At one point we crash against the wall of one of the sheds. By the wall there is a pile of junk, including a plank of wood about a metre long. I manage to grab it as Olli wraps his arm round my neck.
He is behind me, squeezing and lifting so hard that it feels as though my neck could snap and my head could come away from my shoulders, and in the rainy night I begin to perceive a strange, bright light. I put all my strength into a single movement: I release my grip on his wrists completely, free up both my hands, take firm hold of the plank and bring it crashing to the side of my head with all the force I can muster.
The strangle hold round my neck loosens just enough for me to wriggle free. I turn and hurl the plank once more, this time to the side. The plank hits Olli round the ear. He raises his left hand to the side of his head as if to hear better. He is staggering from side to side, his legs unable to carry him, and reaches out left and right, trying to recover his balance.
This is my moment.
I turn, open the woodshed door, turn again, grab Olli by the shirt, and before he can coordinate his hands the better to grab hold of me, I wrench him with me, almost into a dance, and with a few pirouettes we are inside the woodshed. I release my grip, allowing him to drop to the concrete floor, and look around.
There is very little light: the remnants of a yellow glow from the solitary streetlamp, a glimmer of light through the open front door. I can’t see anything but logs and other chunks of wood; no axe or other tools in sight. I leave Olli on the floor, step outside and close the door. For a moment I wonder how to fasten it shut.
I find the keys to the quad bike in a novelty whisky tin on the hall table. I start up the bike and pull it up in front of the shed. I carefully inch it right in front of the door, then jolt it forwards one last time. I switch off the motor. Olli can stay put.
The rain continues to murmur, and I am soaked through. As I remove my hands from the handles of the quad bike, it feels as though I am letting go of my consciousness too. I wonder where my phone is – probably still in the car. I have to call someone to pick up Olli. The authorities. Tikkanen.
I realise I am walking, but I can’t feel it. I am one with the rain, I am water pressing its way into the earth, losing my form piece by piece. I think I am dying, really dying, because that’s what it feels like. I can’t feel myself touching the car door; I don’t even really know whether I have sat down inside or whether I’m still outside. I don’t know whether I start the car or whether I simply sit there. Is this really a steering wheel around which my fingers are clenching or something else altogether? My eyelids droop, heavy. I am no longer on Isoympyräkatu, the street that isn’t really a full circle, I am no longer in Hamina, no longer in a place where geography has any meaning. I am adrift, free, and at the same time connected to everything; at once weightless and firmly tethered to the here and now. I fly and float, glide and rest.
PART THREE
LOVE
1
Someone gently lifts the coffin lid. Just when I was comfortable and dead. Just when I was able to rest after all the exertion. It seems in this life people can’t even die in peace. Someone will have something to say about that too. Perhaps this is one of the eternal laws of the universe: we never do anything right, and other people always know best about how we should do things, including dying.
Light swirls behind my eyelids, I am awake before I open my eyes. I have to blink for a moment before I can see anything. At first all I see is a gleaming light, a world of flashes. Shapes slowly begin to form: the large oak tree, the light-brown fence, the narrow road, the merry, yellow wooden house.
I take a few heavy breaths. I can’t swallow, my mouth is so dry that I can hardly feel it; my throat hurts. The suit I am wearing looks and feels as though I’ve been wearing it while wrestling in the mud and the rain. If I take the worst hangover I can remember and multiply it by a hundred, this is the result. My left hand is twisted through the gap in the steering wheel and dangles on the other side. It feels numb. I find my right hand in my lap. The keys appear to be in the ignition. I don’t really understand what I’m doing right here, right now. For some reason my first thought is of the quad bike: I’ve never driven one before. Then I remember everything else, and what I came here to do.
My phone is in the plastic trough between the seats. I pick it up and look at it, my hands moving too quickly. I almost faint. I try to open the window, but my left hand won’t work. I use my right hand; the fresh air is like water, and I guzzle it down. I try the phone again.
