The Man Who Died

by Antti Tuomainen

  The guests look anxious and expectant. I can understand why. Only this afternoon Taina has told them I am no longer in the mushroom business. Yet here I am. I am counting on our guests’ politeness. They won’t start asking questions right away, eager to know what is really going on. They are here to taste some mushrooms and possibly to cut a deal, and by then everything should be clear. Until that happens we can be polite to one another and see how the situation develops.

  I give a short speech in which I welcome our guests to the most beautiful, most attractive small coastal town in eastern Finland, and explain that the rumours of my leaving the business are something of an exaggeration. I give particular thanks to my wife, who works night and day, putting both body and soul into the success of our business. Finally I apologise for a small change to the seating arrangements, as I would like to sit next to her. The guests appear to appreciate this, as they do everything else I have told them. There is an explanation for everything, we nod to one another in silent agreement.

  Ilari, the man familiar from reception and one of the most valiant warriors in the battle against the world’s printers, appears from the kitchen. We are ready, he says. He addresses his words to Taina, who manages to stammer out a thank you. Ilari disappears again, and despite the language barrier the guests seem to understand what is afoot, though of course they wait for confirmation from us. All eyes turn to Taina.

  I kiss her on the cheek and whisper into her ear.

  ‘I know you’ve killed me,’ I say in Finnish and press another wet kiss against her cheek. ‘And I know why.’

  We look at the guests. They smile. My display of affection looked exactly as it was supposed to. Taina, on the other hand, looks like a woman who has just woken up from her worst nightmare only to realise that it was all true after all. I continue in English.

  ‘My wife would like to invite you all to take your places.’

  Taina, at once as stiff as a block of steel yet wholly malleable, eventually takes the seat to which I guide her, in the middle of the long table. I sit down with her on my right, Okimasa on my left and Kakutama directly in front of me. Yuhara is sitting to the right of Kakutama. To his left, in front of Taina, is our new acquaintance, Tsukehara.

  As I have taken his seat, an extra place is laid for Petri at the end of the table. Nobody is sitting opposite him. If he ever decides to raise his eyes from the tablecloth, he will see the wall ahead of him, and if he looks to the side he will see the window behind which there is nothing but the rain sparkling in the light of the streetlamp.

  Kakutama tells us about their day in the forest. It was fascinating, he says, exciting even.

  Ilari pours glasses of white wine for everyone and explains that it is the driest of the dry, crisp and sharp, and that its long, rich aftertaste is the perfect match for the earthiness of our starter. I’m happy for Ilari. He sounds like a man who is now in his element, in a territory that he can control. We all need territory like that.

  Taina hasn’t said a word. She is utterly pale. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her without some amount of redness or sun-kissed glow in her cheeks. I ask whether she would like to tell us something about the starter.

  ‘What?’ she asks in Finnish.

  I repeat my question. By this point Ilari has begun serving bowls of soup.

  ‘Soup,’ she stammers in English.

  Ilari sees that Taina is suddenly nervous and announces in beautiful British English that we are eating organic matsutake soup, whose rich taste comes not only from the rain-fresh mushrooms but from sprigs of local, organically grown rosemary and unprocessed cream of the highest natural fat content made from the milk of happy, free-range cows (which doubtless have a healthy interest in philosophy, I almost add).

  We thank Ilari, who seems deeply proud and content at being able to present the food to the guests. He disappears into the kitchen, his back as straight as a Roman column, and we begin to eat.

  The soup is more delicious and more sumptuous than anything I have ever tasted before. The taste seems to please our guests too. After only a few spoonfuls we look one another in the eye, make a series of contented noises then clink our heavy soup spoons against the edges of our dainty bowls. Everyone except Taina, that is. She is sitting next to me, motionless, though it seems to me that she is constantly trying to inch herself further to the side. Perhaps only a millimetre at a time, but it’s happening all the same, of that I’m certain.

