The Man Who Died

by Antti Tuomainen

  ‘Hello,’ he says. ‘Printer. Playing up. Good afternoon. How can I help?’

  I unfold the booking confirmation and turn it to face the man. He looks at the form, first one page then the other, then replaces them meticulously one upon the other and returns them to me across the counter.

  He is about my age and my height, and as we look at each other our eyes are at almost exactly the same level. His brow shows the deep furrows of a stressed man, and there’s a pained look in his grey eyes. The top button of his pink shirt is done up, and the shirt is so tight that it seems only a matter of time until one of them gives way: the shirt or the man. The name tag pinned to his shirt sits firmly above one of his pectoral muscles; I wouldn’t be surprised if the safety pin was travelling beneath the top layer of skin. Ilari certainly doesn’t look the slapdash type.

  ‘The booking appears to be in order,’ he says warily.

  ‘I have no reason to believe otherwise,’ I say.

  The printer starts to whirr and creak and rattle. Ilari casts his eyes down somewhere behind the counter. His expression betrays a sense of despair; either that or barely checked rage. I can hear papers belching out of the machine and rustling onto the floor.

  ‘It won’t stop. It just won’t stop.’

  ‘Printers are like that,’ I say. ‘It’s in their nature. They print when you don’t need anything. And when you really need something printed out, the ink cartridge is empty or there’s a sheet of paper jammed inside, the printer tells you it’s lost its internet connection or that it doesn’t recognise the computer you’re trying to print from. If you ask me, the whole idea of a digital, paperless future is down to the fact that printers have driven so many people to despair and insanity. Paper is a good thing; it’s beautiful. There’s nothing wrong with paper: it feels pleasant in your hand and it’s the best way to read something. The only problem is getting those little black marks onto the surface of the paper in the first place. Even with all the modern technology at our disposal it’s all but impossible. I suspect – no, I’m absolutely convinced – that the printer companies and the antidepressant manufacturers of this world are in cahoots.’

  ‘All morning,’ says Ilari, now almost with tears in his eyes. ‘It just won’t…’

  ‘I know,’ I say, and we share a brief moment of silence. We look each other in the eye.

  When I’m sure I’ve gained another friend, I return to the reason for my visit.

  ‘I’d just like to check a few details of my booking.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Ilari as he wipes the corner of his eye.

  ‘The confirmation only shows our company name, but it doesn’t give the names of the guests or the person who made the booking.’

  ‘The reservation was made in person, right here. I remember it well.’

  ‘I’m the CEO of our company.’ I open my wallet and give the man my card. ‘I still have to confirm the booking.’

  Ilari taps at his keyboard, his eyes still moist. The printer is still spilling out sheets of paper, but now Ilari has shared his burden, the printer no longer controls him.

  ‘The names of the guests are in our system, though they’re not on the booking confirmation.’

  I lean on the counter, stretch out my neck slightly. White block lettering on a blue background.

  NORIYUKI KAKUTAMA, MR

  KUSUO YUHARA, MR

  DAISUKE OKIMASA, MR

  MORIAKI TAKETOMO, MR

  SHIGEYUKI TSUKEHARA, MR

  AKIHIRO HASHIMOTO, MR

  Only the penultimate name is unfamiliar. The others I know very well, personally and otherwise.

  ‘And the booking is for two nights?’

  ‘Four,’ says Ilari.

  I do some quick arithmetic. Arrival on Friday, departure on Tuesday.

  ‘Why does it only say two nights on the confirmation slip?’

  ‘Because that one was made first. This one was made later; it amends the first one.’

  ‘And that booking was made here too?’

  ‘I remember that one too,’ he says. ‘Quite vividly. The situation has changed significantly, apparently – for the better. Those were the very words, with the same emphasis. And with a smile too. A beautiful smile.’

  Ilari smiles. His eyes are still glistening with tears. The overall impression he gives is of a man slightly off kilter.