Judging by the time and the amount of light it must be morning. Sanni has tried to call me six times. I didn’t hear the phone ringing;
I was asleep. Or unconscious. She has sent me three text messages, the last of them only a few minutes ago.
Text number one: ‘Jaakko, what’s the plan? On the way to Ihamaa. Asko and Tsukehara apparently old friends. Something going on between them. All the Japanese with us. Something’s happening. Sanni.’
Text number two: ‘Jaakko, this doesn’t feel good. Asko is staring at me. Tsukehara is raving in Japanese. I don’t know what’s going on. Weird situation.’
Text number three: ‘Asko’s coming.’
At the kiosk I pick up two litre-and-a-half bottles of Coca-Cola and down one of them on the spot. A vast quantity of the contents spills over my chin, my front and my tie, which I’ve already loosened several times. An ice-cold sugary drink has never tasted so good; now I know precisely what people mean when they talk about extinguishing thirst. My mouth has been as dry as an empty oven, but now it is awake. At first my throat almost gags, tries to cough the liquid back where it came from, before eventually coming back to life.
The rain has paused, the sky is dark and heavy. I drive as quickly as I dare and continue drinking all the while. The Lexus reacts when I press my foot harder against the accelerator. On the long, straight, empty roads stretching ahead my speed almost reaches two hundred kilometres per hour. I try to call Sanni. She doesn’t answer. I check my direction on the phone. Google tells me it’s eighteen minutes to my destination.
And they are long minutes. At the same time, I think and try not to think about what I’ve got Sanni mixed up in. If Asko’s henchmen were prepared to do anything at all – and at the drop of a hat – what is their boss capable of? And what if Asko’s staring at her because of what Sanni has just done, because she has told me what is going on? What will Asko do to Sanni? And what is going through the mind of Mr Tsukehara, his acquaintance whom Taina drenched in regurgitated soup? Has Asko already heard about the fate of Tomi and the sword? And if he has heard, how will that information affect him? If Asko and Tsukehara’s plans are suddenly under threat, how will they react?
What is their plan?
I can’t stop thinking about Sanni – her voice, her renewed enthusiasm, her beautiful living room, the way she has of teasing me. I think of her even when I think I ought to stop thinking about her. Especially at those moments.
I cover the rest of the journey in eleven minutes. Ihamaa is just a place name; it’s not a village, not even a cluster of houses. At the spot where the map suggests Ihamaa is situated, there is only an oval clearing at the end of the track. Two vehicles are parked at the right-hand side of the clearing. One of them is a minibus. I steer the Lexus tight behind the minibus, get out and look around.
At first the situation seems hopeless. Then I begin to count the minutes back to Sanni’s last message. I assume it would have taken the entourage at least five minutes to get ready and gather their things before setting off. That rules out the right-hand path, as the journey across the fields and the ditches to the other side of the forest is too long. I would be able to see them if they’d taken that route. So I cross the path and dive into the woods to the left.
The forest is a big place, but it is also quiet. If someone speaks even slightly louder than normal, you can hear it. If there is a group of people on the move, twigs snap underfoot, branches hit the person behind in
the face and someone cries out; from time to time someone shouts in order to bring the group back together. I trudge forwards for a while, then stop and listen. Nothing. More trudging. Stop. Listen. Trudge. Stop. Trudge. Sto—
The sound of someone speaking a foreign language, combined with the fact that I’m about to step out into a clearing, makes me drop to the ground for cover. I don’t know what Tsukehara is talking about, but he sounds like a man who means business.
I cautiously raise my head. It’s a relatively large clearing, rectangular, and on further inspection it seems to be divided into smaller oblong sections. Narrow walkways run between each of the sections, and the group is gathered on one of these. They have formed a line and are standing with their backs to me. Only Asko and Tsukehara are facing in my direction. Sanni is standing slightly aside from the rest of the group. She is not looking at Tsukehara; her eyes seem focussed on the ground in front of her. Asko looks as though he is staring at Sanni, silently threatening her. I see something shiny glinting in the morning light, a long, gleaming implement in Asko’s left hand, dangling and resting against his thigh.
