Little Siberia

by Antti Tuomainen

  ‘Kick the gun to the side,’ he says.

  Karoliina stands on the spot. Again a few seconds pass. The barrel of the rifle rises slightly, a shot explodes and plasterwork falls from the wall behind us. Again the rifle seems to point at all of us at once.

  ‘Kick it.’

  Karoliina kicks the pistol, and it glides a few metres across the floor.

  ‘The bag,’ the man says, this time to Leonid.

  Leonid is standing on the spot, just like Karoliina was a moment ago. I get the impression the rifleman is starting to lose his temper.

  ‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ he hisses from behind his rifle. ‘Simple instructions, dammit. The bag. Now.’

  At this the man seems to realise something himself.

  ‘The bag,’ he says, this time in English. ‘You. Bag. Give.’

  Now I know the identity of the rifleman behind the balaclava: Tarvainen the rally driver. His booming voice had me fooled for a moment. But I recognise his English from the TV sports round-up; I can see him standing by the track, shouting commands, a baseball cap pulled tight over his head, the foreign words tumbling from his mouth like clumsy metallic car parts. Leonid removes the bag from his back and holds it in his hand.

  ‘Throw,’ Tarvainen continues in English. ‘Bag. Me. Now.’

  Leonid throws the bag as though it were a sock or a towel. It clanks on the concrete floor in front of Tarvainen. The rally driver points the rifle at us and cautiously bends down towards the bag. He takes his left hand from the shaft of the rifle and grasps the straps of the rucksack, all the while succeeding in keeping the rifle aimed and ready with one hand.

  ‘Pastor,’ he says. ‘Walk over to the pistol, lift it by the barrel and drop it into that cannon.’

  At the far end of the room is a large field cannon. Its barrel is pointing towards the edge of the roof at the other side of the hall. I walk towards the pistol and pray that Tarvainen doesn’t notice one thing: the kettle still in my hand. Once I reach the pistol, I hear Tarvainen’s voice again.

  ‘Slowly,’ he says. ‘Pick up the pistol and point it at yourself.’

  I crouch down, grip the pistol by the barrel so that it is pointing somewhere around my stomach. Then I stand up straight and look at Tarvainen.

  ‘Walk calmly towards the cannon,’ he says.

  I walk towards the cannon with the kettle in my other hand. The green steel barrel of the cannon is thick, the hole at its end like a black chasm. The barrel rises up at a steep, forty-five-degree angle.

  ‘Lift the pistol carefully and drop it into the cannon,’ says Tarvainen.

  I move my arm slowly, raise it almost as far as I can reach. The mouth of the cannon is quite high from the ground. The pistol reaches the opening; I place it further inside and let go. The slide gives a metallic echo, then quickly dies down. I keep the kettle huddled against my body. I’m not exactly hiding it, but I don’t want to show it off either.

  Tarvainen begins backing off towards the window. He is still pointing the rifle at us. Shards of glass crunch beneath his winter boots. Then in a flash he is outside and only the barrel of the rifle remains inside the museum.

  ‘If I see someone following me, I’ll shoot,’ he says, and now I can hear the drink in his voice. Until now he’s managed to conceal it.

  ‘I’ll shoot if you come after me,’ he shouts once more.

  Then he disappears.

  I don’t have a plan of any sort.

  What I do have is an iron kettle and a sprinting start.

  Leonid has turned and is facing Karoliina. I can’t see what Karoliina is doing as I run towards Leonid. He turns and sees me all in the same movement. He is quick, his hand disappears inside his coat and pulls out a knife. But I have speed on my side, that and what I’ve got in my hand. I swing the kettle.

  It thumps Leonid square on the chin with a dull clang. He falls to his knees, the knife flies from his hand, clatters as it slides, glinting, across the museum floor. I continue running towards the window and glance over my shoulder. Karoliina has reached the field cannon and has reached her hand inside. I peer out of the window, hear an engine starting and dive outside.