  ‘Now, I’m going to do something quite unusual and unofficial,’ I say. ‘But you and I have an understanding…’

  I take a photograph from my wallet and show it to Ilari. ‘Did this person make the booking?’

  Again Ilari smiles. A tear rolls down his tense cheek. He nods.

  ‘Said she’d use her own mushrooms too.’

  12

  There’s a quiet lull in the daily cycle of life on the market square: the morning rush has quietened down and there’s plenty of time before the evening customers start to appear. The sun is unrelenting, white and large. Its light almost stings the skin. The thermometer on the supermarket wall shows 28°C in the shade.

  I’m sitting at one of the coffee stalls, at the furthest table. At a table on the other side of the cordoned seating area sit two old men in baseball caps – one bright red, the other a faded blue – chatting in a thick Hamina accent.

  I haven’t picked up the local dialect. It feels more complicated and slower in my mouth than normal spoken Finnish. Which raises a few questions. Isn’t the point of slang or dialect to make communication faster and less complicated? I don’t know why I suddenly think of such things. Maybe because thinking of anything else inevitably makes me agitated – or worse, which for the moment I’m trying to rein in.

  The coffee tastes off, like trying to drink a glass of tepid juice while in the sauna. The sugar crust on the doughnut gleams as though the pastry is sweating.

  I’ve been murdered. The Japanese are arriving tomorrow. Taina has reserved their hotel rooms herself. In all probability she has also taken care of their invitations, and there’s no doubt whatsoever that she will be hosting them all weekend. I’m taken aback as I ponder the fact that hurts the most, that touches the rawest, most sensitive nerve of all.

  Nobody has consulted me. I have been overlooked, completely sidelined.

  So what if someone poisons my food, tries to impale me with a Samurai sword or dips his wick in my wife? This is something far more serious; moreover, this is personal. Of course, I realise this is the same vanity that makes me pull my stomach in in the company of women. You’d think a dying man would have other things to worry about. My imperfections will die along with me, but until then I can revel in them as before. Until my dying breath, as the saying goes.

  Only through an act of concerted will power do I finally manage to look at the broader picture. There must be a reason for the imminent arrival of the Japanese. The obvious reason is the mushrooms. Is there another reason too?

  I might imagine that this other reason lies in all the insinuations and half-sentences here and there, the content of which boils down to the idea that I’m not dynamic, curious, modern or bold enough. I’ve heard this both directly and indirectly from almost everyone I’ve bumped into recently. For a moment I wonder as to the timing of the visit, as to why the Japanese are arriving right now. Then it hits me.

  I’m alive.

  By someone else’s calculations, I was supposed to be dead by now.

  In thinking like this – by imagining I’d died, say, last week – I see the situation in a new light. I have already died and the business has been transferred into my wife’s name. The Japanese arrive. Taina negotiates new contracts, of course. Still, a group of six businessmen would hardly travel all the way from Tokyo to Hamina just to talk about the minutiae of a contract. They’re coming here because they expect to see something new.

  In light of this I go through all the conversations I’ve had in recent days: what people want and what they are planning. What new concept can they have to offer – to the Japanese of all people? I ca
n’t think of anything particularly revolutionary. There are small things here and there, such as Raimo’s biodegradable punnets or Petri’s van, but nothing cataclysmic. But does it have to be something big at all?

  The business and a young lover. Isn’t that actually quite a lot already?

  Twenty-thousand punnets made of recycled plastic in colours of your own choosing?

  A van with a decent sound system?

  No.

  No.

  No.

  These aren’t the sort of things that Noriyuki Kakutama or Kusuo Yuhara would travel here to see or hear, to experience or … to taste.

  I glance down at my doughnut. It seems like it’s laughing at me. As though it has just whispered a secret in my ear and is enjoying the fact that I’ve finally cottoned on. I laugh out loud and look around me. The two old men look back.

  ‘Doughnut’s got a wicked sense of humour,’ I say and smile at them.

