The Howling Miller

by Arto Paasilinna

  One day the skinny lad who grimaced non-stop made another attempt to tell Huttunen about his life. The narrative was so confused that he had a lot of trouble following it.

  It was a dreadful story. The wretched boy was the son of a mentally unstable, unmarried mother. He had been hungry and maltreated for as long as he could remember. When his mother was sent to prison – who knows what for – the boy was auctioned off to a family of alcoholics where he had to work non-stop for a boss who drank and a bunch of half-witted farmhands, and as he was a puny lad, he had to endure the cruellest mockery on top of his other humiliations. He was not allowed to go to school, or even hospital, despite having dysentery, typhoid fever and pneumonia at least twice. And then, when at the age of fifteen he had stolen a bit of bacon from the larder, the farmer had taken him to court and the boy had found himself in prison. In his cell he had been beaten for a year by a disgusting multiple murderer. When he finally came out of prison, he had hidden in isolated barns for an entire summer, living mainly off berries, ants’ eggs and frogs. In autumn, the barns had been used to store hay and the boy had been caught, but, instead of being taken back to prison, had been brought to the hospital. Since then everything had been going relatively OK.

  The scrawny tyke wept. Huttunen tried to console him but the young lad couldn’t restrain his tears. Huttunen felt even sadder than before. How could life be so horrendously painful, he wondered.

  The little fellow, however, soon forgot the whole story, and went back and sat on his bed, a stream of joyful, uncertain and fearful expressions again playing by turns across his face. Huttunen drew his blanket over his head and thought he really was going mad.

  The two following nights, Huttunen didn’t sleep at all. He didn’t eat; he didn’t even get out of bed. When Happola furtively offered him a cigarette on the second evening, the miller turned to face the wall. What the devil did he want with a cigarette when he couldn’t get to sleep and food made him want to throw up?

  That night, Huttunen paced round the room again. The other patients were snoring in their sleep. The sombre pair at the end of the room farted from time to time. The skinny lad moaned softly, crying, the poor boy, in his sleep. Huttunen’s head ached; his temples throbbed. His throat was dry; his mind had ground to a complete standstill.

  He began to whine very quietly. The sound welled up in his throat, plaintive, muffled; it grew a little stronger, and then suddenly Huttunen let out such a powerful howl that all the occupants of the room flew out of their beds and huddled against the back wall.

  Huttunen howled with all his might, venting all his sorrow, his hunger for freedom, his loneliness and anguish. The room’s stone walls seemed to crack open under the violence of his cry, the iron beds to vibrate at the power of his voice. The light in the ceiling flickered, and then came on. Three orderlies rushed into the room and led Huttunen to his bed. The frame squeaked as they sat on the miller’s back to reduce him to silence.

  When the orderlies had left and the light had been switched off, Happola came over to Huttunen’s bed and whispered, ‘Christ almighty, that scared me.’

  ‘I won’t last in here any longer,’ Huttunen said wearily. ‘Lend me that key, I’m going.’

  Happola understood, but nonetheless observed that escaping wouldn’t do much good: the hospital would just have him brought back. But Huttunen was adamant.

  ‘If I don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to lose my mind.’

  Happola agreed. He knew all too well how painful it was being locked up in hospital when you wanted to get out.

  They made arrangements that night. Happola’s businessman’s instincts would not allow him to organise the escape without some form of compensation. He said it would cost six sacks of barley flour. Huttunen thought that was a fair price.

  ‘Send the sacks to Oulu station when you’ve got your business going,’ Happola said. ‘There’s no hurry, but fair’s fair. I had to pay for the keys myself. And anyway, I’ve never got anyone out of here for free.’

  Happola told how three years earlier he had helped a patient escape who, once a free woman, had become the most sought-after prostitute on the whole coast of the Gulf of Bothnia.

  ‘She was very pretty. A bit agitated, perhaps. Now she lives in Oulu but she works in Raahe and Kokkala, and even goes as far afield as Pori. I got a good price for that key. So don’t forget to send me that flour.’

