The Man Who Died E-Book

Antti Tuomainen

• Herausgeber: Orenda Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Seitenzahl: 401

Beschreibung

When Finnish mushroom entrepreneur Jaakko discovers that he has been slowly poisoned, he sets out to find his would-be murderer … with dark and hilarious results. The critically acclaimed standalone thriller from the King of Helsinki Noir…***Shortlisted for the Petrona Award for Best Scandinavian Crime Novel of the Year******Shortlisted for the CrimeFest Last Laugh Award***'Right up there with the best' Times Literary Supplement'Deftly plotted, poignant and perceptive in its wry reflections on mortality and very funny' Irish Times'Told in a darkly funny, deadpan style … The result is a rollercoaster read in which the farce has some serious and surprisingly philosophical underpinnings' Guardian–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––A successful entrepreneur in the mushroom industry, Jaakko Kaunismaa is a man in his prime. At just thirty-seven years of age, he is shocked when his doctor tells him that he's dying. What's more, the cause is discovered to be prolonged exposure to toxins; in other words, someone has slowly but surely been poisoning him.Determined to find out who wants him dead, Jaakko embarks on a suspenseful rollercoaster journey full of unusual characters, bizarre situations and unexpected twists.With a nod to Fargo and the best elements of the Scandinavian noir tradition, The Man Who Died is a page-turning thriller brimming with the blackest comedy surrounding life and death, and love and betrayal, marking a stunning new departure for the King of Helsinki Noir.––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––'The deadpan icy sensibility of Nordic noir is combined here with warm-blooded, often surreal, humour. Like the death cap mushroom, Tuomainen's dark story manages to be as delicious as it is toxic' Sunday Express'An offbeat jewel … relentlessly funny' Don Crinklaw, Publishers Weekly'You don't expect to laugh when you're reading about terrible crimes, but that's what you'll do when you pick up one of Tuomainen's decidedly quirky thrillers' New York Times'A bizarre, twisty, darkly comic novel about a man investigating his own murder … a tightly paced Scandinavian thriller with a wicked sense of humour' Foreword Reviews'Smart, sensitive, and engaging, and guaranteed to be unlike anything else in your crime fiction library … the perfect blend of thrills, investigation, character development, and comedy' Crime by the Book'Hugely entertaining and satisfying … like Carl Hiassen transported to Finland. It's full of black comedy and has an unlikely hero in Jaakko, who you'll root for to the very end' Kevin Wignall, author of A Death in Sweden'A delightful mad caper of a story, which will make readers snort out loud with laughter and would have made an excellent 1930s screwball comedy directed by Frank Capra' Crime Fiction Lover'Combines a startlingly clever opening, a neat line in dark humour and a unique Scandinavian sensibility. A fresh and witty read' Chris Ewan'Dark and thrilling, funny and intelligent, this Fargo-like novel contains lethal doses of humour … and mushrooms' Sofi Oksanen, author of Purge'A book I will never forget' Matt Wesolowski'This one is a winner right from the first sentence' Booklist'Antti Tuomainen is a wonderful writer, whose characters, plots and atmosphere are masterfully drawn' Yrsa Sigurðardóttir

Leseprobe

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PRAISE FOR ANTTI TUOMAINEN

‘Antti Tuomainen’s The Mine, set in snowy winter darkness in northern Finland and amid a miasma of murky state corruption is right up there with the best … offering a sympathetic, politically engaged investigative journalist and a profound concern for the environment’ The Times Literary Supplement

‘Tuomainen’s spare style suits the depressing subject and raises a serious question: how do you find hope when law and order break down?’ Financial Times

‘Antti Tuomainen is a wonderful writer, whose characters, plots and atmosphere are masterfully drawn’ Yrsa Sigurðardóttir

‘Tersely written, full of twists and sudden violence, this is nothing less than the birth of a new genre: dystopian detection’ Sunday Telegraph

‘This chilling novel compels … Clever, atmospheric and wonderfully imaginative’ Sunday Mirror

‘Dark As My Heart, the most lauded Finnish crime novel of recent years, lives up to its acclaim’ The Times