  The men hesitate, then give me a friendly nod and return to their conversation. One of them peers over at me again, as if to make sure I’m not dangerous. I take a bite of my doughnut. It is hot and crisp, straight from the oven.

  Then I see Raimo.

  I find it very difficult to understand Raimo’s dress sense. I don’t mean his style but the number of layers, the long sleeves, the thick fabrics. In the direct sunshine the temperature must be close to forty degrees, but Raimo is dressed the same way he would in November. My short-sleeved shirt is wet with sweat, both on the back and under the arms, and beneath the booking reservation from the Seurahuone Hotel, which I’ve folded and put in my breast pocket, the fabric is glued to my chest. Raimo is quite a sight in his suit jacket, his dark trousers and moustache. He walks towards me briskly, the flaps of his jacket fluttering at his sides like an ice-hockey coach who has escaped from the stands. In the open square there’s no opportunity for him to slam doors or test the durability of the hinges, but on a general level his movements uphold the same old principles. If the cobbled stones of the market square could speak, they would surely wince with his every step.

  ‘I spoke to Suvi,’ Raimo begins. ‘She told me you were heading into town. I somehow guessed you’d be here having a doughnut, thought I’d stop off on the way … Can I join you?’

  The metallic chair creaks as he sits down, its legs screeching against the cobbles.

  ‘Would you like something?’ I ask and nod towards the coffee stall.

  ‘Those are from Reitkalli.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I only buy local produce.’

  ‘Reitkalli is three kilometres down the road.’

  ‘Eight and a half.’

  ‘Besides, it’s part of Hamina nowadays.’

  ‘I’ll never accept those boundary changes.’

  ‘Would it help if I bought it for you?’

  Raimo gives a sigh. He genuinely looks as though this is an enormous concession.

  ‘Just some Jaffa, thanks.’

  I fetch a bottle of orange lemonade from the counter. Raimo gulps down half the bottle before I’ve even sat in my chair.

  ‘Damn, it’s hot today,’ he says.

  I look at his attire and say nothing. I’m not going to get drawn into a discussion about summer clothes. Knowing Raimo, we’d end up having an argument that he would feel compelled to win. And I have to conserve my strength in any way possible. I have to choose my battles carefully. That much I have finally come to realise.

  ‘This hits the spot.’ Raimo nods, pushes out his cheeks as he belches, blows from beneath his moustache a mouthful of air that smells of old oranges and wipes the sweat from his brow.

  ‘We’ve got to talk,’ he says. ‘I was going to bring it up now, but I got a phone call on the way down here and now I’ve got to drive … It’s such a long story there’s no way I’ll be able to explain it now. I have a suggestion. Come over to our place in Pitäjänsaari this evening. Let’s say seven o’clock? We can have a sauna conference.’

  ‘A what?’

  Raimo looks at me. ‘Where else do people talk about the important stuff?’

  There’s no way I can tell him I don’t think I’m up to a sauna. I already feel like I could faint at any minute without sitting in his wood-burning sauna in ninety-degree heat and possibly thrashing myself with a birch whisk. On the other hand, this could be the opportunity for something else, something far more important.

  ‘Seven, you say?’

  ‘We can have a sauna in peace and quiet. Hanna-Mari has gone to Kotka with the kids.’

  Raimo downs what’s left in his bottle. I find myself wondering how much of his dehydration is caused by that jacket. He must sweat a bucketful in this weather. He stands up.

  ‘See you in the steam,’ he says.

  Raimo marches back to his car, managing not to trample on anyone. I watch as he reverses out of his parking space and turns. I wipe the corner of my mouth and notice that the two old men have disappeared. I walk off back to my own car, which is still parked outside the Seurahuone Hotel. I arrive at the busy southeastern corner of the square.

  The bustle of people is primarily down near the Alko off-licence. In the summer months Finland drinks with serious conviction. On a hot July day, the automatic doors open and close as much as they do throughout the whole of January.

