The Man Who Died

by Antti Tuomainen

But your wife says you are not.

  She is no longer my wife.

  Kakutama looks at me, then glances towards the group wandering ahead, then at me again. I get the impression Kakutama has just put two and two together, and regardless of the language the result is the same. I can see in his eyes that he has just looked both into the past and the future, and returned to this moment with fresh understanding.

  Why are you here? I ask, using my hands to make sure he knows that I mean this place, this forest.

  Kakutama does not answer straight away. He is a businessman with decades of experience. He and I have done business together for several years. He has always been able to trust me. My pricing is fair and my product always of the highest quality. I never try to cut corners and I always keep my promises. Kakutama reaches a decision.

  New matsutake, he says.

  At first I don’t understand what he says, though he only uses two words and I am familiar with both of them: New matsutake.

  The moment of realisation is the same as if a doll’s house that has been standing with its back to me, is suddenly turned round so that I can see all its rooms and furniture and … Taina’s actions seem suddenly more understandable, though not more acceptable. A new genus. Of course. Sometimes answers are simple after all.

  Thank you, I say. Then I compose myself in order to express my thoughts and objectives as simply and as concisely as possible.

  I am in the mushroom business, I begin. I will make you an offer. This evening.

  Again Kakutama looks over at the rest of the group.

  You make me an offer, he says. I must go.

  Kakutama walks off. He has no choice. The group has just disappeared into the forest on the other side of the clearing.

  18

  The bathroom is at once familiar and in some inexplicable way strange. My eyes flit from the door to the window, from the window to the showers.

  The overall look is a combination of light blue and natural white. It’s Taina’s design. All the little knickknacks belong to her too: the colourful bottles, jars, tubs and boxes that fill the shelf space all belong to my ex-wife-to-be, who is now wandering through the woods with the Japanese. If she does spare a thought for me, she will imagine me either in a country across the sea or on another plane of existence altogether. Yet here I am.

  I stand here naked and shave, probably for the last time in front of this mirror. Given the circumstances I feel remarkably well. I think it even looks as though I’ve lost a bit of weight. I look at myself sideways in the mirror. My stomach is still chubby and hangs miserably low over my hips, but perhaps now it is just a fraction smaller. My posture is better, my shoulders have returned to their correct height. I flex my arm, in the hope I might actually see evidence of some muscle in my biceps. I turn to face the mirror, fill my lungs with air and exhale slowly. Perhaps Sanni is right, I think.

  I rinse away the remnants of the shaving foam under the hot shower. After my little adventure in the woods, this feels like a prize. I estimate I have about an hour, even if Taina decides to come straight home as soon as the Japanese are safely deposited back at the hotel. In all probability they are still examining a cluster of mushrooms deep in the forest, and Taina won’t be home before my wet footsteps have dried.

  A familiar radio mast helped me find my bearings in the forest. I realised where we were, where I’d parked the car, and approximately where the new genus of matsutake was growing. We’ll find it when the time comes.

  In the bedroom I take a bottle of aftershave from the bedside table. It is unopened and still in its packaging. I tear off the plastic wrapping and spray some beneath my chin and across my neck. I have two suits: one for work and one for special occasions. I take out the latter, put on a white shirt and a blue-and-green-striped tie. I get dressed and pack a bag with a few changes of clothes.

  I don’t imagine I’ll need more than this. Not because I’m about to die – I am utterly determined to survive at least until the first harvest – but because by the time Kakutama and his colleagues return to Japan, Taina will know I am still alive and that I have been in town all along. By then we will have sorted out our differences, one way or another.

  I look and smell better than I have done in years, though of course that’s only my subjective opinion. I turn away from the mirror and look out of the window into the garden. The sky is still grey and leaden, but the rain has stopped for the moment. I wipe the bathroom clean, tidy up after myself and make sure there’s nothing too obvious to suggest I’ve been here. I almost whistle as I walk down the stairs to the ground floor.

