by Philip Teir
‘I think it sounds exciting … er, I mean, nice that you’re married. Where do you live?’
‘On Högbergsgatan. We have a child too.’
‘Oh? I haven’t read anything about that.’
‘It all happened pretty fast. A little girl. So now Tanya is home most days. But we’re thinking about moving. The climate here is so bloody cold. And the anti-Russian sentiment … well, fuck, I didn’t realise it was so bad until I met Tanya. People stare at us in the city, as if they’re afraid we’re going to eat their children.’
‘Really?’
‘Well, not everybody. But it does happen. I can’t understand how they can tell Tanya is Russian. But I suppose it’s because she speaks Russian to our daughter.’
‘Where are you thinking of moving?’
Erik finished his beer. It occurred to him that Martin had changed, after all. He looked heavier. It wasn’t hard to picture him pushing a pram through the city. A large, prosperous man in his prime who always ate well – probably having Sunday dinners at some expensive restaurant in the southern part of the city.
‘We’ve thought about Abu Dhabi. These days they have schools with Finnish curricula. So it would be the same education for the children, but super modern, and a better climate.’
‘Huh, that sounds good.’
‘Maybe just for a year or two. Right now Finland feels so cold,’ he said.
Erik paused for a moment. He thought: it’s so easy when you have money. That makes all sorts of opportunities available.
‘But I think Helsinki has gotten better,’ he said then.
‘Think so?’
‘The city seems more modern than when I moved here from Ekenäs. There are lots of people doing all sorts of creative things. And new cafés where we live.’
Martin shrugged.
‘When you live in a society that is service-based and there’s no real industry except for tourism, then you know things are bad. This country can’t be saved by a few fucking freelancers eating brunch every day. Or by someone creating an app for take-away meals. I think Finland is going to hell, to be honest. And large parts of the population are so afraid of foreigners that we’re never going to be a modern country. If you compare us to Sweden, for instance.’
Erik nodded.
For a few moments neither of them spoke, as if they’d already exhausted everything they had to say to each other.
‘We had fun, all the same,’ said Martin.
‘We?’
‘You and I, back when we were at university. I was thinking about that when I got your email. Do you remember that basement place we had in Kronohagen?’
‘Of course I do,’ said Erik.
During their second year at university, they had leased space in the basement of an old building on Estnäsgatan, having decided to open an internet company. They purchased two space heaters and brought in several tables they’d found at a flea market. They rigged up a coffee maker and a microwave and began making their plans.
When the first snow arrived that winter, they hardly even noticed. The place smelled of damp brick and wet rag rugs, and on certain days it was so cold that they couldn’t keep the chill out of the room. It would seep in along the floor and settle in the brick walls. But they were so focused on what they were doing that they would go out only if they needed food or booze.
‘We drank an awful lot,’ said Erik.
‘It was the perfect life. Earning a little money by making websites for Finland-Swedish institutions and drinking beer all day long,’ said Martin.
‘You were a Marxist back then,’ said Erik.
‘I still am. Have you read anything by Thomas Piketty?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘You should. It turns out that Lenin was right. And the worst part is that the concentration of capital just keeps rising. We thought we’d abandoned that system, but in reality it’s just getting worse. Never before in the history of humankind have so few owned so much.’
‘The job market seems very uncertain these days,’ said Erik.
‘So, where are you working?’ asked Martin.
‘I used to work there,’ he said, pointing to the department store across the street.
Martin looked at him in surprise. ‘Things aren’t going so well at the store, from what I’ve read.’
‘No, that’s why I left.’
‘What are you going to do now?’
‘I don’t know. Do you have any suggestions?’
Martin looked over at the bar without answering. ‘Would you like another beer?’ he asked, holding up his empty glass.
Erik left the pub with a feeling of despair that was even worse than during the train ride to Helsinki. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ was the last thing Martin had said when they parted, but it was the sort of remark people make when they really have no intention of getting in touch again. Martin had explained – in great detail, which wasn’t like him – that his company was going to be forced to restructure. (‘But please don’t tell anyone. We don’t want the news to reach the media yet.’) Apparently they’d been hiring far too many employees lately.
Erik walked along Esplanaden, heading for the Salutorget marketplace. He felt old. Was it possible to have a midlife crisis at the age of thirty-seven? Apparently it was.
He decided to go to Kapellet and have another beer. He needed time to think. When he stood at the bar and placed his order, he picked up a newspaper and sat down to leaf through it. When he came to page 20, he suddenly saw a familiar face. It was the article written by the reporter who had interviewed him earlier in the summer:
FINLAND’S LEFTIST START-UP MILLIONAIRE IS HAPPY TO PAY TAXES
Only ten years ago, Finland’s famed IT millionaire Martin Westerlund was still living in his childhood home. Today he has bought a luxury house for his mother, and his fans include Nobel Prize winners. But he’s not thinking of leaving Finland.
‘I want to give something back to society.’
‘Can’t go to bed. Must. Catch. More. Zombies.’