  ‘Is this the new genus?’ I ask her in Finnish.

  Taina’s spoon stops between the bowl and her mouth, almost at chest height. At first she says nothing.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell us all about it?’ I ask, again in Finnish.

  For a moment I’m unsure whether Taina’s hand has stiffened further. It has simply stopped in mid-air and doesn’t seem to be trembling. The surface of the thick, creamy soup in the spoon is as still as the waters of a calm lake. Quiet, resting. After a moment’s pause she slowly lowers the spoon to the bowl. She remains silent; the stiffness that a moment ago was in her hand has now moved to her face.

  ‘How about I say a few words?’ I suggest.

  Taina does not reply. I don’t know whether it is something to do with the candlelight or an after-effect of the shock, but she looks almost lifeless.

  On the other side of the table Kakutama and Yuhara look across at me; both have almost finished their soup. I pick up a knife and clink it against my wineglass. Heads turn, and I stand up. I explain in English that I would like to say a few words about why we are all here today and that I will try my best to speak English, our shared language, though I warn them that I might need to explain some things in my native language, so I will use that too.

  I see a few friendly nods and begin.

  ENGLISH: Welcome, friends.

  FINNISH: My dearest wife.

  ENGLISH: Thank you for coming all the way to Hamina, and in such numbers. This is an honour that brings me great joy.

  FINNISH: You are a whore. A devious, conniving whore.

  ENGLISH: Success is about working together. We need one another.

  FINNISH: When I saw your bare buttocks slapping against Petri’s hips, I vomited.

  ENGLISH: Working together means that each partner always does their best. For us this means that whenever we have a new product to offer, we tell you about it first, straight away.

  FINNISH: And yet, as unfathomable as it is, the fact that you’re sucking the delivery boy’s cock isn’t even the worst of it.

  ENGLISH: Today you have seen – and, for the first time, tasted – the new genus, the new matsutake, which together we can turn into a great success. Judging by this soup, I have the courage to say that this is not only the taste of the most delicious mushroom in the world; this is the strong taste of success.

  (Chuckles and nods of agreement.)

  FINNISH: The worst is the deceit. And to crown it off, murdering me.

  ENGLISH: Today is a celebration of our shared joy and future success. We can bring our cooperation together, make it even more effective. I have an offer that I would like to propose.

  FINNISH: For all I care, Petri can screw you until your arse is so sore you can barely sit down. You can tie that brainless, walking penis to the end of your bed and live on nothing but cock if you want. It happens, and we can be forgiven for it. It’s understandable.

  ENGLISH: My offer is this: we will provide you with more matsutake, the very best matsutake, and we will begin expanding our operations in Japan together by opening our very own branch in Tokyo. I have just the person for such a job.

  FINNISH: But the deceit, the plotting behind my back, is neither understandable nor acceptable.

  ENGLISH: And what do I ask in return? Commitment. Monogamy. That we will be your only matsutake exporter for the next five years.

  FINNISH: You should have told me. You shouldn’t have murdered me.

  ENGLISH: I sincerely hope we can shake hands on such a deal at the earliest convenience
, hopefully this evening.

  I glance around, then look at Kakutama sitting opposite me. He nods, raises his hands and claps. The others follow his example. We then stand up and shake hands across the table. The others continue to clap. We sit down.

  All’s well that ends well.

  A sound, as though someone has let off a shotgun right next to my ear. A dull, ear-splitting thud followed by a volley whose power and force instantly exceed the speed of the noise that launches it.

  Taina vomits.

  For a split second, everything is airborne, like a bucketful of gruel that is quickly wrenched from mid-air into free fall and whose arch is longer and more impressive the more power and velocity is packed behind it. And everything is packed into this shower: the instantaneous thrust of Taina’s robust upper body, something between the upper lift of a bench press and the final vein-splitting tug of a deadlift.

  Her mouth opens wide, as it would in a dentist’s chair – and with the same sense of agony. Her cheeks almost split, her gullet almost snaps in two.