‘Its sparse prose style suits the dark, treacherous, rain-soaked environment of this dystopian vision of Helsinki’ Glasgow Sunday Herald

‘Antti Tuomainen again creates a powerful book, set firmly within the boundaries of strong themes and unforgettable characters, with a huge dose of beautiful sensitive style, masterfully translated from Finnish by David Hackston … The King of Helsinki Noir is a writer of life. I cannot wait to see his atmospheric work appearing on screen’ Crime Review ii

‘As I read I felt a storm gathering, a force, a reckoning started to hurtle towards me, and in the middle of this the importance of family sits centre stage. The violence is prominent, yet there is a subtle, thought-provoking energy that twists through this tale, and ensures that The Mine is an absolutely cracking read’ Love Reading

‘The Mine is another beautifully written and absorbing read from the Orenda books stable – it is not a long read but it is an extremely compelling one … I adored the sense of place that Antti Tuomainen brings to this book, descriptively speaking it is intense and gorgeous, one of those stories that absorbs you into its vortex for the time you spend reading it’ Liz Loves Books

‘This was a truly beautiful book – deliciously dark, thoughtprovoking, and gorgeously written. It gave me chills, and not only because of the endless snow and cold. I see why Antti is so revered in Finland’ Louise Beech, author of How To Be Brave

‘The Mine is a gripping and traumatic environmental thriller about how far people will go in order to hide the truth. The book is well written and it has been translated by David Hackston, so that none of the beauty and elegance of Tuomainen’s prose is lost to the reader. The Mine is a thriller that shows off the best of Finnish noir and raises the question of why has it been hidden from the English reader for so long. I’m extremely thankful to Orenda Books for bringing Antti Tuomainen to my attention and I can guarantee this is a book you cannot put down’ Nudge-Book Reviews

‘I can highly recommend this fast-paced thriller with its sparse yet highly descriptive language. It works as an emotional thriller too as the reader is unsure of how Janne’s actions will affect his delicate family situation’ Shaz’s Book Blog

‘An excellent thriller with all the hallmarks of Scandi Noir, gripping, elegant and looks to the bigger issues that play an important role in society – in this case the environmental disasters surrounding the mine and the corruption in covering it up’ The Quiet Knitteriii

‘Topical. Frightening. Beautifully written, with a fast-moving story, which makes it almost impossible to put down. Plus it’s a standalone, so you haven’t missed anything up until now. This is another absolute belter from Orenda, but, really, you wouldn’t expect anything less by now, would you?’ Crime Worm

‘Antti Tuomainen begins The Mine with an intriguing and enticing prologue. The reader doesn’t know who the character is, but these couple of pages are written with such care and clarity that you are captured straight away … and then left wondering … The Mine is an excellent thriller that deals with extremely topical issues. The setting is perfect and the translation is so well done. Oh, and that ending…’ Random Things through My Letter Box

‘The writing is utterly compelling – I read this book in a sitting. I shivered at the bleakness and cold of a wintery Finland. The layers of Janne’s character – his need to write, his desire not to let his family down, his demand for validation and support despite offering little in return – made for thought-provoking reading. It was hard not to sympathise with all concerned. The denouement tied up each plot thread whilst skillfully maintaining the bones of all that had gone before. Questionable decisions were made but they fit perfectly the characters and story. In many ways this is a straightforward crime thriller but the execution achieves so much more. It provides a dark and altogether satisfying read’ Never Imitate

‘Antti Tuomainen’s skillful storytelling is as sharp as an ice pick, and I cannot wait to read more from him … If you like your thrillers to be peppered with a little bit of conspiracy and action, then The Mine is most certainly one to pick up!’ Bibliophile Book Club

‘Part crime story, part conspiracy, with a dash of mystery thrown in for good measure. It’s a splendid concoction of beautifully evocative locations and compelling characters … Definitely a pageturner that’ll keep you up into the wee small hours’ Espresso Coco iv