It is Asko’s turn to speak.
He speaks better English than me. Tsukehara translates into Japanese.
I’m beginning to understand what this is all about and why Asko has been so certain of his success.
The plan is ingenious. They can offer – at an unprecedentedly low price and in unprecedented quantities – organic matsutake grown naturally, right here in these woods. A product which is, in fact, none of the above. It does not grow in the woods but in this clearing; it is not natural or organic, because it is helped along using chemical fertilisers.
It is a scam, but Asko doesn’t say this out loud. Be that as it may, I will say it out loud, because this is an insult, a personal affront to me; this is the denigration of an entire honourable profession, the deception of people and principles.
I lurch forward and rush into the clearing, straight towards the group, which has now turned to follow me.
The truth is, I don’t know quite what I’m doing. But isn’t that the nature of life – the moral of the story? At its best, most of life is simply practice – fumbling in the dark. But I have good intentions: now my primary aim is to protect Sanni. I don’t want Asko’s dagger or knife – I assume it must be one or the other, it doesn’t look like a full-length sword – putting Sanni in any kind of danger. No, never again. I yell at the top of my voice as I hurtle towards Asko.
2
I’ve often heard the saying that we should live our lives as if we are going to die tomorrow. I believe I can go one better. I’m living my life right now as though I’m going to die right now. There is nothing to be afraid of. Life is new all the time, every minute is an adventure as branches snap beneath me, my feet thud against the ground, the forest seems to sway violently, and the primal roar coming from my throat frightens me most of all. Three litres of North-American sugar solution in my stomach, a suit stiff with clay and mud wrapped around my body and a pair of soaked, pinching fake-leather shoes obviously don’t make for the optimal outfit for such an attack, but there’s no stopping it now.
I can see from the group’s expressions that this is not quite what they were expecting. Tsukehara looks as furious as a man can look without exploding into pieces. Kakutama is surprisingly calm – he has an almost satisfied air as he watches me lunge forwards. The others are caught in different degrees of shock and bewilderment, as questions quiver on their lips. Sanni seems surprised in a way that makes my heart flicker. I wasn’t wrong about her.
And as for Asko – I’ve never seen him look like this before. If I said he had turned into a hunter, that would be to belittle him. Now he is a predator. A killer.
Asko barges through the row of onlookers, runs towards me and raises the knife in his hand. I don’t understand how the blade can possibly become longer as his hand rises up, but then I see the hilt hurtling to the side. This is no run-of-the-mill mushroom knife. I crouch low to the ground and pick up a hefty pine branch. Perhaps it is through a synthesis of sugar, caffeine, adrenaline, love, anger and the profound, holy indignation I feel in attempting to defend a respectable mushroom business, but suddenly I move more nimbly than I have all week.
We approach each other like two jousters at a medieval tournament. Asko has clearly lost all self-control. He is allowing his anger to pour out of him unfettered. Good. I fumble for a firm grip on the pine branch and clasp it with all my strength.
Asko is approaching me as if he is in a Kung Fu film in which the action is shown in slow motion and every movement, down to the smallest gesture, is shown separately. I can see his furious, stiff face, the blade of the knife as it rises through the air, its glint, the tip of its blade as thin as a needle. If it hit me, it would pierce me like a balloon, slice me like an apple. Asko lunges; so do I.
And then, just like in the movies, both of us are in the air.
Asko’s knife gleams as a sunbeam hits it; the steel flashes, reflecting the brilliance like a mirror. I grip the branch, thrust it forwards. The forest is soundless, the clearing like a silent room. The group of people behind Asko stand frozen, like statues propped in place. Asko grimaces, revealing his teeth. From my perspective his teeth behind the blade look like a shark’s jaws. He might be about to shout something, but he is cut short.