  Tarvainen is sitting on the back of a snowmobile and slams his foot on the gas. He has the rucksack on his back, the rifle slung across his chest. He doesn’t look behind him as the snowmobile hurtles further from the museum. I make my way to the other side of the museum, run to my car pulling the keys from my pocket. I manage to start the engine, reverse, turn the car and set off after him.

  I steer the car to the main road, and before long I can see the back light of the snowmobile flickering up ahead. The vehicle is travelling between the trees, parallel to the road. Thank goodness the stars are brighter than on any other night this winter – and thank goodness there’s a full moon. If there was even the slightest snowfall or if clouds covered the sky, I wouldn’t see anything.

  I need that meteorite. I glance at the clock, aghast, and pull my phone from my pocket. I simultaneously try to see what is happening in the forest – where the snowmobile is heading, and struggle to put together a text message. It isn’t easy. Tarvainen is driving at a terrific speed. I really have to put my foot down just to keep up with him. He knows how to drive. I’ve only managed to type two words when the phone beeps as a text message arrives:

  Bring the meteorite out.

  We are in the car park.

  I shout out loud. ‘No, no, no, no, no!’

  I can’t turn around and I don’t have the meteorite. I delete what I’ve already written and glance to the sides. The back light has disappeared. I brake, the phone falls from my hand. I reverse, the engine howls, the wall of spruces suddenly opens up and I can see the snowmobile far across the other side of the fields. It is heading towards…

  Lake Hurmevaara.

  Tarvainen’s house is on the shores of Lake Hurmevaara.

  Who steals a million euros, then takes his loot and drives straight back home?

  Answer: a drunken rally driver. Maybe.

  After crossing the field, the rear light again disappears into the forest. I grope in the footwell for my phone and finally find it beneath the passenger seat. I send a text message, then try to make a call. I set off and hold the phone firmly against my ear. It rings. Nobody answers.

  At the intersection I turn right. I drive along the road for ten minutes and arrive at the Hurmevaara junction quicker than ever before. I take the road leading to Lake Hurmevaara, twisting and turning as it winds its way towards the lake. There isn’t a single straight section in the road, and I really have to focus on driving. Regardless of the hazardous conditions, I look at my phone and try to call again. It’s futile.

  When I arrive at the point where the road veers off towards the western edge of the lake, I search online for Tarvainen’s contact details. These are easily found. Neither his address nor his telephone number are ex-directory. This suggests the rally driver didn’t give the idea of becoming a meteorite thief much prior thought.

  The final kilometre up to Tarvainen’s house is the fastest that night. I am familiar with the house from hearsay. It was built with the fortunes of a rally career, money that, judging by what I’ve seen, has long since run out. The house is large, wholly unsuited to its surroundings, and is positioned almost on the water’s edge. Perhaps the edge of the ice would be a more appropriate term at this time of year. In the glare of the moon and stars, the angularity of the house, its brightness and its large glass windows make it look like a miniature airport without a runway. I drive past the house but cannot see the snowmobile. The house is unlit.

  After a few hundred metres I make a U-turn and drive back towards the house. From this angle I get a better view of the strip of land between the house and the shore. The snowmobile is parked on a steep incline, its bonnet almost right up against the house. The lights are on in the window in front of the vehicle. Tarvainen is in one corner of the house, so I surmise that I can drive along the main path
and approach the house from the opposite direction.

  The path seems to lead down towards the house and the shoreline. I switch off the car’s headlights. As soon as I turn on to the path, I shift into neutral and switch off the motor. I open the window. The car glides silently forwards on the narrow, snow-covered pathway. I almost make it all the way to the house without hearing a sound.

  And when the sound finally comes, I see the glass of the windscreen crack around a bullet hole.

  11

  The first shot makes a hole in the windscreen, the second penetrates the bumper and the third punctures the left front tyre. I unclip my seatbelt, open the door and dive out into the snow. I manage to reach the safety of the trees and don’t hear any more shots. Now I hear cursing. I stand up carefully and, from behind a thick spruce, look towards the house.