‘The pacing and style are brilliantly effective; calmly drawing you in until you realise you’re practically up to your knees in Finnish snow and up to your neck in a complex mystery and there’s no way you’re gonna want to leave this story even after the last page is turned’ Mumbling About

‘The Mine is an emotionally charged, thought-provoking Finnish environmental thriller. It’s stunningly written and translated seamlessly – no word is out of the place and the descriptions provide an amazing sense of the chilling frozen setting. I was totally gripped throughout and struggled to put the book down … This is a stunning book – yet another winner from Orenda. The Mine is a book that will stay with me for a long while’ Off-The-Shelf Books

‘The author’s beautiful writing is one of the reasons I loved this book as much as I did because it played out like a movie in my mind and I could really buy into what was happening in the story because of that. The entire book had me gripped from start to finish and did not disappoint come the end’ Reviewed The Book

‘I could just picture the snow and hear the silence due to the fact no one was around. It was extremely atmospheric. More important, current topics are covered in this book as it touches on environmental activists and the damage that we as humans are doing to the world. It was very cleverly done and showed different ways that people go about raising awareness. Overall a great book and another one I have already been recommending’ Life of a Nerdish Mum

‘The book is really well written and the author painted such a vivid picture of Finland that I could imagine I was there. In fact, all the descriptions of the snow made me dig out my fleecy blanket and thermal socks as I really began to feel that cold … 4* out of 5*’ Ginger Book Geek

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The Man Who Died

ANTTI TUOMAINEN

translated from the Finnish by David Hackston

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For Anu, With love, once again

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The author has taken considerable artistic licence with regard to geographical, medical, temporal and natural scientific details. In all other respects this story is factually correct.

‘He was some kind of a man. What does it matter what you say about people?’

– Marlene Dietrich, Touch of Evil

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGEDEDICATIONEPIGRAPHPART ONE: DEATH 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 PART TWO: LIFE 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 PART THREE: LOVE 1 2 EPILOGUE ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR COPYRIGHT

1

PART ONE

DEATH

2

1

‘It’s a good job you provided a urine sample too.’

The oval face of the doctor sitting behind the desk exudes seriousness and gravitas. The dark rims of his spectacles accentuate the blue, almost three-dimensional intensity of his gaze.

‘This…’ he stumbles. ‘This requires a little background. I’ve contacted my colleagues in Kotka and Helsinki. They said essentially the same as what we’ve been able to deduce here. Even if we’d picked this up the last time you visited, there’s nothing else we could have done. How are you feeling?’

I shrug my shoulders. I go through the same information I told the doctor the last time I was here and give an account of the latest symptoms. It all started with a sudden, powerful wave of nausea and vomiting that quite literally knocked me off my feet. After that my condition seemed to stabilise, but only for a while. Sometimes I feel so dizzy that I’m worried I might faint. I have coughing fits. Stress keeps me awake at night. When I finally fall asleep, I have nightmares. Sometimes my headaches are so intense it feels like someone is scraping a knife behind my eyeballs. My throat is constantly dry. The nausea has started again and it hits me without any warning.

And all this just when my business is getting ready for the most important time of the year, the greatest challenge we’ve ever faced in the short time we’ve existed.

‘Right,’ the doctor nods. ‘Right.’

I say nothing. He pauses before continuing. ‘This is not to do with prolonged, complicated flu symptoms, as we thought at first. Without a urine sample we might never have found out what was wrong. The sample told us a lot, and that’s what led us to conduct the MRI scan. With the results of the scan we’ve now got a fuller 3picture of what’s going on. You see, your kidneys, liver and pancreas – that is to say your most important internal organs – are extremely badly damaged. Given what you’ve told us, we can deduce that your central nervous system is severely compromised too. In addition to that, you may have experienced some amount of brain damage. All this is a direct result of the poisoning that showed up in your urine sample. The levels of toxicity – that is, the amount of poison in your system – would be enough to knock out a hippopotamus. The fact that you’re even sitting here in front of me and still going to work is, in my estimation, due to the fact that the poisoning has taken place over an extended period of time and in such a way that the poison has had time to accumulate in your body. In one way or another, you’ve become used to it.’