  I’m singing by the time I get downstairs – a song by one of my favourite childhood bands; the heavier side of rock and roll. I don’t know all the words, but it doesn’t matter. I hear the guitar, pick up during the chorus and dance a few steps. I spin around once, twice. It makes me feel dizzy, but when I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror I know it’s worth it. I’m in my stride, I’m an international gentleman – stylish, self-assured, and very definitely alive. I wonder where I have been all these years.

  I grab my bag, throw it over my shoulder and give the place one last check: everything is as it was when I arrived. I open the front door, say something along the lines of ‘You betcha, baby’, and see Tikkanen standing beside the Lexus.

  ‘Out with the old,’ he says. ‘And in with the new?’

  I walk down the steps, pace towards him in my suit and open the car doors with a click of the key. I throw the bag onto the passenger seat and catch the scent of my own aftershave in the suburban air of our remote coastal town.

  My initial enchantment has evaporated. It has disappeared with the wind whipping in from the sea and is finally dispelled by the police badge dangling round Tikkanen’s neck. He nods at the Lexus.

  ‘Going for an edgier, sportier look?’

  As if he, a policeman, couldn’t find out who the car belongs to. I’m convinced he already knows.

  ‘I’m borrowing it,’ I explain.

  ‘What happened to your own car?’

  ‘There’s a problem with it,’ I say, and it’s true enough. The problem is that my wife would have recognised it.

  ‘That’s a sharp suit,’ he says and sounds genuine. I’m beginning to see that this is Tikkanen’s greatest asset in his job: he really is everybody’s friend. ‘You’re not heading out of town, I hope?’

  ‘Of course not. Are you following me?’

  Tikkanen looks at me. ‘I’m beginning to wonder whether it might be a good idea. Things seems to happen to you.’

  I wait. I don’t intend – in fact I can’t risk – giving Tikkanen any more information than necessary. However, I get the impression he doesn’t need it.

  ‘We’ve already spoken about the disappearance of Tomi Alatalo,’ he says, his eyes fixed on me. ‘And also about his discovery. We’ve spoken about how his friends seem to think you are responsible for his disappearance. Interesting, I thought at the time, but I also thought this might just be a case of pure coincidence. That’s life, isn’t it? Then I receive a message telling me that one Sami Nevalainen is also missing. And before he went missing, he said he was going to meet you. Now I can’t get hold of Nevalainen, you are dressed for the Milan Fashion Week and driving around in an expensive new car. What’s more, you’ve just thrown a bag on the passenger seat that I guess contains a few days’ worth of clean clothes. What do you think I should make of all this?’

  I think about what Tikkanen has just said.

  ‘A message?’ I ask. ‘What kind of message, and who sent it?’

  ‘You’ll appreciate I can’t divulge that information.’

  ‘I see. That means Asko,’ I say and continue before Tikkanen has a chance to answer. ‘Or worse still, you’ve received an anonymous tip-off.’

  Tikkanen folds his arms across his chest. ‘Are you saying you think such a claim is baseless?’

  I don’t like lies. I don’t want to lie.

  ‘It’s
not baseless in the sense that, as I understand it, both Tomi Alatalo and Sami Nevalainen have a certain antipathy towards me. And if I’ve understood correctly, that antipathy is fairly strong. But at the same time, I have no idea why they feel such antipathy. Not in the slightest. As far as I can tell, I’ve never done anything to upset them. As you know, I didn’t even steal the sword that caused so much fuss and that seemed to start all this.’

  ‘And we’re back to the sword.’

  ‘I didn’t steal it.’

  ‘Of course you didn’t,’ says Tikkanen.

  The day around us is dark, the clouds like a thick, concrete mass; the rain will soon start sheeting down around us again like a wall of water. Tikkanen’s last words are still hanging in the air, their meaning clear to both of us. He wants me to understand that he knows more than he’s just said, more than his words suggest.

  ‘So, where to?’ he asks and nods directly at my tie.

  ‘Business meeting,’ I say.

