The Man Who Died

by Antti Tuomainen

  ‘Sanni,’ I say once I truly fathom my current situation. ‘I really need to rest.’

  ‘You mean you need to sleep?’

  Sanni jumps up from the sofa before I have the chance to ask what else the word rest might mean. I hear a cupboard door opening and closing, then Sanni’s steps as she returns to the living room and places a pile of bed linen on the table. I look at the sofa. It’s too short. It’s soft and doubtless very comfortable, but it’s far too short. At the same time I compare it to the place I might have been resting if I wasn’t so lucky in the sauna. The sofa looks good. I gather my strength and stand up.

  ‘Will you be all right with these sheets?’

  ‘I’m sure I’ll cope.’

  We look at each other. Sanni’s eyes are blue-green and beguilingly gleaming in the dim of the room, the kind of eyes that I find myself instinctively latching onto and only notice I’m doing it once my eyes are there. At first I think I haven’t been like this with anyone but Taina for years; but then I ask myself, Like what exactly? I’m only going to sleep, right? Sanni makes me say and do and think things that confuse me. And she probably knows it.

  ‘You know where the bathroom is, and the kitchen. If you need anything.’

  ‘Thank you, Sanni. Good night.’

  ‘Good night.’

  And again we find ourselves looking at one another and again a few, silent seconds pass between us.

  Then I ask her the question that’s been plaguing me all evening.

  ‘How do I know you don’t have these exact same conversations with Asko?’

  ‘I do,’ she says. ‘But for the time being you pay me better.’

  Exhausted or not, I’m a bit startled. I see a smile on Sanni’s face.

  ‘I’m teasing you, Jaakko,’ she says and turns away. And when she has almost disappeared from view, I hear her in the doorway. ‘And I see a lot of potential in you too.’

  16

  PEOPLE I KNOW:

  – NORIYUKI KAKUTAMA

  – KUSUO YUHARA

  – DAISUKE OKIMASA

  – MORIAKI TAKETOMO

  – AKIHIRO HASHIMOTO

  PEOPLE I DON’T KNOW:

  – SHIGEYUKI TSUKEHARA

  The morning light makes the trees, the lawn and the bushes shimmer green, it shades and colours every leaf, every stem and petal individually and in its own unique tone. From right to left, from east to west, second by second, minute by minute, the garden flickers into flame as the morning sunlight touches the flowers, the fire spreading until the whole garden glows, flares and rises into the heights as though engulfed in flames.

  I leave the window, return to the kitchen table and stare at my list.

  I’ve woken early, as the sun was rising. It doesn’t feel bad at all. I’m not tired. My mind seems oddly light. I’m happy that I’m not dead. I don’t know what happiness is, but I imagine it must be intrinsically linked to being alive. I take a sip of tea. I’m not in the habit of drinking tea, but then again neither am I in the habit of being murdered or waking up on Sanni’s sofa.

  I feel my stomach and ribs, look at my tongue and throat in the mirror. My insides aren’t exactly painful, and I don’t feel nauseous, but I think I notice a small change, a certain slowness, like driving a car that still works but that is losing horse power little by little, slowly but surely. After the names, I write down their respective jobs.

  – Kakutama, director.

  – Yuhara, quality control.

  – Okimasa, marketing.

  – Taketomo, logistics, preserving, storage.

  – Hashimoto, retail.

  – Tsukehara … No idea.

  As I search for information on Tsukehara I notice that the battery on my phone is down to two per cent. I need to recharge; I need my phone. There’s a charger next to the toaster but it’s a different model and doesn’t fit my phone.

  The wall clock says it’s thirteen minutes past six.

  If I leave now I’ll be at the office in a few minutes, there won’t be anyone else there at this time and I can pick up the spare charger before the shops open at nine. I’d be well advised to avoid the centre of town. Moving around in public, there’s always the danger I’ll bump into somebody I don’t want to see right now, as I’m officially at a spa in Estonia.