In my gut it feels as though I’m falling, as though something inside me tears free and hurtles down into the cold abyss beneath. The sensation lasts a few seconds. Then it stops. I’m sitting on a chair opposite the doctor, it’s a Tuesday morning and I’ll soon be on my way to work. I’ve read stories of how people act with great clarity in a fire or of how they don’t panic after they’ve been shot, though they’re bleeding profusely. I sit there and look the doctor in the eyes. I could be waiting for the bus.

‘You mentioned you work with mushrooms,’ the doctor says eventually.

‘But the matsutake isn’t poisonous,’ I answer. ‘And the harvest is just around the corner.’

‘The matsutake?’

I don’t know where to start.

I decide to tell the short version: back in Helsinki my wife worked in institutional catering, and I was a sales officer. Three and a half years ago the recession hit both our workplaces, and we were made redundant at around the same time. Meanwhile Hamina – like dozens of similar small Finnish towns – was desperately looking for new commercial activity to replace the empty harbour and recently decommissioned paper factory. We had a series of quick negotiations, 4secured a generous start-up grant, acquired premises that cost next to nothing and staff who were well acquainted with the local woods and terrain. We sold our one-bedroom apartment in suburban Helsinki, and for the same money bought a detached house in Hamina and a small fibreglass boat that we could tether to the jetty a mere seventy metres from our post box.

Our business idea was simple: the matsutake – the pine mushroom.

The Japanese were crazy about it, and Finnish forests were full of it.

The Japanese would pay up to a thousand euros per kilo of mushrooms in the early, sprouting phase. To the north and east of Hamina there were forests where picking pine mushrooms was as easy as plucking them from a plate in front of you. In Hamina we had treatment facilities, a dryer, a packing area, chilled spaces and employees. During the harvest season we sent a shipment to Tokyo once a week.

I have to catch my breath. The doctor seems to be thinking about something.

‘What about your lifestyle otherwise?’

‘My lifestyle?’

‘Your diet, how much you exercise, that sort of thing.’

I tell him I eat well and with a good, hearty appetite. I haven’t once cooked for myself since I met Taina, and that was over seven years ago. And Taina’s meals aren’t the kind in which a teaspoon of celery purée stares dejectedly across the plate at a solitary sprig of wheatgrass. Taina’s basic ingredients are cream, salt, butter, cheeses and plenty of pork. I like Taina’s food, always have done. And it shows around my waistline. I weigh twenty-four kilos more than when we first met.

Taina hasn’t gained weight; it might be because she’s bigger-boned than I am and has always looked like a weightlifter in peak physical condition, ready for a competition. I mean that in the nicest possible way: her thighs are solid, round and strong. Her shoulders are broad and her arms powerful without being masculine; her stomach is flat. Whenever I see pictures of female bodybuilders who are not ripped 5and grotesque, I think of Taina. Besides, she exercises too: she goes to the gym, takes aerobics classes, and ever since we moved here she goes rowing out at sea. Sometimes I try to keep up with her, though that too is becoming a rare occurrence.

I don’t know why I’m speaking so quickly, so effusively, why I have to talk about Taina in such detail. The next thing we know, I’ll be giving the doctor her measurements down to the nearest centimetre.

Then, as it seems the doctor isn’t focussing his healing eyes in the right direction, I ask him what we’re going to do about it. The doctor looks at me as though he’s just realised I haven’t listened to a single word he’s been saying. I notice his eyes blinking behind his spectacles.

‘Nothing,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’

The overexposed room is so full of summer and sunshine that I have to squint my eyes at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Perhaps I wasn’t clear enough. We can’t say for sure what kind of poison has caused this. It appears to be a combination of various natural toxins. And like the poison itself, judging by your symptoms and the account you’ve given, the extent of your poisoning seems, from a toxicological perspective, to be an optimal combination of exposure over an extended period of time and exceptionally highly developed levels of tolerance. If this were a case of specific, one-off poisoning that we were able to attend to promptly, there are a number of measures we could have taken – antidotes we could have administered. But, in your case, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do. There is nothing that will return your body to its normal state or that will change the … how should I put it? … the direction of travel. It is simply a matter of waiting for the body’s functions to shut down one by one. I’m sorry, but the condition will inevitably lead to death.’

