaps the tramp was here for some much-needed rehabilitation. But rehabilitation from what exactly? General dishevelment?
‘Aren’t they two different things?’ asked Holma. ‘Surfing and windsurfing?’
The tramp looked at him. There was something familiar about him, Holma thought. But what was it?
‘As far as I’ve understood,’ said the tramp, seemingly not in any hurry to respond, ‘in Finland they mean the same thing: windsurfing. Regardless of which one you’re talking about. But it’s a good point. Surfing needs waves, so you can’t really do that here. Well, you could, but it would be pretty boring. Because we don’t get big waves.’
You’ve got to be kidding me, thought Holma. The guy’s not exactly Einstein, is he? Holma smiled again.
‘But there’s plenty of wind in Finland,’ he said. ‘So…’
The tramp nodded.
‘It’s windsurfing. Do you surf yourself? Wind or the other variety?’
‘No,’ said Holma.
‘Canoeing?’
‘No.’
‘Beach volleyball?’
‘No.’
‘Swimming?’
‘No.’
‘Probably wise,’ the tramp rambled on. ‘Yesterday the water was so cold you could—’
‘I have to get going,’ Holma cut him off before he sprained his frontal lobe. He gave the man a final smile. ‘Happy surfing.’
The man smiled, and Holma saw in him what he’d seen a moment earlier. Something about his demeanour, his eyes, his body language – he just couldn’t put his finger on it. Holma stepped from the porch straight into the pine forest, felt the earth beneath his feet, turned and left.
Jan Nyman watched his neighbour disappear. He set off on foot, leaving his car – a shiny black BMW – parked behind the chalet. Nyman was in two minds. His surfing lesson was about to start, that much was true. However, he was in no hurry to get to his lesson, and any sense of urgency drifted further away every time he recalled the feel of the instructor’s hands on his backside, the muscular fingers inching their way ever closer. It can’t have been pedagogically sound. But even that wasn’t the real reason for his hesitation. He was trying to decide whether or not to break into his neighbour’s chalet.
Palm Beach, Finland Page 16