  I creep silently into the hallway and look at the selection of shoes. Sanni’s feet are like those of a small animal: her shoes are so narrow and short that as far as I can see the only things that would fit into them are small paws. I’m a large-footed man. I go through the shoe rack, the hallway shelves. Eventually, in the closet by the front door, I find a pair of men’s rubber boots, black, size forty-eight. Next to the other shoes on display they look like items of furniture. I estimate they’ve been used once at most. The stains are distinct because the boots are otherwise so pristine and black. I don’t quite know what to think. I pull on the boots; they come up to my knees. I examine myself in the mirror: long, shiny boots, a tighter than tight pair of jogging bottoms and a flimsy T-shirt with an open collar. I’d rather not contemplate what I look like.

  At the front door I realise something else too. I can’t drive my own car, as I mustn’t be seen in it. The keys to Sanni’s car are on the hall table. I slip off the boots, return to the kitchen and leave a note. I wish her good morning and explain I’ll have to borrow her car. I return to the hall and leave.

  Sanni’s car smells better than mine. Having said that, it’s perfectly possible that my memory is still tainted by the deathly reek of yesterday’s journey. I take the roundabout route to Teollisuuskatu, turn right just before the bridge at the end of Mannerheimintie, and in a matter of minutes I’m outside our offices. There are no other cars in sight.

  The warehouse is quiet and empty. This morning it feels like a church, and I know why: because it’s my church. I’m just about to head off towards my office when I see that an orange light is on above the door of one of the drying machines. I can’t hear the hum of the machinery, so the drying process must be in its final phase, probably with only a few minutes left. I am about to step into the drying area, but on my way I catch a glance of the wall clock. I turn on my heels; I’ll have to be quick.

  The charger is on the shelf. I wrap the cable round the plug and am about to leave when I hear the sound of footsteps. There’s something familiar about them, their gentle, breezy gait. I relax. I can explain this. I walk towards the steps, appear from the side and give a cheery hello.

  Olli was in full stride across the warehouse, like a man on a mission, but now he stops and turns. The light shines in through the windows behind him. He says nothing. Whenever he manages to remain quiet for a moment the uncanny resemblance to George Clooney becomes all the more pronounced. The spell is broken as soon as he opens his mouth. I begin to understand his numerous divorces: I can see the beginnings of relationships, the middles and the ends: grand dreams, perfect misunderstandings, eventual shipwrecks.

  ‘Morning,’ I begin.

  ‘Is something wrong?’ Olli asks me.

  ‘No,’ I reply instinctively. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘You’re here early.’ There is an implicit question in Olli’s statement. I realise that.

  ‘I had to pick this up,’ I say and raise my hand. I don’t know whether Olli can see what I’m holding, but perhaps that’s not so important. There are far more pressing matters at hand… ‘Olli, you and I need to have a little talk.’

  Olli says nothing.

  ‘All right,’ I say eventually, once the silence has run to more than just a few seconds. We are standing about four metres away from each other, almost in the centre of the warehouse. ‘I shouldn’t be here at all.’

  Silence.

  ‘Taina thinks I’m in Tallinn. I must ask you not to tell anyone you saw me here this morning. Not today, not ever.’

  Olli visibly relaxes; a heavy burden lifts from his body. He gives a few nods. ‘Women,’ he scoffs.

  ‘No—’ I begin but cut
myself short as I realise that this is my chance, this is the better option. Keep this. ‘Tell me about it. Women.’

  ‘Taina threw you out.’

  It’s not a question. Olli is the second person to assume that Taina has thrown me out. Why couldn’t I be the one that threw her out?

  ‘Planning on shacking up with her young lover boy, is she?’ he asks without a pause.

  ‘Hard to say,’ I begin, and I’m about to correct his first misunderstanding when Olli provides a third.

  ‘Then you’ll have nothing to worry about in Tallinn,’ he says. ‘That’s the way it goes. While the cat’s away, the mice will play, eh? I could give you a few addresses if you like.’