The brightness of the summer’s day streaming through the window only serves to heighten the luridness of his final word. The word must surely be in the wrong place. I must be in the wrong place. I came here with a simple bout of the flu, I tell myself, with 6a few stomach cramps and occasional dizziness. I want to hear him tell me that all I need is rest and a course of antibiotics; or that, in the worst-case scenario, I might need my stomach pumped. Then I’ll recover and get back to…

‘I might compare this situation to a patient with pancreatic cancer or cirrhosis of the liver,’ the doctor continues. ‘When a crucial organ exceeds its capacity, it never returns to normal but runs down, as it were; it burns itself out until it finally snuffs out like a candle. There’s simply nothing to be done. An organ transplant would be out of the question, because the surrounding organs are damaged too and would be unable to support the new organ; on the contrary, they would likely cause the new organ to malfunction too, in my opinion. What’s more, in your case every organ appears to be in an equally advanced state of degeneration. On the plus side, that might be the secret of your relative state of wellbeing – a balance of horror,

if you will.’

I look at the doctor. His head is nodding, barely perceptible.

‘Of course, everything is relative,’ he says.

The doctor is sitting behind his desk. He’ll be sitting there for the rest of the day, tomorrow and next week. It’s a powerful thought, and a moment later I understand why it occurred to me.

‘How…?’ I begin. It hits me that this is a once-in-a-lifetime question. ‘How … when … Should I…? How much time do I have?’

The doctor, who will help save lives for at least another decade before retiring for another ten, perhaps twenty years, suddenly looks grave.

‘Judging by the combination of factors,’ he begins, ‘days; weeks at most.’

At first I want to yell, shout anything at all. Then I want to lash out, to punch something. Then I feel nauseous again. I swallow.

‘I don’t understand how any of this is possible.’

‘It’s a combination of everything that—’

‘I don’t mean that.’

‘Quite.’7

We both fall silent.

It seems as though summer turns to autumn, to winter, spring and back to summer again. The doctor casts me an inquisitive glance, all the while fiddling with the blue document on his desk bearing my name and details in large letters: JAAKKO MIKAEL KAUNISMAA. SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER – 081178-073H.

‘Do you have any requests?’

I must look confused, because the doctor continues his question. ‘Crisis therapy? Psychiatric help? A hospice place or a home carer? Painkillers? Sedatives?’

I must admit, I hadn’t thought about things like that before. I haven’t exactly spent time thinking about the practical aspects of my final days, so there’s no to-do list, as it were. Death only comes round once in a lifetime, that much I realise, and maybe I should have put a bit more effort into it. But I’ve always avoided the subject and everything to do with it. Now I understand quite how immense it is. Big questions, big decisions. And for the last seven years I’ve always made big decisions with my wife: the move from Helsinki to Hamina; from the mundane to the matsutake.

‘I’ll have to speak to my wife.’

When I hear myself, I know it’s the only thing I can do: I must speak to her, and after that I’ll know everything there is to know.

8

2

The asphalt seems to puff and shimmer. The wind has forgotten its only function: to create a breeze. Everything around me is so green and the air so stifling that it feels like I’ve been plunged into a bath of thick moss. I grip the sweaty telephone in my hand. I don’t know why; I’m not calling anyone. You don’t tell people these sorts of things over the telephone. I peel my shirt from my skin, but it glues itself back almost immediately.

I sit in the car, turn on the ignition and set the air conditioning to the coolest setting available. The steering wheel feels moist and limp in my hands. If my sense of calm is merely because I’m still in shock, that for the moment suits me fine.

I turn left out of the hospital car park. The most direct route would have been to take a left. I need a few minutes; I want to gather my thoughts.