  Tarvainen is standing on the upper-floor balcony, battering his rifle against the floor. I’ve seen the same kind of panic before when a firearm malfunctions. A faint light glows behind him, making his movements look like a violent theatre of shadows. I remain in the shelter of the trees and wade through the snow, which reaches halfway up my thighs. Eventually I arrive at the front yard and walk round the side of the house. Tarvainen is still on the balcony. He seems to be peering towards the car and the yard. Perhaps he can’t see that the door on the driver’s side is wide open.

  I make my way along the side of the house, turn the corner and reach the back of the house, where the snowmobile is parked almost right against the wall. Its motor is still clicking with heat in the frozen night, the key is still in the ignition. I remove the key. If Tarvainen wants to shoot my car to pieces, he can give me a lift back to the village. Assuming I need a lift at all, that is – assuming Tarvainen doesn’t shoot me dead.

  There is a door to one side of the snowmobile. It is unlocked.

  The lights are on in the downstairs room. The room has large windows facing the lake and a big open hearth, which doesn’t appear to have been used recently, and such a cornucopia of rally paraphernalia that it almost feels as though I’ve stepped into a motorsports museum. There must be dozens of trophies. And medals. And photographs showing cars turning corners almost on their sides or flying through the air, photographs in which Tarvainen is holding a trophy aloft or spraying champagne in the air, or standing arm-in-arm with rows of smiling people. Tarvainen himself never smiles.

  Something about the room makes me stop. It’s not that I stand still wondering about it, but the truth is that only a moment ago this same man saved my life. Karoliina and Leonid wouldn’t have left me alive to tell anyone about the break-in or the people carrying it out.

  I walk up the steps as quickly and silently as possible. Despite my best efforts my winter shoes make the wooden floorboards creak ever so slightly. I get halfway up and peer into the room above from floor level.

  The living room is large and open-plan, and the space is still bright, though it is lit only by a single floor lamp in the corner. Otherwise the room is empty. I walk up the remaining stairs and try to locate Tarvainen by sound. I just about work out the location of the balcony from which Tarvainen opened fire and take a few cautious steps in that direction. I assume that if the rifle was working, Tarvainen would have taken another pot-shot – either at the car or into the woods. Then I hear a clatter from a completely different direction.

  Tarvainen is in the kitchen. I approach the doorway and peer inside. The kitchen is a large rectangular space; Tarvainen is at the far end of the room, by the windows. The rucksack is firmly strapped to his back. And there’s something in his hand. When the lights from the kitchen counter illuminate him from the right angle, I recognise what it is. A large Chinese kitchen knife, the shape of a cleaver. I take a deep breath, exhale and step inside.

  ‘We have to talk,’ I say.

  Tarvainen spins round. He doesn’t look surprised; he looks furious, utterly livid.

  ‘About what?’ he asks, by now sounding considerably more inebriated than at the museum. Perhaps he downed a few celebratory drinks on the way home. He has also unbuttoned his black overcoat, beneath which I can see the sponsor jacket of yesteryear.

  ‘About lots of things. I want…’

  ‘The meteorite.’

  I don’t answer. He’s right, of course.

  ‘I want to thank you,’ I say and take a few wary steps in his direction. ‘You saved my life. Back at the museum.’

  Tarvainen staggers. It’s obvious that he is profoundly drunk. I don’t know how he managed to steal anything or steer the snowmobile so skilfully. But on the other hand I understand: every member of my small family has first-hand experience of his skills behind the wheel.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he says. ‘Now get out of my house.’

  ‘One more thing,’ I say. ‘Well, two things. First, I need that … rucksack.’

  ‘I knew it, dammit.’

  ‘What did you know?’

  ‘I knew you were the same as all the rest of them.’

  ‘Of course I am. But—’

  ‘You want the meteorite. Everybody wants it. But it’s mine. It belongs to me now.’

  ‘I need it,’ I say honestly. ‘I need it to save my wife, Krista.’

  Tarvainen’s expression doesn’t flicker.

  ‘And another thing,’ I continue. It’s extraordinarily hard to put this into words, and even more so to make myself say it. ‘I want to forgive you.’

  He clearly hasn’t the faintest idea what I’m talking about.

  ‘I want to forgive you,’ I repeat. ‘We all make mistakes. Now put the knife away.’