The pine branch is longer than Asko’s knife, and this simple fact settles everything. My pine branch strikes Asko in the groin with considerable force. Asko appears to double over in mid-air. The knife flies from his hand and sails past my face like a comet.
Just as decisive as the length of my branch is the grip with which I brandish it. That grip has all the strength that exists within me. The noise that Asko lets out is a mixture of a man struck by lightning and a man in the most extreme pain imaginable.
We fall to the ground. Asko curls into a foetal position and cups his hands to protect his crown jewels. Of course, this is only a gesture, an instinctual movement that can no longer alleviate the agony. He is still letting out a noise, but now it has changed in character. What was initially a howl of pain quietens to a weepy moaning as I crawl towards him and straddle him, putting my full weight across his body. He is no longer a threat to anyone. I am about to turn to face the group of people, especially Sanni, and perhaps give a victorious smile, when my plans suddenly change.
In a way Tsukehara’s anger is understandable. He has travelled eight thousand kilometres in order to convince his partners to sign up to a new kind of mushroom-importing model with his business partner Asko, with whom he clearly has a long established history. Instead of success and esteem, he has been deluged in vomit, his plans have been ruined and his co-conspirator has been knocked almost unconscious. A man could get worked up over less.
Tsukehara’s legs are swift, and his hands are like the wings of a small bird. He passes me and Asko, locates the knife on the ground and lunges into an attack. His eyes are so full of rage they are almost pressed shut, and he looks like he is weeping as he yells something. I don’t have time to reach for my pine branch; I don’t know where it is. Tsukehara is on top of me and is about to plunge the knife through my skull when the forest shudders, and to me it sounds as though several trees come crashing down at once.
Tsukehara freezes on the spot, then begins to slump to the side like a collapsing house. His hands clasp his right thigh, where a dark-red blotch is spreading through his trousers. Both Asko and Tsukehara are moaning; the gurgling, guttural sounds are deep and continuous.
Detective Inspector Tikkanen walks across the clearing towards us, a gun in his hand.
EPILOGUE
Sanni’s hand is warm and delicate. For a moment it grips my own, then relaxes. She is about to fall asleep. The sun is rising, the clouds are white, like in a cartoon; the sky is an impeccable blue. I am content, I don’t even feel the need to pull my stomach in. It would be pointless. She has seen me without a shirt on. She has seen me without trousers too. S
he knows what I look like; she knows who I am and what I am. I told her everything at the first opportunity.
First I had to tell Taina I wanted a divorce. Taina was still in hospital, but making a very good recovery. Our conversation didn’t last long. I felt the need to say something positive too, so I thanked her for the food. I’ll never forget how well I’ve eaten all these years, I told her. I left out the fact that those memories now come with a distinctly sour aftertaste, but even that pales in significance alongside all the gastronomic delights. And when, a few minutes later, I said that I guessed this was it, Taina simply nodded. She was keen to add that she and Petri would not be moving to Helsinki together. Petri wants to stay in Hamina, apparently. He hasn’t said why, in fact he hasn’t spoken to Taina since the incident. She assumes this must be because they went through too much together, too soon. To some extent I agree.
Asko was never officially charged with anything. But now that a decades-old murder case has resurfaced he has a hard time moving about the town. What’s more, he is persona non grata in the mushroom business. He tried to trick his way into the business. People don’t forget a thing like that. In the mushroom business that kind of behaviour is like murder; there’s no statute of limitations.
Olli was eventually found in the woodshed. Tikkanen fetched him. Olli didn’t resist arrest. He’s getting married again; this time his bride is in good keeping at the Hamina women’s prison.
Raimo has gently enquired what exactly happened to his sauna while he was helping his wife, who had come down with a case of the norovirus. He says he suspects there’s something wrong with my ladling technique. It takes quite a violent throw to make a hole in the wall and snap the floorboards, he says. I told him I slipped. I haven’t breathed a word about what’s hidden behind the sauna. The grass grows quickly at this time of year.
The Man Who Died Page 24