Our premises are situated on the other side of the prominent water tower in the suburb of Hevoshaka. I drive as far towards Salmenvirta as the road will allow, take a left and follow the shoreline towards Savilahti. Flashes of police-blue sea glint between the trees and the houses. Someone is mending a series of already flawless garden paving stones; a woman with fluttering hair is returning from the market, the basket at the front of her bike laden with groceries. It’s five to eleven. Morning in the town of Hamina.

I arrive at Mannerheimintie and turn left. From Mullinkoskentie I take a left onto Teollisuuskatu. The suburb of Hevoshaka is small and its vistas are staggeringly heterogeneous. There you can find all forms of business and dwellings of all shapes and sizes – everything from detached houses to blocks of flats, from fast-food kiosks to industrial warehouses.9

Our business is located in a brownish-yellow, single-storey building with a small loading bay at one end and sauna facilities and a patio at the other. I can’t see Taina’s car in the forecourt. Perhaps she’s still at home or gone into town for lunch. She does that sometimes. I don’t like to go home in the middle of the workday. It messes up my internal clock. It’s far easier, far more structured, to stay at work during the day and come home in the evening. In that way the two remain separate: work is only for work, and home feels all the more like a home.

I turn the car round in the forecourt and drive towards Pappilansaari. The phone is in my lap, between my legs.

Hamina is often called a concentric town. However, this is only true of the town centre: the Town Hall and the blocks immediately surrounding it. Otherwise its streets are every bit as angular as they are in other towns.

The market is bustling.

In addition to the local stall keepers, there are the trinkets common to every summer market square in the land: hardened strips of liquorice, unashamedly overpriced cotton sauna towels, stiff underwear in boxes of ten, twenty and a hundred.

I sometimes think about death, but even thinking about it is all but impossible – especially your own death. A second later I’m thinking about something different altogether: today’s shopping list, the business’s outgoings.

A few minutes later I reach the bridge across the Pappilansalmi strait. Hamina is a small town dotted across islands, peninsulas and heathland, in clusters of a few houses here and there. The sea reaches its long tentacles between the houses and their inhabitants, snatching up blue segments of the green landscape.

I see Taina’s wine-red Hyundai from a distance. Behind that, one corner at a time, I make out the shape of a black, shining Corolla. It looks as though it has just been washed. Well before the end of our drive, I pull in by the side of the road and switch off the engine.

Had Taina said anything about Petri popping round?10

Sometimes Taina stays at home testing new recipes, and Petri gives her a hand. Petri was our first full-time employee. He knows all our machinery and equipment and he can install and mend everything we need. On top of that he knows every road, and every hill and dell within a fifty-kilometre radius. He also helps to solve the company’s various logistical problems.

Very well, I think as I step out of the car, I’ll tell Petri to go back to the office, tell him the cleaning equipment won’t start up. I’ll think of something. Then I’ll sit Taina down on the sofa and tell her … I don’t know what I’ll tell her. But you can be sure I won’t have to make anything up.

Ours is the last house at the end of a narrowing gravel road. Its lively yellow front faces the street; behind the house there is a verdant garden decorated with currant bushes and age-old flowerbeds, which rolls down towards the reeds and bulrushes along the shore. In the middle of the garden is a patio ten square metres in size, where you can sit and look out at the sea in peace and quiet; only the opposite shore is visible, and that too is at a suitable distance.

I walk up the steps to the front door. These last few weeks I’ve felt constantly out of breath. I thought it had something to do with my flu, that it might be bronchitis or at worst a bout of pneumonia. I place a hand on the railings and steady myself for a moment. I hear the sound of an approaching hydroplane.

Affluent Russian tourists have bought up enormous fortresses along much of the local shoreline, and in addition to the yachts moored at their private jetties, many of them have their own light aircraft too. They roar around in the things, causing a nuisance for a few summers, before becoming bored and putting everything up for sale. Of course, it’s impossible to sell villas that size, let alone hydroplanes. In a recessive and ageing community with high unemployment there are relatively few impulsive millionaires.

The hydroplane glides closer.

The railing suddenly feels cold. I pull my hand away, open the door and shout out a hello. Nobody answers. Maybe they’re in the 11kitchen. I walk along the hallway to the other side of the house, where the kitchen is situated. The wooden floorboards creak beneath me.

