The men are stepping out of the van as I open the front door and walk out onto the forecourt. The day is at its brightest; I have to squint against the sunshine. The dust whipped up by the van sticks to my face. I can taste it, a bitter blend of earth and petrol.
Once on the ground, the men take up their respective positions.
I remember what Olli told me about them, so I recognise Asko easily. He has stepped out of the driver’s seat and he’s obviously the eldest of the three – well over fifty; he clearly works out and is still in good shape. He has receding, longish blond hair, which he has combed back over his head, blue eyes, which shoot darts right into my own, dimpled cheeks, veins that stand out along his brown arms, and he is wearing a pair of trainers in bright neon colours at the end of his sockless, unnaturally tanned legs. The overall impression is of someone learned and experienced in the most primitive way. He is a hunter; ageing, yes, but uniquely skilled.
The two others – Sami and Tomi – stand to attention at Asko’s side.
I’m guessing Sami, the baseball player, is the only non-weightlifter of the three. He’s lanky and surprisingly pale. Even I’ve got more colour in my cheeks, I think, and I’m a dying man in sedentary work. A complexion like that takes hard work, as does the gleaming bronze of Asko’s legs.
The other of the sidekicks – seeing them next to Asko it’s hard not to think of them in those terms – is built like a barn door. That must be Tomi. He is big, in every respect. His head is three times the size of a normal man’s. I don’t know whether it’s possible to body-build your head, but somehow it is bulkier than usual. His face takes up a few rugged square feet of summer landscape, and his expression would darken even the brightest sun.
‘We came to give you a warning,’ says Asko without any introductions or pleasantries. His voice is congenial, it’s deep and soft. ‘We’ve just watched a security video that shows you breaking into our premises.’
I should have realised there was a possibility this would happen. But I can’t undo what’s already done.
I raise both hands to accentuate what I’m about to say. ‘I’m sorry. If you got that impression, I can assure you it wasn’t my intention. I didn’t break in. I came to say hello. The door was open, so I assumed you were indoors and I stepped inside. When I couldn’t find anybody, I left.’
‘Not before you’d conducted a spot of industrial espionage.’
I look at each of the men in turn and give the friendliest smile I can muster on a day like this. ‘Like I said, it’s easy to see things differently.’
‘Want us to rough up the fat boy?’ asks Tomi.
‘There is, of course, a third way of seeing things, but I wouldn’t go there,’ I say. ‘If I may say so, it seems—’
‘We’re here to give you a warning,’ Asko repeats.
‘Ask him why he was snooping round our warehouse,’ says Sami.
‘I thought you just asked that,’ I say to Sami, then turn to Asko. ‘Shall we start again? This is completely unnecessary. I made a mistake and I’ve apologised. Twice now.’
‘Ask him about the Japanese,’ Sami urges his boss once again.
His voice perfectly matches his appearance: it’s limp and pale. I can’t understand how someone with a build like that could hit a ball at all, let alone knock it out of the park.
‘What about the Japanese?’ I ask, and turn to Sami. ‘And what’s all this, getting someone else to ask questions for you?’
‘You owe us,’ says Asko. ‘Compensation.’
‘Compensation?’
‘When are the Japanese arriving?’
To my knowledge the Japanese aren’t coming at all this summer. If they were, I’d know about it. At least, I think I’d know about it. Having said that, this morning I thought I was going to live forever and still believed I was married to a faithful wife. The situation presents an unexpected opportunity.
‘In a week and half,’ I say. ‘I see you’re ready for the harvest.’
‘Sod the harvest,’ Tomi snaps. ‘The fat boy’s getting on my nerves.’
Fat boy? That’s the second time now.
‘What Tomi means is we’re not involved in the picking,’ Asko explains. It appears he’s used to interpreting for the other two. ‘We oversee operations.’
‘Does that mean you’ve already employed your pickers?’ I ask.
‘Don’t tell him,’ Sami quickly interrupts.
Asko seems to breathe slightly more deeply. He knows I’ve got the answer I was looking for, and that means there might be even more questions to come.
‘Are the pickers local or do you bring them in from further afield?’ I ask. ‘And, with the Japanese in mind, I assume your pickers have logistics experience – preserving, packing and exporting?’
Asko looks at me for a moment in silence. ‘You’ve been warned.’
I say nothing.
Asko is about to turn away when Tomi pipes up. ‘If you find a snapped bolete in your bed, you’ll know what it means.’
Asko stops in his tracks. I stare at Tomi. He is so big that just looking at him is something of an athletic feat.
‘A snapped bolete?’ I enquire.
Tomi nods his enormous head.
‘I don’t know what that means, but if I do find a porcini sliced in two on my pillow, I’ll think of you.’
Tomi shakes his head. ‘Not sliced. Snapped.’
Asko raises a hand.
Sami and Tomi stare at me for a moment longer, then the three of them climb back into the cab. The van sways from side to side.
‘We’ll be on our way now,’ says Asko from the window. ‘But consider yourself—’
‘Warned.’
