‘I thought you were joking,’ she says.
‘About what?’
‘That you would come in again.’
‘I keep my promises,’ I say and look into her green eyes.
The sound of loud conversation is coming from the room, an argument about which cities hosted the Olympics in the fifties and sixties. It seems there are many people in the village who start their day with something other than a yoghurt or a bowl of porridge.
‘You haven’t slept; you’ve been at the museum all night,’ she says. It isn’t a question. ‘And now you’re here.’
‘So are you,’ I say.
She doesn’t respond. Perhaps she’s thinking. ‘So, what’s it to be?’
Which is the least suspicious option, I wonder? A vicar coming into a bar in the morning for a beer or a vicar coming into a bar in the morning but not ordering anything? It’s not a question that needs much thought. When Karoliina brings my beer, I pick up the glass but don’t drink.
‘How was the museum?’ she asks.
‘Pretty calm. I felt almost lonely.’
‘Almost?’
‘Especially compared to the previous night,’ I say. ‘Then I had company and there was plenty of action.’
‘You sound as if you miss the company and the action.’
‘It depends on what kind of action we’re talking about,’ I reply calmly. ‘And what kind of company, of course.’
Karoliina takes a packet of cigarettes from behind the bar. ‘What does it feel like, being there with a million euros right next to you?’ she asks.
‘I don’t really think about it.’
‘So why are you there?’
It’s a good question, a justified one.
‘Personal reasons.’
‘And they are?’
I shrug my shoulders. ‘Personal.’
Karoliina takes a cigarette from the packet. She holds it, unlit, between her forefinger and middle finger, as though she were smoking it.
‘So it’s not as though God spoke to you and told you to look after the thing?’
‘I saw a burning bush outside the museum, and that’s when I knew what to do.’
Is that a smile? If it is, it’s gone quickly.
She looks at me intensely. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Of course.’
‘Is this what you want out of life?’
‘What exactly?’
Karoliina gestures towards my pint with her cigarette. ‘Sitting in a pub in Hurmevaara having a pint at nine in the morning.’ She stresses every word individually. I can tell she doesn’t like any of them.
‘No,’ I say. ‘It isn’t.’
‘Nobody drinks beer at nine in the morning if they’ve got something better to do.’
‘I imagine that’s true.’
‘And nobody spends as much as an extra day in Hurmevaara if they can be somewhere else.’
I say nothing. Karoliina has touched a nerve, one of many nerves, a nerve that I’ve barely noticed amid the chaos of the last few days. It’s true: I don’t feel the same admiration I once did for this quaint little village and the nature surrounding it. Of course, there are various reasons for that. The quaintness and fresh air have lost their allure of late.
Karoliina leans towards me. ‘Have you ever thought how easy it would be to change things?’
‘I’m not sure it would be easy.’
‘But you want to change things?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it’s simple.’
‘And why is that?’
‘Because I can see that you want to,’ she says. ‘And because I can help you. The question is…’
The middle-aged man calls over for more beer, giving his empty pint glass a jiggle. In a strange way he seems to have perked up a bit. Karoliina walks to the other end of the bar and glances behind her. We look each other in the eye. She pulls the pint, takes the payment, returns to my end of the counter.
‘You can help me,’ I say, reminding her where we left off.
She doesn’t reply straight away. She leans her hip against the bar, places her hands on the counter top. She is closer to me than ever before. And yes, the perfume is familiar. It is familiar, its scent not at all unpleasant.
‘I was saying it’s a question of how we can help each other. But I don’t know if I can trust you. You’re a vicar.’
‘Does that make me untrustworthy?’
We are speaking softly, our voices lowered. Any quieter and we’d be whispering.
‘“Thou shalt not steal”,’ says Karoliina. ‘Isn’t that one of the commandments?’
‘The seventh,’ I reply.
‘How closely does your lot keep to all those rules?’
‘I can’t speak for others.’
‘What about you?’ The look in Karoliina’s green eyes is either one of playfulness or utter sincerity. I can’t tell which.
‘What do you suggest?’ I ask.
‘What’s your answer?’ Karoliina leans closer still. She is so close that looking into her eyes almost hurts.
‘I try to uphold certain tried-and-tested principles,’ I say. ‘But if I’m going to give you a specific answer, I need to know what we’re up to.’
‘I like the idea that you think we’re up to something.’
We are now so close to one another that I can feel her warmth, feel her face near my own. The moment is significant. The middle-aged man starts shouting again. By now there’s a new-found depth in his voice. The beer has redeemed him, has started to soothe him. Before long his tie might even slacken. Karoliina doesn’t take her eyes from me. Then she turns her head and shouts at him for a moment.
And when her head turns and her hair swings to the side, I see it.
A bruise.
It’s higher up and further back than I’d thought, but there it is all the same. There on her temple, hidden behind the layers of make-up, the skin is still ever so slightly swollen. She turns back and looks me in the eye again. I hear the front door opening and closing behind me; I feel the cold draught of air against my lower back; I hear hearty, male laughter, the sound of winter boots kicking off the snow.