  ‘Thanks, but actually…’ I stammer before realising that if I just agree with everything Olli has said I can both stall the conversation and steer it in the direction of my choice. ‘A few addresses might do me a world of good.’

  ‘What goes around comes around, mate,’ he says. ‘And vice versa. Will Taina be continuing at the firm?’

  The question genuinely catches me off-guard.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If your bird’s banging the delivery boy, you can’t very well keep her on at the company.’

  I look at Olli.

  ‘The delivery boy?’

  Olli clasps his hands together, rubs the thumb of his right hand between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. At first he looks me in the eyes, then looks to the side, and finally lowers his gaze altogether.

  ‘Since you told me about the situation, I’ve been keeping my eyes open,’ he says.

  ‘Keeping your eyes open?’

  ‘Over there,’ says Olli with a nod towards the office. ‘Up against the filing cabinet. Petri was holding her up in the air … He’s a young lad, strong as a stallion, probably does it fifteen times a night…’

  ‘Olli,’ I interrupt him. ‘Did they notice that you were … keeping an eye on them?’

  Olli shakes his head. ‘All that moaning and groaning, the slapping and flapping and…’

  ‘You haven’t told anyone else about this, have you?’

  Again Olli looks me right in the eyes. He seems determined, assertive, like a man who knows what he’s doing and what he stands for.

  ‘In this matter I’m on your side one hundred per cent.’

  I make Olli swear to discretion regarding every aspect of our encounter: he hasn’t seen me, hasn’t heard from me; Taina and Petri are colleagues, nothing more, nothing less, people about whose private life Olli knows nothing whatsoever. Besides, Olli doesn’t know anything about what’s been going on here. I’m about to leave the building when Olli remembers the list he promised me.

  I let him compile it, though the clock on the wall is ticking away, the movement of its hands growing quicker and more blasé with each passing moment, the minutes becoming shorter before my very eyes. Olli is reminiscing, I can see that he’s trying to taste the memory of his experiences. He nibbles the end of his pen, taps it against his lips, drifts to a place far away. I’m worried that if I try to hurry him this will only slow down the process; worse still, it might cause tension in our newly found brotherly friendship.

  Olli finally straightens his back and surveys what he’s written. It takes several full minutes to read through the few lines of text, and it takes all my will power not to wrench the piece of paper from his hand and run out of the door. Eventually my patience is rewarded and Olli hands me the paper. As he does so, he looks me up and down.

  ‘I’d change your clothes before setting off, though.’

  Sanni mixes muesli and yoghurt in a bowl, then dribbles some honey over it straight from a large pot. Outside the wind has picked up. A rain front is approaching. The only remnants of the morning sunshine are occasional glimmers behind the thickening clouds. The weather is turning quickly now. Sanni closes the honeypot and presses the lid down with both hands.

  ‘You stole my car,’ she says. ‘And now you want me to give you free clothes.’

  ‘I borrowed your car. And I’ll pay for the clothes. As soon as I find my wallet.’

  My wallet is either buried along with Sami or in the rubbish bin at Tervasaari. I’ve made a few mistakes, I’m aware of that. But I can’t really blame myself. I’m a first-timer: I’m not accustomed to hiding bodies or destroying evidence. The situation is new and surprising. The same applies to my entire life, as I’ve now learned from bitter experience. Everything is happening for the first and last time.

  ‘I’m pulling your leg again, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘I hoped you were.’

  ‘But I have to ask: Why can’t you pick up your own clothes at home while Taina is at work?’ Sanni’s blue-green eyes are sharp and alert from the word go. ‘Wouldn’t that be easier and cheaper than buying a whole new wardrobe?’

  It’s impossible to keep anything secret in this town, I think to myself. Here even the dead are brought back to life, and there has to be a suitable explanation for everything. Sanni looks at me, I hear the movement of her dainty jaw, the crunch as her white teeth grind through the nuts, raisins, flakes and dried fruit. I look her in the eyes and tell her about Tallinn, impress on her that I am actually there though in fact I’m sitting in her kitchen, that I mustn’t be seen anywhere or by anyone. I can’t quite read Sanni’s expression, though now I can see the whole of her face. Her red hair is tied in a ponytail.