The van first reverses then pulls away, its tyres crunching against the gravel of the forecourt. I turn and head inside. I think I see Olli at the window, but it might simply be my imagination, as a moment later the windowpane reflects nothing but clear, blue sky.
6
I close the office door behind me and take out a paper and pen. There are two tables in my office. On the desk there are a humming computer, tall piles of documents, and the general clutter of a small business. I sit down at the conference table.
I’m a man of lists. I like being able to see my entire life on a single sheet of A4.
As usual, I divide things into three categories. I write down the headings, leaving plenty of space between them for notes and comments:
1. ONGOING PROJECTS
2. PLANNED PROJECTS
3. TODAY’S TASKS
I once heard a principle by which there are only important matters and urgent matters. The principle suggests that important matters should be dealt with first. If I’ve understood correctly, this paradox is supposed to encourage a more effective use of one’s time. With that in mind I write out another set of headings:
1. IMPORTANT MATTERS
2. URGENT MATTERS
I get started. Some of these categories simply require going through things I know already. Some things are still so fresh that I need to clarify them and put them into words in my mind first, before committing them to paper.
1. ONGOING PROJECTS
– death (my own); cause: poisoning
– ascertain source of poisoning possible poisoners
– Taina (& Petri)
– harvest: go through issues with pickers and employees
– find out what competitor is up to
– reassure the Japanese
2. PLANNED PROJECTS
– stay alive (for the time being)
3. TODAY’S TASKS
– -
I glance through my notes. As so often when I write things down, this helps me to see connections between individual issues. I am dying of sustained poisoning, which has developed over a long period of time. Thinking logically – that’s what lists are for – there are only two places in which I could have been exposed to such prolonged toxicity: either at work or at home. Someone must have poisoned me deli
berately. I begin a new list:
1. WORKPLACE
– NORDIC FOREST DELICATESSE EXPORT LTD
– Taina (quality and tasting officer, chief recipe designer, slut)
– Petri (chief of machinery and deliveries, playboy who can’t keep his tackle to himself)
– Olli (packaging, preserving, freezing)
– Sanni (chief picker and harvest coordinator)
– Raimo (purchasing manager)
– Suvi (part-time office assistant)
– me (CEO)
2. HOME – PAPPILANSAARI
– Taina (wife)
– Veikko (garden hedgehog)
For a moment, I wonder whether I might have vomited over Veikko the hedgehog. It’s wholly possible, because one of his favourite hiding places is the tangle of bushes in front of the steps at the back of the house. I feel bad at the thought that I might have done something like that to poor Veikko and decide to look into it as soon as … It’s not easy for me to say as soon as I get home. Home should be a place where we’re protected from the evils of the world. It shouldn’t be a place where we’re forced to look on as the genitals of one’s wife and one’s employee whack against each other. Be that as it may, the wellbeing of Veikko the hedgehog is paramount.
At first the list seems surprisingly short, but a moment later it seems long. This is doubtless caused by the fact that I’m living, as it were, in two different time zones: the previous time zone, where I could put things off indefinitely, where there was always time tomorrow and where the future was a long, vague concept that essentially carried on forever; and the current time zone, where there’s no time to do anything at all, a time that could end so suddenly that even the most basic tasks might be left undone.
It’s a terrifying thought. It brings me back to the final section of my list:
3. TODAY’S TASKS
– commence murder investigation (investigation into my suic my own murder)
– commence investigation into infidelity (Taina riding Petri on the sun lounger)
– in light of the above hide my health issues from everybody
Again the pain hits me out of the blue. This time it’s what I imagine an electric shock must feel like. My whole body quivers, the pain strikes each cell individually. It hurts, everywhere, in every part of my body. I sit down in front of the window as it darkens, as day turns to evening, and I lose my grip.
I don’t die.
As with all these seizures, everything seems clearer once it’s over. The list is on the table in front of me. I look up. I am sure I see a human-shaped figure passing the window.
Just then my phone rings.
I answer, and at first I don’t recognise the voice. The doctor gets straight to the point, and it doesn’t take me long to get up to speed. I’m in a state of perpetual ‘now’. I’ll be in the present moment until I stop existing altogether. An aftershock runs the length of my spine.
The shadow of the human figure is seared onto my retinas, but a moment later the concrete wall, illuminated in the sunshine, is all I can see.
‘You said you wished to discuss the matter with your wife,’ the doctor is saying. ‘Have you had a chance to talk to her?’
‘I haven’t found the right moment,’ I reply. It’s an honest answer.
‘I understand. This can be a delicate situation for our loved ones too.’
‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Nothing,’ I say, and at that the thought occurs to me that the doctor has called me because he’s given me the wrong diagnosis, confused me with another patient, read the wrong papers, because this whole episode has been one big misunderstanding. ‘Has there been a change in my condition?’
‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘Has there?’
My hopes dwindle as quickly as they flared up. I’m on an emotional rollercoaster, that much is clear, but perhaps the continuing sense of shock prevents me from feeling the steepest of the ups and downs.
‘Apparently not,’ I say.
The doctor is silent for a moment. ‘I’m calling about the results of your toxicological screen. The laboratory tests are still under way, so the situation is still live, as it were. But the good news is you don’t have anything infectious.’