‘You know where to find me,’ Karoliina whispers, her eyes still fixed on me.
She presses her lips together and blows me a kiss. Then she turns again and walks to the other end of the counter and doesn’t look back. She doesn’t need to. She knows my eyes are following her.
It’s an important part of the play.
12
The sky is glowing, the snow glittering, the sun gilding the world’s surface. The gravestones flicker in the corner of my eye as I pass the cemetery. I arrive in the car park and notice that the car that had been in the furthest parking spot has gone.
I wouldn’t have given the matter any further thought if I hadn’t seen an envelope taped to the glass window in the front door of the church office. It’s a brown A5 envelope, half the size of an A4. The upper left-hand corner of the envelope is slightly tattered and there is no stamp. But there is a name on the envelope.
PASTOR JOEL HUHTA
The text is written in stick letters with thick black felt-tip. There is no other text on the envelope. No address, no return address. Only my name and profession.
I turn and look around. The winter’s day is devoid of people. A car drives past in the distance. It reminds me of the solitary, unfamiliar car I saw earlier, when it was parked at the edge of the car park. It was a light-blue Volkswagen, either a Passat or a Jetta. Probably.
I peel off the ends of the Sellotape and stick them back on the envelope. I glance behind one more time and make my way inside. The church office is empty, quiet, so I open the envelope right away. It has been sealed carefully, so I have to tear it open. The paper is brittle; the envelope has been used before. Inside there’s a sheet of A4 folded in half. I pull it out and open it. The text looks like a computer print-out, the font a perfectly ordinary Times New Roman. The paper contains a sh
ort text written in all capitals.
STAY AWAY FROM THE MUSEUM.
THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING.
BE TOLD.
I turn the paper over, but there is no more text. It doesn’t need any. The message is simple and to the point. I fold the sheet of paper and slip it back inside the envelope. Again I peer out into the yard, but it’s futile. The snow is glimmering and there’s nobody outside who looks like they’ve just taped a threatening letter to the door of the church office.
Pirkko is in the secretary’s room. She has heard my steps but still looks surprised to see me, almost as though she were out of breath. The work desktop flickers on the screen in front of her. Nobody sits looking at their desktop. She must have just clicked a window closed, out of my sight.
‘Has anyone been in here?’ I ask.
‘What do you mean?’
Still Pirkko seems somewhat … not quite startled but something like that. A soft red colours her cheeks.
‘The church office is open,’ I say. ‘Office hours.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ she says. ‘I mean, no.’
‘You haven’t seen or heard anyone?’
Pirkko shakes her head. ‘No one,’ she says and looks as though she really would remember. ‘Nothing. And as the next session was cancelled, I imagine it’ll be fairly quiet for the next hour or so.’
‘Good,’ I say and can’t think of anything else to ask her. Except of course… ‘Pirkko… Is everything all right?’
Her brown eyes look up at me. ‘Everything’s just wonderful.’
The coffee machine bubbles. I read the letter again. It doesn’t tell me anything that wasn’t abundantly clear the first time. I don’t know what to think of it. But in the light of recent events the letter seems the least of my worries. I leave the envelope on the table and go to the bathroom. I do my business, rinse my face. The warm water refreshes me, soothes me. I turn off the tap, and dry my face and neck with a rough paper towel. I am looking at myself in the mirror when I hear a voice behind the door.
‘Joel?’
‘Yes?’
‘The cancelled session was booked again. There’s someone to see you.’
‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ I reply.
I give my face another wipe. I might look like the same man I was two or three days ago. But I’m not. There are some explosions that leave physical traces, and there are explosions that other people cannot see.
‘He’s waiting in the corridor,’ comes Pirkko’s voice from behind the door.
‘Thank you.’
‘He…’
I lean forwards and gulp cold water straight from the tap and don’t hear the rest of Pirkko’s sentence. I stand up and draw a breath. I’m still wearing my coat, my scarf still wrapped round my neck, my hat pulled over my head. I stuff the hat into my coat pocket, shrug off the coat, pull the scarf into the sleeve, fold the coat over my arm and open the door.
Pirkko has disappeared. The staffroom is empty, and quiet except for the puffing and gurgling of the coffee machine. As I walk along the corridor I feel almost normal.
Until I realise I have reached a dead end. Literally.
Behind me the corridor comes to an end at a window that reaches up to the ceiling. In front of me it continues all the way into the foyer. But that doesn’t help me. And none of the numerous doors along the corridor can help me either. They are all too far away. The only door I can use is the door into my own office, the nearest door. Along the right-hand side of the corridor, diagonally across from my office, is a chair. Sitting in that chair is the largest man I have ever seen. For a fleeting moment, I consider jumping through the window and fleeing into the snow. But that wouldn’t be a wise course of action. Only in the cinema can you get away with a plan like that without killing yourself.
