The Man Who Died

by Antti Tuomainen

  ‘Right now we should be on the attack,’ says Raimo and looks at me once again.

  ‘Attack?’

  ‘Show them who’s boss. Let them know we’re the best mushroom exporter in this town.’

  ‘I was under the impression we were the best mushroom exporter in the country.’

  ‘It’s the same thing.’

  I’d forgotten. Raimo is a Hamina native, born and bred. For him, Kouvola, a town barely thirty minutes away, is every bit as strange and exotic as Venezuela; Kotka is a peculiar, unpleasant place, and might as well be on another planet altogether. I can’t tell him I don’t believe in the success of the Hamina Mushroom Company. And I certainly can’t tell him that one of their number has recently impaled his own head on a sword.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ I ask.

  ‘We’ve got to act quickly,’ says Raimo. ‘We should order thirty thousand punnets – the new model, that is. We’ll fill them and we’ll sell them.’

  I’m not sure I’ve heard right. ‘And what if we don’t find enough mushrooms? We’ll be left with tens of thousands of punnets that will be useless by next year’s harvest.’

  ‘It’s a risk,’ says Raimo. ‘But we’ve got to take it. This isn’t just about punnets. The punnets are there for the mushrooms, they’re there to be filled. Only one of us is going to survive. There isn’t room in this town for two mushroom exporters.’

  ‘I agree with you there,’ I say, but decide not to add that all we have to do now is wait for the remaining two employees to kill themselves as well. That would be a cheap joke; I don’t even necessarily believe it myself.

  ‘But if we topple our own business with unnecessary outgoings, then they will win,’ I say, and nod in the direction of our competitors’ premises.

  Raimo is silent. At first I imagine he is thinking of his next line, but then I see that he’s actually staring at me; scrutinising me. He notices it himself and quickly looks outside again.

  ‘It wouldn’t be much fun if this was our last season,’ he says.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If the ambulance is going too slowly, the patient will die on the way to hospital.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘If the ambulance is going too fast, the patient, the driver, the paramedic and the doctors will all die in the crash.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  We sit in silence. Through the open window I hear the sound of an engine starting in the yard. Petri must have finally got the motor running. I hope that our little conversation has forced him into action and caused him even a modicum of panic. I have a right to that. After all, he has been, to put it mildly, treading on my turf.

  I’ll have to follow Petri. I stand up quickly. Raimo’s expression is quizzical. Petri’s van is slowly turning on the forecourt.

  ‘Sit tight,’ I say. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘What are we going to do?’ he asks.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The punnets,’ he almost shouts.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say and take two strides towards the door. ‘For the moment.’

  Raimo shakes his head. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if someone was planning a few bigger changes round this place.’

  I don’t have time to ask what he means. I have to run; my car is parked out front. I dash out of the door and see Petri’s van speeding along the road leading into town. As I turn the car, I think that, in many ways, Raimo might have a point.

  Sometimes you have to attack.

  5

  I knew nothing at all about mushrooms before we decided to start a mushroom exporting business. Of course I’d eaten them like everybody else – button mushrooms on pizza, trumpet chanterelles in soups and sauces, golden chanterelles and ceps in risotto, and so on – but I’d never picked a single mushroom myself.

  Then we were made redundant, and Taina hit upon the idea of the pine mushroom.

  Suddenly we were up to our ears in mushrooms, both figuratively and literally. I read so much about mushrooms that I started dreaming about them. Sometimes I’d disappear inside a giant cep, into a darkness that smelled of an underground cellar and wild-animal poo. Or I would find myself trapped inside the grey-blue mushroom fungal tissue, like thick drying cement, where I would eventually drown and die in agony.

  The initial enthusiasm soon dwindled, as it does with everything people decide to do for a living.

  The most important aspect of reading so much was that I gleaned the information, the basic education I needed to convince the powers that be who made decisions about start-up grants in the local area. We prepared them a meal featuring five different kinds of mushrooms. The grant decision came the very next day. An organisation specialising in Finnish–Japanese commerce helped us to make our initial contacts. We flew out to Tokyo and made an offer, and struck our first deal at the airport while waiting for our return flight to Helsinki.

  Nothing can beat the feeling we had as we picked our first crop of mushrooms by ourselves. The pine mushroom – or the matsutake, as we called it from the outset – starts to appear during the summer, sometimes as early as mid-July.

  During the summer months the forest is like an endless series of tall rooms, each more beautiful, more rugged, more plentiful than the next. At first the silence of the forest was unsettling. Then I realised that the forest is never truly silent, that it’s constantly full of sounds, everything from the barely audible rustle and murmur of the leaves to the thunder of the boughs and the howling of the branches.

  The forest is full of life too – full of other ramblers of all shapes and sizes. It’s always busy, if only you take the time to look and listen. I encountered hundreds of birds, thousands upon thousands of insects, snakes, foxes, elks and raccoon dogs. I once caught a glimpse of a wolf, and found bear and lynx tracks in the embankment along the stream.

  With time I became attuned to it all. And with that heightened sensitivity, I could sense the presence of another human a long way off.