I’m in two minds as to whether to ask, If this was the good news, what on earth is the bad news? I say nothing, lean back in my chair.
‘We’ve sent more urine samples to Helsinki. I imagine that by tomorrow or the day after we’ll have a better idea of the make-up of the toxin – the poison, that is. As I said yesterday, we’re probably looking at nature’s own toxins. As things stand now it looks as though what we’re dealing with are poisons that can be acquired from various plants and mushrooms through a process of—’
‘I want to know everything there is to know. Right now,’ I interrupt him. ‘You have to call me as soon as anything comes to light. Promise me.’
The doctor clears his throat. ‘Well, you see, tomorrow is the start of my summer holiday, but I’m sure my colleague—’
‘No.’
‘My colleague could—’
‘No,’ I repeat, emphatically, clearly, and without losing my temper.
As I say it I look down at my list. What have I written beneath the heading ‘TODAY’S TASKS’? ‘Commence murder investigation’. This is where it starts. This phone call.
‘Nobody else,’ I say. ‘Only you. This is a small town. I don’t want anybody to know about it. Nobody at all. Nobody at your surgery; nobody anywhere. Medical confidentiality, right?’
‘Of course, but with a view to your care and—’
‘Precisely. We don’t talk about this to anyone until I’ve established my wife’s … position on the matter.’
I feel it’s important that I tell him the truth. But maybe not the whole truth: I can simply leave out the parts of the truth I don’t want to discuss.
‘And,’ I say before the doctor has a chance to get a word in, ‘I want to be able to contact you at any time. I need a number. In case I need painkillers or something.’
I can almost hear the doctor cursing the incursion into his long-awaited holiday. But let’s face it, I’ll only be murdered once.
‘Very well,’ he says. ‘But preferably only call during the daytime.’
The doctor gives me his mobile number. The figures come reluctantly from his mouth, but come nonetheless. I hang up and look down at my list. I read the names I’ve written down and head for the door.
7
I park at the edge of Kipparikuja, and the Saviniemi gravel crackles beneath my feet as I step out of the car. The row of hawthorns, as tall as me and as dense as a brick wall, hides from view the pretty green garden complete with its berry bushes and ancient apple trees. The house stands at the end of the garden.
It’s a dark-blue wooden house, built before the advent of the prefabricated houses for veterans but in very much the same style. It is also a touch smaller than most veterans’ houses, its habitable floor space probably no bigger than that of a modern one-bedroom flat. Everything is well looked-after, everything neat, tidy and ordered: the house, the garden, the shrubs, the flowerbeds.
Sanni is sitting on the steps of the porch, crouched over her running shoes.
Her long auburn hair covers her face and gleams in the sunshine like a new copper roof. As she ties her shoe laces her fingers are quick, agile, seemingly used to finding things, assessing and picking them. Sanni is the same age as me. She is our harvest coordinator; she knows the local terrain like the back of her hand and makes sure our pickers are efficient, able to exercise quality control by themselves, and that they work where they are supposed to. Sanni is divorced and now lives alone, and to my knowledge she is perfectly content with that situation.
She is wearing white running shorts, a small red bag, strapped round her waist, and a black, tight-fitting sleeveless top. I think it must be the first time I’ve seen so much of her soft, fair
skin. She ties her shoes firmly, looping the yellow laces into neat double knots sitting upright on her new, red trainers. She looks up, notices me and gives a start. She hasn’t heard me arrive.
‘You crept up on me,’ she says.
‘Me?’
We stand a few metres from each other. Sanni’s eyes are a mixture of green and blue.
‘The way you just appeared out of nowhere.’
‘I’d like to talk to you,’ I stammer. ‘I know you’re very conscientious and everything’s probably fine, but the harvest is due to start any day now, and I’d like to go over a few things.’
Sanni is small and delicate, about five foot four tall. Looking at her slender frame, I am suddenly reminded of the words Tomi used to describe me: fat boy. I instinctively pull my stomach in and puff out my chest, but straight away it makes me feel ridiculous. Here I am, a dying man, standing in the middle of the garden, and still I’m trying to make an impression on the opposite sex.
‘Okay,’ says Sanni.
I exhale and try to let my stomach sag back to its normal position naturally without her noticing.
‘Let’s sit down over there,’ I suggest and gesture towards a set of green-and-white checked deckchairs. Before sitting down I double check to make sure I’m not sitting on any human excretions, fresh or otherwise. It’s hardly necessary, but witnessing Taina and Petri’s little moment together has destroyed any faith I’ve had in the general hygiene of sun loungers.
The sun has settled permanently in the sky. That’s what it seems like, at least. A bright white glow that doesn’t move, doesn’t change, and that nothing can touch. The blue sky looks as though it has been wiped clean; it is empty and pristine. The air is still. Somewhere someone is beating a rug.
‘I was just talking to the guys from the Hamina Mushroom Company,’ I begin. ‘I didn’t get any straight answers out of them, of course, but judging by what I’ve seen and heard today, I think we have a competitor that we should take very seriously.’
The Man Who Died Page 4