  Happola had business to see to in town in a couple of days, so that would be Huttunen’s chance to escape from the asylum.

  Once the institution was plunged in sleep, Happola opened the door of the ward with his key. The men slipped noiselessly through the long, silent corridors of the huge hospital to the kitchen and adjoining laundry. In the laundry’s storeroom, they found Huttunen’s clothes in a box alongside the other patients’ belongings. Huttunen’s was on top of the first row; he was one of the most recent arrivals, after all. He put on his clothes, did up his belt and checked his wallet. Some of his money had been taken but, oddly enough, not all. Huttunen folded the pyjama suit, cap and slippers away in the box and then put it back in its place.

  ‘You don’t get changed!’ Huttunen exclaimed in surprise as his companion strolled along the corridor in his pyjamas.

  ‘No need in summer. If I’ve got to go into town during the day, that’s different. I’ve got a stylish two-piece in the cupboard in the laundry, but there’s no need to wear a suit for these night trips. It would just get crumpled for nothing.’

  The men went out of a side door and crossed the garden by a crunching gravel path. They climbed a hill planted with pines to an old red-brick water tower. Huttunen turned round. The sombre, looming asylum building lay in the small valley. Not a light shone in its windows; no one was pursuing the fugitives. Escaping that house of horrors had been incredibly easy.

  A monotonous moaning rose up from the gabled window of the women’s wing. One of the agitated patients was bewailing her lot.

  Huttunen shivered at the inconsolable lament. He wanted to howl back, to answer in his fashion the call of this unfortunate woman whom unknown sufferings had driven to groan so piteously.

  Huttunen was about to raise a booming howl to the heavens, when Happola said in a quiet voice, ‘Liisa Kastikainen. She’ll have been talking for three years soon. Three years exactly in the autumn. I still remember when they brought her in. She was tied up in blankets. At the start they tried to make her wear a wooden gag, but the clinical director banned it when she left her dentures in it.’

  At the foot of the water tower a road led to town. In the luminous summer night, the men set off in silence towards Oulu, the White City of the North.

  CHAPTER 16

  At Heinäpää, they found Happola’s one-storey wooden house. The paint had flaked away during the war but otherwise it was in good condition. Recognising Happola, the dog in the yard wagged enthusiastically at Huttunen as well. Happola chose a key from a big bunch. On the steps, he exclaimed, ‘What do you reckon? For someone who’s meant to be a few bricks short of a load, I’ve got a pretty good place, eh? The mortgage is paid off and I’ve got money in the bank. I could pay cash for a new car if I had a licence. I applied to import one privately in fact, but they said I was certified.’

  There were several doors leading off the hallway, each with a different name.

  ‘My tenants … there’s more upstairs.’

  Happola opened one of the doors. It gave onto a room with two beds, a table and a few chairs. A middle-aged woman was asleep in one of the beds.

  ‘It’s you … Am I on again?’ she asked in a sleepy voice.

  ‘No need to get undressed,’ Happola said. ‘I just bought a friend over for a moment. Give him something to eat tomorrow morning, but otherwise leave him be.’

  The woman lay back down and quickly fell asleep. Happola started making plans for Huttunen’s future.

  ‘If I were you, I’d sell the mill and go to America. If the States won’t have you, you sh
ould shoot off to Spain. A major I know went there after the wars and apparently he loves it. He earns his living growing carnations. Have you got much land with your mill?’

  ‘Only a few acres,’ Huttunen replied, ‘but the mill’s in good shape and there’s a shingle saw that’s almost brand new. I even had time to repaint it before they took me away. It has two stones, one for flour and one for animal feed. You just have to start it up. The top of the millrace is all new and the bottom has been repaired. You’ll be able to mill with it for years without it needing any work.’

  Happola made a few telephone calls to different parts of the province offering Huttunen’s mill for sale, but he didn’t find any takers.

  ‘It’s pretty difficult doing business in the middle of the night,’ Happola said. ‘Everyone in property seems to be asleep. I’ll have to come back the day after tomorrow and make some more calls in the day; I know someone in Kajaani who might be interested. But I’ve got to go now. I’ll have to be in my bed tomorrow morning when they find out you’ve escaped.’