That’s what Paul Krugman, the Nobel Prize winner in economics, tweeted at the end of March. He is not the only one who has recently discovered the addictive Finnish mobile game Zombieswap. Basically it’s about building up small societies of zombies as a work force. Zombieswap has topped the list of the most downloaded games on iTunes for fourteen months in a row.
It’s hard to say what creates a successful mobile game. In the case of Zombieswap, it seems to be a combination of many things: the relatively simple graphics that bring to mind the 8-bit games of the 80s; the endless possibilities the game offers for building your own world as big as you want; the cute characters; the ironic criticism of society that particularly resonates with older players.
The game’s chief designer and Dooku co-founder, Martin Westerlund, is known to be a big fan of George Romero’s old zombie films, and he wanted to make use of the films’ allegorical messages. In Zombieswap, you can use your own zombies to harvest digital crops or work in a factory, but they can also rebel.
‘In a way it’s a microcosm of the capitalist system, at least the way it used to be. The more malcontent the zombies are, the more difficult the game is to play. But it’s expensive to keep the zombies happy, and so the profit margins decrease. Maybe the political aspect is why Krugman is a fan,’ said Westerlund when we meet at his large home in central Helsinki.
Earlier in the year Westerlund purchased a spacious flat (240 square metres), which he is now remodelling. In the courtyard is his latest purchase, a Toyota 2000GT from 1969.
‘The same car James Bond drives in You Only Live Twice. It’s not as well known as the Aston Martins. But this is only the third car I’ve ever bought, so it’s not about excessive purchases.’
Westerlund is married to the former Russian model Tatyana Ivanova. The couple have one child, with another on the way. Westerlund hired an architect to design the family home so he would have a separate section for himself. Not even his fam
ily members are allowed to enter. That may seem asocial, but Westerlund insists it’s necessary.
‘This is where I work, answer email, do interviews and keep my Playstation. I communicate with the rest of my family via an intercom system that is wired to the whole flat. I can be a significantly better father if I’m allowed to have time to myself,’ he says.
When this reporter asks him if it wouldn’t be easier to use a mobile phone instead of an intercom system, Westerlund surprisingly replies that he doesn’t own a mobile.
‘I’ve had intercom phones installed in the whole flat. I don’t like being connected at all times. It’s distracting and not good for the brain or the memory. I just use email, which I check sporadically,’ he says.
This is only one of the many paradoxes about Westerlund. He’s known for being eccentric and taking unexpected actions – such as his support for Finland’s political party Left Alliance, contributing large sums of money prior to the latest parliamentary election. Westerlund is a supporter of government-funded health care, schools, etc., and he doesn’t agree with privatisation or deregulation.
‘I view Finland’s education system as our greatest competitive advantage, and I think it will be even more important in the future. I detest populism and the intellectual sloppiness of our day, as well as the anti-science attitude that is rapidly gaining support,’ he says.
One explanation for this may be Westerlund’s own background. He was raised by a single mother who worked as a pre-school teacher and was active in the Social Democratic party on a local level.
‘She is still working. Mamma won’t retire until next year,’ he says.
She won’t exactly need to worry about her pension. Westerlund has bought her a luxury home not far from his own place.
‘For a long time Mamma was concerned because all I did was sit at home writing code and taking apart old computers. She probably thought there was no hope for me. I doubt she thought it would ever lead to a real job. But she allowed me to continue, and I’m very glad she did.’
His father disappeared from the scene before he was born.
‘We have no relationship,’ says the millionaire, who clearly does not want to talk about his father. But Finnish media sources have revealed that his father is an entrepreneur who lives in Helsinki with his wife and children.
‘I have no comment,’ Westerlund says when asked.
Westerlund has not transferred any of Dooku’s profits to foreign banks. And when the company goes public in the near future, the board of directors will remain in Helsinki.
‘We often see how this type of business moves too fast and squanders money on expensive marketing campaigns. I think our brand is strong enough without making use of PR ploys such as stuffed animals, school backpacks and soft drinks,’ he says.
The company was founded in the early 2000s when Westerlund was still living at home with his mother. Of the two founders, only Westerlund remains part of the company.
‘I was the only one who believed in it. But we made a lot of mistakes in the beginning, and the market wasn’t ready for us. Lately I’ve had tremendous luck,’ he says.
Dooku has already been called ‘the next Nokia’, but Westerlund dismisses such comparisons.
‘We have only sixty employees and will never hire as many people as Nokia did, which was in the thousands.’
The other founder of Dooku was Erik Holmberg, who met Westerlund at the University of Technology when they were both students. They started their own company and began making websites for smaller enterprises, operating out of a cramped basement space in the trendy Kronohagen district of Helsinki.
‘If I worked eight hours a day, Martin would work sixteen. He was always two steps ahead of me,’ says Erik Holmberg today as he recalls those early years.
It’s unclear what caused Holmberg to leave the company, but he assures me it had nothing to do with any personal differences.
‘I became a father and wanted a more stable lifestyle. Back then we were hardly making any money,’ he says.
Holmberg sold his shares in the company. If he hadn’t done so, he would be a rich man today.