  At the pedestrian crossing I follow the rules of the road to the letter: look first left, then right, then left again. On the second look to the left my heart starts to race and my legs feel weak. I catch a glimpse of Sami, and I realise instantly that he’s moving in the same direction as me – and at the same pace.

  There’s no mistaking Sami’s identity. The man is quite literally a whiter shade of pale: his skin is unnaturally pasty, an effect heightened all the more by the black sheen of his long, straggly hair. He’s wearing a pair of white trainers, black drainpipe jeans and a white T-shirt. He could be mistaken for a British rock star of yesteryear, but I imagine that’s where the similarities end. I recall what Sanni said about her former boyfriend: Like every time he tried to hit the ball he hit himself round the head instead.

  I still haven’t forgotten my encounter with his sword-wielding business partner. I turn at the corner and head towards the Town Hall. A moment later Sami appears behind me. Thankfully he’s moving more cautiously than before and seems to be keeping his distance, and at least for the moment his body language isn’t threatening. But he’s following me, make no mistake. I count the number of streets and blocks, and calculate the distance to my car. I grip the keys in my hand and wonder whether I could make it if I started running, but I know the answer. I’m already walking as quickly as my legs and breathing will allow.

  Sami catches up with me. In my defence this wasn’t a foregone conclusion, as I don’t seem to be the only one suffering from some form of physiological impediment. Sami is limping on his right leg. I do my best to increase my speed. My shirt is soaked through, and I have to gasp for breath. Moving in this heat is hard work. I glance over my shoulder.

  Sami is so close that I can see his expression. It’s more anguished than bloodthirsty. I turn at the final corner. The car’s lights flicker to life in front of me.

  Sami is right on my heels, his white face gleaming. It seems the sweltering heat is as excruciating for him as it is for me. I reach my car; it is parked right in front of the restaurant at the Seurahuone Hotel.

  People are sitting out on the terrace drinking beer, taking it easy; some are in the shade, some in the sunshine.

  For them it’s summer; they are not dying.

  I open the door and manage to get inside. Two cars have boxed me into the space in the time I’ve been parked there – first on my investigative mission to the Seurahuone Hotel, then thinking things through over my doughnut on the square.

  Sami raps on the window, crouches down and peers inside. I can’t move anywhere, at least not very quickly. His face is pallid and agonised. It strikes me that above all his expression is one of uncertainty. I look once more
in the mirror.

  The hub of a Subaru is almost right up against my back seat. The back of the red van parked in front is touching my front bumper. In the three and a half years I’ve lived in Hamina, I can’t remember once being sandwiched in like this. Trying to steer myself out of this will take all afternoon. I give in. I press the keys into the ignition and the car roars to life. I don’t turn on the motor. I roll down the window and whisper a quiet prayer.

  Sami’s eyes follow the window as it scrolls down. They rest momentarily on the edge of the door, the space where the window has disappeared. Then Sami raises his head, licks his lips. His eyes are blue, the left one is lazy and seems to be staring at the terrace behind me.

  ‘I’m looking for Tomi,’ he says.

  His voice is thin and trembling, either from exertion or general rage. I hope it’s the former.

  ‘He’s not here,’ I reply. ‘As you can see.’

  Sami’s eyes scan the interior of the car. I don’t know whether he thinks I might actually be hiding his violent bodybuilder friend in the back of my Škoda. He places a hand on the doorframe. The mere fact that his fingers are on the inside of the car feels unpleasant, like a territorial violation.

  ‘He said he was going to pay you a visit.’

  ‘Me? Why would he do that?’

  ‘It was something you said when we were at your office, and something to do with the sword.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  Sami appears not to hear my question. He continues to lean on my car door, his white arms are scrawny but sinewy, as I’ve noticed before. I quickly run through everything that’s happened with Tomi. All that, just because I offended him? Then I realise that the sword must have been the straw that broke the camel’s back. The sword I touched at their premises. The sword that was meant to cleave me in half. I hope Tomi is happy now: nobody will ever touch his sword again. It is his and his alone.