  The sound comes from somewhere at the bottom of her stomach and lungs. It is the most primitive of all human sounds, a mix of a war cry and the bellowing of a woman in labour, something so profound that it carries our thoughts to the birth of our species and beyond, to the big bang and the infinitesimal heat and pressure of the universe.

  By now the fluid is already soaring on its inexorable jet-engine trajectory. Its apex passes the candles. But now it is followed by heavier liquid that drenches everything in its path and extinguishes the candles, plunging the table into darkness. It seems as though the liquid, surely exceeding the volume of Taina’s stomach, gains added momentum as it travels through the air, and once it has crossed the table it finally crashes back to earth like a typhoon.

  Tsukehara may have had time to see the oncoming tsunami, though he probably doesn’t believe his eyes. He is sitting upright, his left hand in his lap, his right on the table. His soup bowl is empty for a second longer. His suit – a stylish, black jacket, a white shirt and sensuous, gleaming tie – are visible for a moment yet. Then suddenly they too are swept away.

  Tsukehara’s expressionless face is the first to disappear. His suit turns a light shade of brown, the colour of organic cream of matsutake soup. The bowl in front of him is filled to the brim. In the blink of an eye Tsukehara is transformed into a swamp creature, a prehistoric being with gills on its back, crawling forth from the primordial sea to begin life on dry land. That’s certainly what his flailing looks like, as though he is concentrating solely on reaching the shore, on survival, on feeling land beneath his feet. His hands reach out for something to hold on to, something to offer him support. He writhes, wrenches, fights for his life.

  The first wave is followed by another, but this time Taina’s upper body moves sideways too and aims downwards. She is about to fall over, chair and all. And at the very second she hits the ground and expels another volley of vomit from her mouth, an identical shotgun is fired at the other end of the table.

  Everybody turns, and those of us still standing and not yet covered in regurgitated soup watch Petri repeat Taina’s performance. Petri has plenty of room at his disposal: the jet of bile stretches halfway across the room.

  By this point we all begin standing up, moving away from the table.

  Chair legs screech across the floor.

  Someone screams.

  A glass smashes.

  Ilari comes running in.

  Petri lets off wind from the other end, and possibly something else too.

  The candles flutter, their flames wet and ragged.

  I crouch over Taina and look at her face: pale and lifeless. I straighten up a little, turn quickly and see Petri on the floor. His expression too is familiar. I looked like that once my initial seizure was over and I had reached the bathroom to wash my face and look at myself in the mirror. There is no need for an official diagnosis; I know what is happening to Taina and Petri.

  This is an exact repeat of my own initial symptoms.

  20

  Ilari has donned a pair of arm-length yellow rubber gloves, with which he is holding up the shell-shocked Tsukehara. I imagine Tsukehara is more dumbfounded than physically harmed. Still, his legs are like limp spaghetti, and Ilari has his work cut out trying to avoid Tsukehara’s vomit-soaked clothes.

  Taina and Petri are lying on couches in the foyer, Petri now without his shirt and in only his suit trousers. For some reason he seems to have pulled off his socks too. Ilari has given Taina two large terry towels, which she has slung awkwardly across herself as though she were enjoying a drunken evening at the spa. The acute and most powerful phase of the seizure is over for now.

  We have left the dining room, which now both looks and smells like the site of a major drainage catastrophe. The smell of vomit catches in our nostrils, stings our eyes, rings in our ears, makes us gag and eventually throw up ourselves. The logistics officer Taketomo is still wiping his mouth with his tie.

  I try to calm each of the guests in turn. I have told them many times over that this is nothing to do with what they have just eaten and that there is no need for them to be worried. I see that at least Kakutama is keen to believe me.

  There is an explanation to all this, I say and look him in the eyes.

  We are standing in the corner of the foyer near the reception desk, where there’s a quiet spot for us to talk.

  What is it? Kakutama asks.