  Tarvainen does the opposite. He raises the knife, brandishes it in the air. The enormous blade seems to gather all the light in the room; it gleams like a lamp pointed right at me.

  ‘Out of my house!’ he shouts.

  I shake my head. ‘I can’t leave without that meteorite.’

  Tarvainen cries out, bellows something indistinct, and lowers the hand with the knife. He is standing only three or four metres away, and I catch his familiar scent: raw liquor, a mixture of old and fresh. The blade of the kitchen knife flickers again, and I prepare myself to wrestle him. But Tarvainen takes me completely by surprise and throws the knife underarm. It flies towards me, and I just have time to drop the snowmobile’s keys to the floor and start to raise my hands.

  The knife hits me in the front, sinks through my coat and shirt right in the middle of my chest. And there it remains, I don’t know how deep. Pain erupts through my body, it feels as though my chest has been torn open, breathing is impossible. And of course, I’m more than aware of why this is: there’s a giant Chinese kitchen knife stuck in my chest. But understanding this doesn’t make me feel any better, doesn’t alleviate the dizzying pain.

  Tarvainen is running, somewhere, it sounds as though he is hurrying down the staircase.

  I grip the handle of the knife, it feels worse than anything I’ve experienced before. I close my eyes and wrench it out. The knife makes a sucking sound as it exits my chest, the sound of a starving person slurping thick soup from the side of a bowl. I drop the knife to the floor. It is covered in blood and I can feel the warm flow on my chest. I manage to breathe for the first time since the attack. It is difficult, my chest hurts as though someone were tearing it open. I turn and head after Tarvainen.

  What should I think of this man? In the space of one night he has both saved my life and tried to kill me. Twice.

  I reach the ground floor and make my way outside. Once in the yard I can see footsteps in the snow, and when I raise my eyes I see Tarvainen in the glow of the moon and stars. He is running across the frozen lake. I glance at the snowmobile; naturally he tried this first, but, as I then realise, the keys are still on the floor upstairs.

  I try to catch up with him, but there’s no way I can run as fast as I’d like. Shouting is even more difficult. I can see the flags, and now I know where Tarvainen is running.

  The fishermen’s flags, marking ho
les in the ice.

  The famous Lake Hurmevaara sprats.

  At first I wonder whether Tarvainen sees the flags at all, but he must surely see them. Now I realise what is happening. Tarvainen corrects his course. He is running directly towards one of the flags. He approaches the flag, and I try to shout out.

  Tarvainen is so close to the flag that he could almost touch it. But he doesn’t have the chance. The ice buckles beneath him and he disappears into the hole. I see his upper body, like a barrel bobbing in the middle of the lake; the rucksack makes his chest bulbous and heavy, and it sinks more slowly. But it sinks all the same, and eventually Tarvainen disappears from view.

  I stop, gasp for breath. I cannot run, I can only walk slowly.

  A hand appears above the ice, then disappears again, leaving only the moonlit night, the stars and the smooth, gleaming surface of the endless lake.

  I recall Tarvainen’s words.

  Rally or death.

  12

  I am bleeding and the snowmobile is shuddering beneath me. The headlights illuminate the surface of the snow. I can’t drive at full speed, because I can only steer with one hand. The other is clasped to my chest. In Tarvainen’s downstairs living room I found equipment to make a crude bandage. I taped a pile of disposable sauna towels to my chest with duct tape, I wrapped the tape round my body a few times and jumped on the snowmobile.

  I hold my hand against my chest to protect the makeshift bandaging, to try and hold it together. But it’s impossible. The bonnet of the snowmobile rises and falls with the landscape, it wobbles from side to side as I swerve along the narrow forest tracks. I have to stop the mobile, the pain sucks the breath out of me. I pull my phone from my coat pocket and call the kidnapper’s number. Nobody picks up, and no new text messages have arrived. I press the accelerator again.

  I don’t want to think about my situation, but even without actively bringing it to mind, it appears to me in all its brutality: I do not have the meteorite, I do not know where Krista is or whether she is okay. There’s an open wound in my chest, and I am now unarmed.