‘Of course it may seem like that was a foolish thing to do, but back then it seemed like a sensible decision, and it does me no good to fret about it,’ he says today.
After barely half an hour, Westerlund stops the interview.
‘We have to go to the kitchen,’ he says.
It turns out that his whole family is waiting for us.
‘We always have lunch together – it’s sacrosanct,’ remarks Westerlund.
His wife, Tatyana Ivanova, has made sandwiches and a small salad. She is dressed entirely in white, the same colour as the family’s kitchen. The couple’s two-year-old daughter joins us at the table, looking through a picture book.
‘We don’t let her have access to any computers or kids’ records,’ says Ivanova. ‘Research shows that they inhibit a child’s development. And as often as possible, we let her run around and play outside in Brunnsparken.
‘I grew up in the middle of Moscow, with all the concrete and traffic. It’s liberating to live in Helsinki. It’s a smaller city, and I don’t lack for anything.’
That’s not so strange. According to rumours, a large Japanese investor is interested in acquiring a majority share after the company goes public. The market value for the entire company is estimated at 10 billion euros.
‘Right now we have no plans to sell our share, but the future will determine what direction we take,’ says Westerlund.
At the time of the interview, Erik hadn’t realised it would be such a long article. The reporter had phoned, and he’d quickly answered a few questions. It seemed dishonest that none of the company’s problems were discussed in the article. The same old narrative about Martin Westerlund was repeated because no one wanted to hear about yet another Finnish company having financial troubles. Everybody wanted to believe that start-ups would pull Finland out of its economic depression, and that was why this type of interview barely scratched the surface instead of presenting any in-depth financial journalism.
Sooner or later the news would get out, of course. People would see that the emperor had no clothes on, and then the journalists would seize every opportunity to trounce Martin. But for now, he was allowed to play the role of the beneficent millionaire with the social democratic heart.
Erik wandered aimlessly around town for several hours, moving from one pub to another. He didn’t see anyone he knew. Everyone looked so young, mostly in their twenties, and they were constantly glancing at their phones, no matter who they were with.
He found a table in a quiet corner of a bar on Nylandsgatan and sat there for a long time, ordering beer after beer and staring at the display on his phone.
Julia rang just as he was thinking he ought to head back to the flat. She told him that Alice hadn’t been home all day. ‘I’m worried,’ she said.
‘What time is it, actually?’ asked Erik.
‘It’s almost ten. She’s been gone all day. She had already left by the time I got up this morning. And Marika and Chris haven’t seen Leo either.’
‘They’ve probably run away from home,’ said Erik.
‘Great. Should we call the police?’
‘Why don’t you try calling them first?’
‘Her phone seems to be switched off. I haven’t been able to reach her all day.’
‘Nothing’s going to happen.’
‘Have you been drinking?’ she asked.
‘Just a few beers.’
‘Right. So what should I do?’
‘Nothing. This is Mjölkviken we’re talking about. It’s the safest place in the world,’ said Erik.
6
JULIA AND MARIKA SPENT the whole evening searching for the kids. They walked back and forth along the shore and drove around the area several times, but eventually they had to give up. Anders had also helped out, searching in the woods for a few hours, but without finding any trace
of Alice and Leo.
They told themselves that the kids must have gone down to the beach and taken a long walk, forgetting all about the time. So they went back to the summer house to make dinner. It had rained steadily during the day, a monotonous but persistent rain that made Julia feel even more worried. Surely the kids wouldn’t voluntarily stay out in this kind of weather.
She cast an anxious glance at the clock. It was already ten thirty.
‘You’d think they’d come home when they got hungry,’ she said.
‘Don’t worry. Leo knows what he’s doing,’ said Marika.
‘What do you mean by that?’
Julia wanted to ask Marika bluntly whether her son was a potential rapist, but since Anton was present, she restrained herself. Worry crept over her, and she had a hard time sitting still. She had an urge to ring the police, but the next second she decided the kids were bound to turn up on their own, so maybe she should wait another hour. And besides, what could the police do?
‘I think all of us should go out and look for them,’ said Julia. ‘Chris, Helena, Ville, everybody.’
‘I don’t think Chris would agree to that,’ said Marika.
Julia wanted to ask why, but intuitively she knew the answer. No doubt Chris’s unconventional views also meant that children didn’t need any rules or geographical limitations.
Marika tried to reassure Julia.
‘We’ve always let Leo come and go pretty much as he pleases. He’s used to being out in nature. He’s grown up that way. Maybe the kids mentioned something to us this morning, but we didn’t pay attention. Maybe we didn’t really hear them.’
Julia wondered whether Marika condoned Chris’s behaviour, whether the two of them had agreed that Chris and Helena could do whatever they wanted, and that their son could do whatever he wanted, so that one day he’d be like his father; maybe there were no rules whatsoever. Suddenly the behaviour of that whole family seemed so sordid, as if they had no boundaries. Why had she allowed Alice to be roped into their world? She felt guilty about thinking badly of Erik when she should have been happy that she had such a good, secure life, and that her husband was so normal.