  I can’t tell you, I say.

  I leave out the fact that the reason I can’t tell him is because I don’t yet know the answer myself. All this time I have assumed, based on what I thought was logical thinking and supported by the evidence at hand, that it was Taina and Petri who poisoned me. Given what has just happened, that is probably not the case. Few people would first commit murder only to commit double suicide by vomiting themselves to death in public.

  There is only one reasonable conclusion: they have been poisoned, just as I have, and in precisely the same manner. This in turn means that I must contact my doctor at once. I remember only too well what he told me about the initial phases of the poisoning.

  I ask Kakutama for some extra time. In the same breath I assure him that the agreement we made only moments ago is still valid, and that I will respect the spirit of our agreement in full.

  Is there something wrong with the mushrooms, Kakutama asks me, and his question is framed in a way that doesn’t allow for half-truths or creative wording.

  No, I say. The mushrooms are of the highest quality and they always will be.

  Kakutama looks at me. He looks at me for a long time.

  Very well, he says. I have trusted your word before and I will trust you now. We return to Tokyo on Tuesday. I hope that by then all this – Kakutama gestures towards the foyer, where Taina and Petri are sprawled across the couches moaning and Taketomo is standing shaking his head – that all this is sorted out and our agreement is clear.

  I thank him, take out my phone and call my doctor.

  ‘Has there been a change in your condition?’ he asks.

  ‘In my condition, no. But now there are two other people with identical symptoms.’

  The doctor is silent.

  ‘The very same symptoms?’ he asks eventually.

  I explain that I need his help and the antidote that he has spoken about, which he said might still work at this early stage. I tell him that the two patients will be arriving at the hospital in about twenty minutes and that they are to be seen by him and him alone.

  ‘It’s a good thing I’m only fifteen minutes away from the hospital,’ says the doctor.

  ‘No,’ I reply. ‘You are only five minutes from the hospital.’

  But then: how hard it is to tell someone they will die if they don’t do as you tell them. Or rather, telling them isn’t hard; dealing with their reaction to the news is the problem. Petri jumps to his feet, rips a Yucca tree from its pot and hurls it at Ilari, who has just returned to his statio
n behind the counter. He dodges the flying tree. Petri yells something that I can’t make out.

  It seems that all the tensions pent up inside him burst out at once: his deceit, his assistance in disposing of the body, his acute poisoning, his role as a sexual plaything. Taina watches this from her horizontal vantage point, her head raised. I allow Petri to bawl incomprehensibly, because I still have to break the news to Taina that she too is being taken to hospital to receive the antidote.

  ‘Antidote for what?’ she asks.

  ‘Death,’ I say.

  It’s essential that I get them both into my car and that I speak to them as soon as possible. Alone. The two principal reasons: I need information, and I still need to keep Tikkanen from getting involved in this matter. I have no desire to spend any more time with him answering cryptic questions in his stuffy office.

  Somebody has murdered me, somebody is trying to murder Taina and Petri too. I can’t help thinking – this is a brief but unavoidable thought – that I could just have left them to die. But Taina and Petri have been punished enough, I have reclaimed my mushroom business and I still want to get to the bottom of my own murder. For that I will need Taina and Petri’s help. They must know something. I am sure of this, even though they themselves might not yet be aware of it.

  Petri’s state of disarray is acute, and his body is still bulky, though the sudden seizure has possibly weakened him somewhat. I must get him into shape to be driven to hospital. I ask Kakutama, Yuhara and the surprisingly healthy-looking Okimasa to help me. Ilari brings us a pile of white towels that we use to tie Petri up. In an instant he is a tight bundle of terry cloth.

  Of course, Petri is still capable of making quite a noise, but for the most part this is nothing but a low growl in the background. Kakutama, Yuhara and Okimasa help carry Petri out to the car. We use one of the long tablecloths to tether him firmly to the backseat. I walk Taina out, put her in the car, and we drive off.