  ‘Your shirt is an L,’ she says as she prepares another spoonful of muesli. ‘Your shoe size about a forty-five. Your jeans are a thirty-eight waist and a thirty-two length. Taina must really want you out of the picture.’

  ‘Maybe get an XL, just to be on the safe side. Forty-five shoes are good, and the jeans are just right. And yes, the further away the better.’

  ‘What does it feel like?’

  ‘The new clothes?’

  ‘Being thrown out of home.’

  I shrug my shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I answer honestly. ‘I’ve been thinking about it myself. For the time being it feels like a natural development of what came before.’

  ‘You don’t look particularly devastated.’

  Sanni has finished eating and is dunking a tea infuser in her mug. I think about her words.

  ‘I’m not really.’

  The tea infuser clinks against her bowl of muesli. Sanni pushes it to one side, props her elbows on the table on both sides of the mug.

  ‘Don’t tell anybody, but the day I got divorced was one of the best days of my life.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘The best thing about it,’ Sanni continues and runs the tip of her tongue across her lips, ‘was putting him behind me. Saying that out loud feels almost criminal – the idea that putting somebody behind you means more than meeting them or the time you spent together.’

  ‘It might feel like that,’ I say, and assume that at this moment in time I am the one of us who has a better idea of what is criminal and what isn’t. ‘But I don’t think speaking out loud is the worst thing a person can do.’

  ‘I felt so free, so happy,’ she continues. ‘I wanted to throw a party.’

  ‘Right.’

  Sanni raises her eyes from her mug of tea and seems to return to the moment, to remember that she’s talking to a man who turned up at her door in nothing but his underpants, covered in mud.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘All I’m trying to say is that there’s a positive side to everything.’

  ‘I understand,’ I reply, and I mean it. ‘You’re probably right. I just haven’t had time to think of it like that. But if … if I’m not devastated, like you said, I’m certainly surprised.’

  ‘You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.’

  I frown at Sanni.

  ‘Okay, that was a cliché,’ she says. ‘And it sounds corny, but that’s the way these things go. I promise you, when you look back on this and think of Taina, you’ll be glad it didn’t come to anything more.’

  ‘A
nything more?’

  ‘How long have you two been together?’

  I tell her about our dating and our seven-year marriage. Which is now over. There. I’ve said it myself. But, of course, that’s not the whole truth. This is more about … Sanni’s phone beeps. She picks it up and looks at it.

  ‘Asko,’ she says. ‘The guest has apparently landed in Helsinki. That means he’ll be in Hamina in a few hours. Asko says he’ll text me when he needs me. You were saying…’

  ‘At least three different things. I need to borrow a car. You’ll have to keep me up to date. And I need those clothes.’

  Sanni goes clothes shopping. When she gets back we head off to her brother’s place to borrow his car. It gives me time to think about what I’ve said, to think about Taina, my marriage. It’s true to say I’m not devastated. I’ve been plenty of other things: befuddled, enraged, jealous, revengeful, disappointed, angered, even nonchalant. But these emotions have simply passed through me; I can’t seem to hold on to them anymore.

  Does this mean I never really loved Taina in the first place? Of course it doesn’t. Surely not. But the longer I think about it, the more uncertain I become. I stare out of the window. I’ve moved my car as close to the house as possible, only the back end can be seen from the road. I’d better not move around in the yard – there’s too much of a risk I’ll be seen, though Sanni’s house is at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac. I’ve noticed the way information can move through this town faster than through fibre-optic cable. And besides, Sanni’s house feels homely.

  At first it feels somehow wrong to consider it more homely than my own home, but I soon realise that this too must change. If I continue to live, I’ll move out of my house. Can I really call home the place where I saw my wife riding Petri in the back garden? I don’t think so. The truth of the matter is that before long I won’t just be dead, I’ll be homeless too. Perhaps this should shock me more than it does. The fact is it barely moves me at all.