  Happola gave Huttunen a farewell cigarette and slipped silently out the door. The miller looked around the room: it had dirty wallpaper, a couple of rag rugs, and a corner stove that smoked, judging by the grimy streaks above the door. On the bedside table, there were curlers and a set of dentures in a glass of water.

  Huttunen undressed and got into the second bed. Then he got up to turn off the light. He wanted to pee, but didn’t dare wake the woman to ask here where the toilet was. Despite his discomfort, he slept until morning.

  Huttunen was woken by the sound of running water. His bladder instantly felt even closer to bursting. The light was on but the woman wasn’t in the room. Huttunen got dressed and stood impatiently waiting for her to come out of the toilet. When she reappeared, he stormed past her so quickly he didn’t have time to say good morning.

  The woman made some coffee, which she put on the table with slices of bread and butter, and some little raisin buns. Huttunen told her that he’d escaped from the bin.

  ‘Me too,’ the woman replied. ‘Happola got me out. He hasn’t left me in peace since. He comes and has a cuddle twice a week.’

  The woman had combed her hair, and put on lipstick and earrings. She was wearing a skin-tight red skirt and a white ruched blouse. Her figure was soft and plump. She explained that she’d had to become a prostitute to make a living; Happola had asked such a high price for the keys and the rent, that otherwise she would have ended up back in the asylum.

  ‘Better to be a hooker and free than locked up in the nuthouse. It’ll be time to go back when no one wants me anymore. I am still pretty crazy.’

  Huttunen thanked her for the coffee and got up to leave.

  ‘Are you going to go without having sex, now you know what I do?’ the woman asked in amazement.

  Thrown, Huttunen bowed in the doorway and then rushed out. Once in the street, he was overwhelmed by memories of the horticulture adviser Sanelma Käyrämö: the cool shade under the mosquito net; the fragrant hay; the stillness of Leppäsaari Island; her sweet voice; the gentle touch of her hand; the way her hair tickled as it brushed his nose. Huttunen set off for the station, buying a postcard and stamp on the way.

  Huttunen took a train north. Oulu, city of evil memory, fell away behind him. Once the train had crossed the Tuira bridges, he took out the postcard and addressed it to the mental hospital.

  Dear Doctor,

  I have escaped from your madhouse. Perhaps you’ve already noticed. I’m going to Sweden and then Norway, so just leave me in peace. Anyway, I wasn’t mad in the first place. I’ll leave you to get on with cleaning your specs.

  Huttunen

  * * *

  At Kemi, Huttunen dropped the card in the station letterbox. He smiled at the thought of them looking for him in Sweden and Norway. Before the train pulled out, he bought a dozen hard-boiled eggs at the station buffet. When they reached the village, he avoided the road leading to the centre, and cut through the woods straight to the Suukoski rapids.

  The miller gave himself up to the joy of homecoming. The beautiful red mill stood proudly in its place in the summer sun. Huttunen checked the dam, the millrace, the shingle saw and the turbine. Everything was fine. All nature seemed to be celebrating his return; the stream babbled gaily under the mill like a cheerful friend.

  The mill door was boarded up. Huttunen tore it open, sending nails and planks flying into the grass.

  It was a mess inside. His things had been searched, his bed was rumpled, the sideboard door had been torn off, saucepans were missing. The cupboard had been emptied of everything edible. Even the sack of potatoes Huttunen had left right at the back had disappeared.

  His rifle wasn’t on the wall anymore. Had the police chief come and confiscated it or had it been stolen? There wasn’t a crust of bread in the store cupboard. To stave off his hunger, Huttunen swallowed the last of the eggs he’d bought at Kemi and washed them down with a ladle of water.