  ‘Here in Hamina?’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere. The bag just has some more relaxed clothes – jeans, a T-shirt, that sort of thing.’

  Tikkanen pauses for a moment. ‘Important meeting?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘And all the while your competitors keep disappearing,’ he says and scratches his cheek. His beard forms a perfect square round his mouth; trimming it must be a dermatologically damaging procedure all of its own. ‘That’s quite a coincidence.’

  I look him in the eyes. ‘I didn’t ask for any of this,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not sure we need to ask for anything in this life,’ Tikkanen replies, and once again his voice is that of a friend: genuine, caring, sincere. ‘Sometimes I think a lot of things happen without our asking for them.’

  I can feel droplets of rain on my cheeks and on the top of my head. I raise my hand as if to demonstrate that I’m following the weather and that I’ve noticed the rain.

  ‘Can I go?’ I ask.

  ‘Any time you like.’

  I hear what he says, but I don’t move immediately. Eventually I open the car door. ‘Are you going to follow me?’

  ‘Have you told me everything you know?’

  We look at one another. I say nothing. I sit in the car, start the engine. Tikkanen remains standing beside his own car despite the onset of rain. I am careful not to put my foot down too much as I steer out of my former driveway.

  The town is empty, the rain has laid a shimmering rug right across the square. There are no stalls in sight, only two bread vans seem to be open for business. Their hatches are propped open, and in the grey landscape the light glowing from inside them is like a roaring, enticing hearth. I can almost smell the fresh rye bread, almost feel the serrated breadknife in my hand as it cuts through the hardened crust into the soft, thick bread, almost taste and sense the dense, salty-sweet, buttered dough in my mouth.

  Yet I know I can’t eat rye bread.

  I don’t know whether it’s because of my death and its assorted side effects, or my surprise encounter with Tikkanen and its psychosomatic repercussions, or perhaps a combination of the two, but my stomach is full of tiny, burning needles, while my body as a whole feels the chill.

  I’m looking behind me as much as in front. Nobody seems to be following me. Perhaps I’ve managed to bury all takers except for Tikkanen, and even his Polo is nowhere in sight.

  As it seems I’m getting a headache in addition to my other complaints, I stop first at the pharmacy then the kiosk, and tank up: I drink some water and some Coca-Cola, swallow a paracetamol, followed by a mouthful of ice cream and chocolate. There are many advantages to this kind of diet: swallowing is easy, there’s very little to chew, everything melts in my mouth, my headache abates and my general wellbeing perks up in an instant. In my case there really aren’t any drawbacks to speak of: I probably won’t have time to put on weight, my teeth won’t decay, diabetes is the least of my worries, and the effects of my yo-yoing blood-sugar levels will be insignificant given how my body is being ravaged at the moment. And so I gobble up the chocolate bar as though it were bread, scoop ice cream into my mouth like porridge and wash it all down with Coke.

  Then I wait.

  It’s not easy. At the moment it’s the most difficult thing of all. It feels as though the minutes are being wrenched from me one at a time. Every second is a ticking, microscopic step towards the cliff edge. I don’t like my thoughts and flick the radio on instead. I listen for a moment to a couple of presenters sparring with one another and switch it off again.

  The minibus arrives, Petri behind the wheel. The group has spent all afternoon in the forest. Nobody minds the rain anymore; Petri doesn’t leap out of the bus, let alone try to hold an umbrella above anyone. Now he remains sitting in the driver’s seat while the others file out. Taina on the other hand is on the move: she guides the men from the bus and into the hotel, as though there was a risk her guests might get lost on the six-metre journey.

  Once the men are all inside, Taina opens the passenger door and says something to Petri. He gets out of the minibus and walks round to the back. He carries a series of boxes – one, two, three – from the boot round to the back of the hotel, where the staff take deliveries. I can guess, or rather I know, what is in the boxes: the new genus. Their own mushrooms for dinner, as Ilari, the frustrated receptionist, told me.

  I look at my watch. Taina has plenty of time to prepare whatever it is she is planning to prepare. She will take care of the tasting and charm the guests. That’s fine.