  Encountering another human in the forest is like taking a leap back into the Stone Age: we approach each other peering and mistrustful, taking stock of each other’s movements, perhaps with our noses slightly raised, sniffing the air. Eventually, after a combination of a sceptical, cautious greeting, a nod and a movement of the lips, people give each other a wide berth. And we never turn our backs on another person in plain sight. No. We move sideways away from each other, keeping the other mushroom picker in our field of vision so that, should they change their mind and try to encroach on our territory, we are able to raise our baskets against theirs and defend our catch.

  Our business grew, and we had to coordinate our operations, make things run more effectively, oversee and maintain things. In a word, we had to lead. We needed a managing director. I no longer had time to go out into the woods. I was no longer a mushroom picker. I was now a mushroom entrepreneur.

  Perhaps it was at that moment that something happened.

  Did something else about me change other than the fact that I swapped my wellingtons for smart, laced shoes?

  I think about all this as I watch Petri and the van. It’s midday, the sun is about as high in the sky as it ever gets in Finland. This means I can see the town more clearly. I will die here; this will be my place of death. The term doesn’t resonate as much as when people mention their place of birth, though perhaps that’s hardly surprising. There’s so little to say about our place of death, and so few people to say it.

  Petri is driving slowly, very slowly. I assume it must either be to do with Petri or the van, and realise it might have something to do with both: Petri is saving the engine because he understands it. For a fraction of a second I feel sorry for him; he won’t get a new van, though he clearly needs one. Then I remember – or rather I see (because memories are like a cinema where you can’t find the exit door) – the image of Petri and Taina in our garden. Besides, I’m carrying out investigations.

  Sitting behind the wheel, my thoughts become clearer.
I used to think it was because when our hands have something to do, our brains move into autopilot, but now I understand it is because of what happens beneath us, what drives us. The road ahead is always clear and straight, even when it arcs to the side. The road doesn’t meander, doesn’t become confused, it cannot shift from the year 2016 back to 1989 with a single leap of flawed thinking. The road is unerring, infallibly chronological and logical. When we look at it, it compels us to straightforwardness and coherence, from point A to point B, though the journey might be painful.

  The slower pace suits me fine. It gives me time to organise people and events in my head. I go through everything I know, everything that I know has changed, and compile an exhaustive list of events.

  EVERYONE WHO MURDERED ME

  (in order of probability)

  1. TAINA*

  2. PETRI*

  (*THESE NAMES SHALL REMAIN ON THE LIST, THOUGH THEIR ORDER MAY CHANGE)

  The window is fully open, and I slide my elbow outside. Summer pushes its way inside, dries my left armpit.

  We arrive at the Town Hall. We drive almost halfway round the building, and Petri slows until the van is barely crawling along. Then he does something that takes me completely by surprise: he steers the car into a parking space in front of the police station. All I can do is drive past and continue in a circle. I stop the car once I have driven round the Town Hall and reached a spot where I have a clear view of Petri’s van.

  Petri jumps out, only pulling on a white T-shirt once he is on the pavement. His biceps flex as he gets dressed, his triceps bulge, his abdominal muscles tense. I’m sure he didn’t do this deliberately or with a sense of vanity; it simply happens.

  And that isn’t the only thing I have difficulty watching and believing. After straightening the T-shirt across his chest, tapping the creases smooth and yanking the collar down slightly, he walks up to the door of the police station, opens it and disappears inside. For a moment I cannot understand anything at all.

  My wife is screwing the driver.

  The driver and my wife have murdered me.

  The driver willingly starts talking to the police.

  At that moment the Beach Boys’ ‘Surfin’ Safari’ fills the car. I look at the screen of my phone before answering. Taina. I pick up and give my full name. Taina is silent for a moment.

  ‘Where are you?’ she asks eventually.

  ‘In town.’

  ‘What are you up to?’

  I look across the square. ‘Getting an ice cream.’

  For a moment Taina says nothing. ‘Well, while you’re getting yourself an ice cream and behaving strangely in all kinds of ways, I’ve been talking to Raimo.’

  ‘Strangely?’

  ‘Yes. Yesterday and this morning. And now. Getting yourself an ice cream, indeed.’

  ‘And what if I really am getting an ice cream?’

  Taina doesn’t answer the question. ‘We need those new punnets.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No, what?’

  ‘No, we do not need them. No, we are not getting them.’

  ‘What are we going to do then?’

  ‘We will be pragmatic and disciplined and follow our long-term strategy.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I believe in our business,’ I say. ‘We don’t make rash decisions, we don’t do whatever pops into our minds. We plan ahead. We have plenty of old punnets and we’ll use them for this harvest and save money on a needless expense. The strategy is infallible; only human error can screw it up.’

  ‘Have you come down with sunstroke?’

  ‘Why are you in such a rush?’ I ask. ‘Are you in a hurry to get somewhere?’

  Silence.

  ‘Raimo says that…’

  ‘Raimo says what all purchasing managers say. The job of a purchasing manager is to purchase things. I’d be disappointed if he didn’t do that.’