The man’s left arm is in a sling. He is reading a magazine. I look at his profile. I slip the coat from my arm to my hand, hold it near my waist. He turns his head almost in time with my steps. I go through the facts in my mind. He couldn’t have seen my face. His eyes focus on mine.
‘Pastor,’ he says in English.
‘That’s me,’ I say and gesture towards my office. ‘Come on in.’
The man stands up and walks in front of me into the office. I step inside after him, close the door and make my way straight to the wardrobe. I hang my coat inside and close the wardrobe door carefully, silently. The man doesn’t need instructions; he heads directly for the consultation area.
We sit down.
I’ve never paid attention to the small armrests on these chairs before. The man fills the space between the armrests. He’s not stocky, let alone overweight, but his waist is simply slightly larger than the seat of the chair, and the effect is of someone squeezing himself into a tight spot. He carefully positions his injured arm too. Once it looks as though his arm is in an agreeable position in relation to the chair and the rest of his body, the man sighs, as though his work is done, and looks at me.
Outside, the blue sky and the white snowdrifts reflect each other and the room is filled with light. On the wall behind the man, the Redeemer looks positively radiant.
‘You’re probably wondering why I’m sitting here,’ the man begins. His large, grey eyes look right at me. His face is almost paler than yesterday. His English is impeccable. It has a strong accent, but his speech is very fluent indeed.
‘People have different reasons for coming to—’
‘I mean, because I am Orthodox.’
‘Right, in that sense, yes…’
‘I’m not very orthodox Orthodox.’
‘Few of us are—’
‘And neither are you,’ he says. ‘And yet we have the same Bible, isn’t that right.’
For a moment I wonder how to answer. I’m sure he will interrupt me whatever I say.
‘Yes, the Bible is the same.’
‘I cannot visit my local church. It’s across the border.’
‘Exactly.’
‘You have a duty of confidentiality, isn’t that right?’
I nod.
‘Everything I say remains within these four walls?’ The man pauses before continuing. ‘My friend has died.’
He looks me in the eye, directly, insistently. I try to discern whether there’s anything else behind his words. I can’t find anything.
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘He was murdered.’
‘No … surely not?’
The man nods again, gently rocks his head back and forth. ‘No, it’s true,’ he says. ‘Here. Right here in this village. Somebody murdered him. Brutally. Perhaps you remember my friend?’
I don’t have time to reply before he continues.
‘He was at the bar last night. Just like you were. He went outside for a moment, or so I assumed. I had other business in the bar and couldn’t join him. Besides, I knew where he was. We were always … in contact whenever we were … working together. But he never came back. I sent messages. No reply. It wasn’t like him. I went out to see if he was all right. Then I found him.’
The room is bathed in the pale, winter brightness. My breath is shallow, then stops altogether.
‘Someone had shot him,’ the man continues. ‘A single shot. Right through the heart. If you know what you’re doing, that’s enough. You pierce the heart. Every professional knows that.’
‘Professional?’
‘Someone who has used a gun before,’ he says, turning his head and squinting as he looks outside. Then he returns his focus to me. ‘Not the village priest, I assume.’
I can’t make out any insinuation in his voice. I wait, slowly filling my lungs with air.
‘He’s from round here,’ says the man. ‘The shooter – he’s a local.’
‘From Hurmevaara?’
‘Yes, from this cold, godforsaken backwater,’ he nods and lowers his voice. ‘This … this place is like Siberia. Nothing works the way it’s supposed to. Nothing is certain. This is like … a smaller
version of Kamchatka. It’s Little Siberia. That’s what this is.’
I say nothing. On this day of all days I can relate to the man’s sentiments about Hurmevaara.
‘I’m going to find him.’
‘The shooter?’
‘Yes. I’ll recognise him. He is … He thinks he’s some kind of commando; he’d disguised himself. But I’ll recognise him. And when I get my hands on him…’
The man sounds neither threatening nor vengeful; he sounds merely confident.
‘And where is your friend…?’
The man shakes his head. ‘I buried him in the snow,’ he says. ‘Temporarily. Once this business is sorted out, I’ll take him home.’
‘Right,’ I nod. I can’t exactly ask what kind of business the man is undertaking; that’s beyond the purview of pastoral care. ‘And this event made you wish to seek the counsel of the church?’
Again the man fixes his grey eyes on me. ‘This event made me hungry for revenge.’
‘So that’s what you want to talk about?’
‘I want revenge.’
‘So why did you—?’
‘Grigori was like a father to me, the father I never had. Of course, there was a man somewhere who fathered me, but that doesn’t make you a father. A father is something else. A father protects you, teaches you. Grigori taught me everything. Everything. He was my father, though he was not.’
I say nothing.
‘We came here on business,’ he continues. ‘We were meant to take care of something and go home again. But then I fell in love and Grigori was murdered.’
‘You fell in love?’
‘Her name is Karoliina. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.’
‘Is she involved in your business matters?’ The question pops out too quickly. Completely the wrong kind of question.
Little Siberia Page 13