  The waiting doesn’t feel excruciating any longer.

  It’ll soon be seven o’clock.

  Dinner is served.

  19

  The dining room is beautifully lit: the electric lights are dim and warm, the candles carefully and evenly placed throughout the room. The dishes sparkle, the tablecloths dazzle white, the overall presentation is harmonious, complete with bunches of natural flowers. The restaurant seems to be closed to others. The guests have gathered near the bar at the far end of the room and are standing, holding glasses of bubbly. At a glance I can see that the champagne isn’t cheap.

  The entire Japanese delegation is here, all of them in smart, dark suits: the five men that I know and the one that I have never met. Taina, in a ball gown open at the back, is welcoming them with a speech. Petri is standing to the right of the group, in the darkest part of the room. He is wearing a suit and tie, and his dejected body language seems to suggest that he has chosen this far corner of the room deliberately.

  Taina is standing facing the group, her back to me. She raises the glass in her hand. The champagne fizzes, her glass reflects the flickering of the candles, Taina’s voice is excited and her words effusive. She is speaking in English, more with passion than with a full grasp of the grammar. She explains the evening’s menu and speaks of a new age, of how exquisite tastes can bring people together.

  Judging by the Japanese men’s expressions, I guess that Kakutama has mentioned our meeting at least to Yuhara, the quality control officer. The two men are standing slightly aside from the others. They pay as much attention to my arrival as they would if I were simply returning from the gents. The others seem more taken aback. The logistics officer, Taketomo, the youngest of the group, whispers something to Okimasa, the marketing director with the bad skin, who is standing next to him. Hashimoto, the slightly hunched retail manager, puts down his champagne flute and looks anxiously around as though he is preparing for something, perhaps looking for the emergency exit. Tsukehara, the unknown man who, like Kakutama, is slightly greying, is the only one who smiles. Still, his smile isn’t entirely friendly; there’s something cool about it, with more than a touch of Schadenfreude. Petri has spotted me too and turns to look at the windows, behind which there is nothing but rain and an intensifying darkness.

  Taina is in full flow and hasn’t heard my footsteps. Her back looks tanned: in the soft lighting there’s an almost copper sheen to her skin and her hai
r, which she has fastened in a bun. I stop an arm’s length behind her.

  Taina says a few more words before she notices the guests’ eyes, all of which are focussed slightly behind her. You feel something like that in your skin before you really know what’s happening. Taina pauses for a second or two before she glances over her shoulder and shrieks.

  Though Taina’s eyes are normally large, they seem to have grown all the more: she looks like an owl that has just been shot. Her mouth flies open, wine and spittle catching at the corner of her lips. The glass remains in her hand, but champagne sloshes over the floor and her black high heels.

  ‘Good evening, everyone. And apologies for being late,’ I say in my best English. ‘Darling, everything is all right. My fever has died down.’

  Taina doesn’t seem to understand a word I say – at least that’s what it looks like. Even a first-grader would understand my simple, builder’s English, but the situation seems too utterly baffling. I take a step to the side, grab a glass of champagne from the counter and look out at the guests.

  ‘I hope you all had a nice day in the woods,’ I say and raise my glass.

  After a moment’s hesitation, the glasses begin to rise. Kakutama’s is the first glass to reach clinking height.

  ‘Soon we will all have a delicious meal,’ I say and stand right next to Taina, so I am side by side with her, wrapping my arm around her waist. ‘I am sure my wife has prepared a surprise for us. A great surprise.’

  I give extra weight to the final sentence and reinforce it with my body language, all the while keeping my hand on Taina’s waist.

  Taina’s eyes move from Petri – who has retreated into almost complete darkness in the corner of the room – to the guests, and finally to me. But she only gives me a glance. She has regained her composure, her mouth is closed, her lips attempting a half-smile. The hand holding her glass has steadied itself. Her body feels warm and robust against my own. I’ve almost forgotten what my own wife feels like.