  My phone’s ring tone starts playing in my head. Beach, sun, surfing. All such a long time ago.

  ‘Taina?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Remember Thailand?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Do you remember our honeymoon, the beach in Thailand, our little bungalow?’

  For a moment all I can hear is the sound of the summer breeze fluttering through the car.

  ‘Of course I remember it,’ she says. ‘What makes you ask that? Now, about these punnets…’

  ‘Forget the punnets,’ I say almost angrily, then start again, my tone somewhat friendlier. ‘Don’t forget about the punnets, but let’s leave them until later. I was thinking about our honeymoon, how we loved the place and the people. You said we’d have to go back one day, to the same place, visit it all again.’

  ‘Did I?’ Taina’s voice is low and whispery, as though she is in a place with other people around, somewhere she can’t discuss personal matters. But who can she possibly be with? Her lover is at the police station, and her husband is in a car park opposite the Town Hall.

  ‘I just thought we could book ourselves a trip for the autumn or winter,’ I begin. ‘Imagine it: from the November slush straight to a sunny beach. If…’

  ‘November?’

  ‘It’s just a possibility,’ I suggest, keeping my eyes fixed on the other side of the square. ‘It could be the December slush or the January slush if you prefer.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ she says quickly. ‘I meant … it’s a long time until then.’

  ‘It’s wise to book holidays in advance. I could make a reservation this evening.’

  ‘I don’t really—’

  ‘Or, hang on,’ I interrupt her. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’

  Taina is silent.

  ‘Let’s do it together. That would make the most sense. The accommodation, everything. Neither of us will be able to complain if we both look at what’s on offer, how much it costs, what kind of location it is. Though I imagine we’ll try and get that bungalow again. Our bungalow.’

  The hot day’s faint breeze is warm and stale, the air in the car feels recycled. Taina doesn’t say anything for a long time.

  ‘Thailand?’ she asks eventually.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In November?’

  ‘For instance.’

  Again she pauses. ‘All right then.’

  ‘Excellent. Let’s book something together later this evening. We can make some drinks, take them out to the patio and book the flights and hotel, and make this a nice evening, just the two of us.’

  Taina says nothing.

  The line goes dead.

  A flock of tourists streams into the square, and a familiar piece of theatre begins to play out: an attempt at a group photograph. One holds the digital camera, the others try to stand in a row. Laughter. The camera won’t work. The one holding the camera presses its various buttons. The smiles in the row of tourists dwindle. Eventually someone leaves the row and tries to explain how the camera works. Soon everyone is gathered round the camera and the photographer. Eventually the group splits up and explores the square. The camera owner walks dejectedly behind the rest of the group.

  The flock managed to block my view of the door to the police station. I don’t think I’ve missed anything, as the van is still parked in the same place. I sit in the car and continue waiting.

  I want to know why.

  Not just why Petri has come down here, but more generally: why have they done this, why has the situation come to this? Once I know why, I’ll know what to do and how to go about it. Perhaps I haven’t lost my mind after all. All I have to do is stay alive … until I die. I mustn’t die in the middle of my investigations.

  I must not die before…

  Petri steps out into the pavement, bathed in the sun. He is followed by a man I met only a few hours ago.

  From this distance the red berry on Mikko Tikkanen’s strawberry-festival T-shirt looks like a pair of enormous lips right in the middle of his chest. The men come to a halt by the van. They speak for a
moment, then shake hands. Tikkanen returns to the police station; Petri jumps into the van and starts reversing out of the parking space.

  I haven’t got much time.

  6

  Afternoon in my office: the computer pings as new emails arrive, the desk is covered in paperwork, the sound of work carries in through the open door. Everybody is here; the meeting has been scheduled in the conference room for half past two.

  The brightness pushing its way through the window reveals that almost everything visible in the room is covered in a layer of dust a thousandth of a millimetre thick. On closer inspection the dust seems to glimmer, sending millions of small, microscopic beams of stellar light all around, incessantly, as though channelling a boundless source of energy. Maybe I’m imagining it. A dying man has the right to imagine whatever he likes.

  Only now do I realise quite how important this business is to me. It is my creation, as they say. I write a short, quick list of the matters I want to discuss, that I must discuss.

  The minutes pass. If I think about our upcoming meeting, they pass more slowly. If I think about death, they flash by in seconds.

  Nobody comes into my office. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about that. I’ve already told Olli that my wife is having an affair. I have strictly forbidden Raimo from buying biodegradable punnets, and I’m beginning to guess he might have half promised the supplier he was going to make a sale. I have frightened Petri, the man screwing my wife, with the offer of friendship. I’ve recruited Sanni to spy for me. I’ve perplexed my unfaithful wife on several occasions – notably with talk of Samurai swords and by suggesting we revisit the location of our honeymoon. Everybody wants to keep their distance from a man in whose company you never know quite what to expect.

  Suvi, our part-time office assistant, flits along the corridor. She’s the only member of our staff with whom I haven’t recently had a bizarre conversation, whom I haven’t asked to do anything illegal or whom I haven’t followed in my car.