  He went through his belongings and realised to his fury how much was missing: a trunk, his Sunday suit, his rifle, some tools, a pot, a sheet, a flowery pillowcase, all the food … Huttunen threw himself on his bed, sickened, trying to work out who could have been responsible for the pillage. Suddenly he leapt to his feet, strode over to the corner of the room and got down on his knees by the wall; he lifted up the outer floorboard and thrust his hand into the lagging. He searched up and down, groping around in the sawdust. The miller’s face tensed, and then grew more and more desperate, until at last it lit up jubilantly. With a yell, he bounded back to the centre of the room in a single stride, a savings book clasped in his hand.

  Huttunen let out an awesome howl, just like the good old days. The sound of his own voice frightened him, and he crept over to the window to see if anyone had heard. There was no one in sight; the miller felt calmer. He shook the sawdust off the savings book. According to the balance, he still had money in his account. In every other respect, his affairs had come to a complete dead end.

  Huttunen went to the window to look at his vegetable garden that had started to turn green during his stay in Oulu. It was clear that someone had been taking care of it: there wasn’t a single weed growing among the vegetable shoots, the rows were carefully hoed and thinned. The horticulture adviser Sanelma Käyrämö must have been tending his patch in his absence, he guessed.

  Delirious with happiness, he ran outside and minutely scrutinised the garden. Between the rows, he found the imprint of a small woman’s foot.

  Thank God for vegetables.

  CHAPTER 17

  Huttunen gazed longingly out of the mill window at his vegetable patch for two days, yearning with all his heart for the horticulture adviser Sanelma Käyrämö to come riding down the hill on her bicycle and start bustling about among the vegetables.

  But he waited in vain. The adviser didn’t come, and in his disappointment, Huttunen thought it was actually pretty irresponsible to leave a vegetable garden untended for so long.

  It had been a while now since the miller had had a proper meal. He remembered the thick hospital mush at Oulu that he’d reluctantly forced down. Now just thinking about that wretched food made his mouth water. And what about the eggs he’d bought at Kemi station! Huttunen could have eaten a basket in one go. He had to make do with water for the time being. As a side dish, he scraped up a few handfuls of last year’s flour from the cracks between the floorboards. But this hardly stilled his hunger, especially because it had a disgusting amount of dust mixed in with it.

  On the evening of the second day, hunger finally drove the miller out of the mill. He crept down to the ground floor, lifted the trapdoor leading to the turbine house and stole outside. He headed through the woods to Tervola’s shop. He was so hungry he could barely see where he was going; in the willows on the riverbank, branches struck him in the face, his eyes filled with tears and he felt a lump in his throat, a lump of sadness and starvation, rather than food.

  Huttu
nen hid for a long while in the bushes by the shop, watching to see if any villagers were doing their shopping or hanging around nearby. When he was sure that the shopkeeper and his wife were alone, he knocked on the back door. Tervola came to open it. Recognising his visitor, he tried to jam the door shut, but Huttunen managed to get his foot in the crack.

  ‘You can’t come in, Kunnari. We’re closed.’

  Huttunen asked to speak to the shopkeeper alone. Grudgingly, Tervola ushered him into the shop, leaving the door open so that his wife could hear them. Huttunen sat on some sacks of potatoes, took a bottle of beer out of a crate and began drinking slowly. Then he ran through his shopping list.

  ‘I’ll have some ordinary sausage, a pound, a pound of bacon, a pound of butter as well, two packets of cigarettes – Työkansas – coffee, sugar, half a bushel of spuds, some tobacco.’

  ‘I don’t serve lunatics.’

  Huttunen took money out of his purse.

  ‘I’ll pay double if I have to, but give me the food, I’m dying of hunger.’

  ‘I’ve already told you we’re closed. I won’t sell you anything; you should’ve stayed at Oulu. You’re a criminal on the run.’

  Tervola paused for a moment, thinking, and then went on, ‘It was so peaceful when you weren’t here. The whole village was happy. The best thing you can do is go away. I’m not going to sell you a thing.’

  Huttunen put the empty bottle of beer back in the crate and tossed a couple of coins on the counter. Then he said calmly, ‘I’m not leaving here without any food. For God’s sake, the last time I ate was Thursday, or even Wednesday, at Oulu.’