The kitchen is empty, everything is spotless. No pots or pans bubbling on the stove. No smell of cooking in the air. The counters gleam, clean and empty. I call out Taina’s name.

The hydroplane sputters directly above the house, its noise drowns out my voice. I move towards the back door, open the door and walk out onto the top step. The hydroplane masks the sound of the door opening – that and the inadvertent gasp that escapes from my mouth.

The patio sways.

Or perhaps it’s me that sways.

No, it’s definitely the patio that’s moving.

Despite the roar of the hydroplane as it swerves through the warm, blue sky directly above me, my sharpened senses see and hear the cheap metallic sun-lounger creaking at the joints, the fabric of the red-and-white striped cushions rubbing against one another with synthetic howls, the wheels of the German gas barbecue standing to the right of the sun-lounger shunting closer to the edge of the patio one millimetre at a time, the garden swing to the left moving restlessly from side to side, the pots of geraniums that look as though, at any moment, they might burst into a sprint.

Petri is lying on the lounger, the soles of his feet facing the house – facing me. His neck is arched backwards in an almost unnatural position over the edge of the lounger. He is looking upside down at the sea – if his eyes are open, that is. I don’t know if it’s possible. Taina is doing her best to make sure he keeps his eyes shut.

Taina has her back to me. Her broad back is gleaming with sweat, her round, strong buttocks glow like a pair of ruddy cheeks. She is riding Petri as though she were trying to climb a mountainside on horseback: her feet are placed firmly on the patio decking and her hips are pumping, encouraging the horse to give all it’s got. It’s an impressive sight. Taina’s face is angled up towards the sky. Perhaps we’re looking at the same hydroplane.12

The tempo increases, though such a thing ought to be physically impossible.

I see an iron bar leaning against the side of the woodshed.

At that point, vomit surges within me. The wave of nausea is so powerful that it almost floors me. I grip the railings with both hands. An arch of vomit flies through the air towards the patio.

The hydroplane shakes the entire house. Instinctively, as if guided by an inner power, I step back inside and pull the door shut behind me.

I can feel air filling my lungs. For a few moments I haven’t breathed at all. I stand up straight.

The sound of the hydroplane has grown fainter, more distant, like a fly buzzing in the next room. I know now that what I came here to say cannot possibly be said – doesn’t deserve to be said – and that what I need most of all right now is the air conditioning in my car.

13

3

Every now and then I drift into the lane of oncoming traffic and have to focus my eyes on the middle of the road. The road jumps, swerves. Thankfully the streets are all but empty; the tourists must be at the market or out at sea, while all the locals go about their business in the town centre either in the morning or the early evening. Midday is a moment of calm.

My mind, however, is anything but calm. My rage turns to shock, then colossal disappointment, then a hollow chill that encompasses everything, before the rage wells up again. At times I can hear the doctor’s voice, see his serious face and white coat in front of me, then a moment later the sight of Taina’s round thighs pumping like a rodeo rider.

The car’s air conditioning is at full capacity. The cool air calms the tingling sensation on my skin and soothes the sting of the sweat in my eyes.

My face feels like it belongs to me once again.

And I seem to know where I’m going.

I see a parking spot outside the police station. The two-storey building looks quiet. It is the only modern building in the square. There are churches on both sides of the Town Hall: to the southeast one for the Orthodox congregation, to the northwest one for the Lutherans. Lining all sides of the square are rows of wooden houses, all a hundred and fifty years old – renovated, beautiful, ornate. If they were in Helsinki, you’d have to win the lottery to own one.

I’ve visited the police station only once before, about a month ago. It was to report a theft. Some packing materials left by a delivery firm we employ were stolen from the forecourt outside the company 14premises. I knew who had taken them. I’d done a bit of detective work myself. The problem was I couldn’t prove anything, and the police didn’t warm to my theories. So I kept my mouth shut, took my copy of the statement in which I’d reported the missing goods so that I could send it to our insurance company, went back to work and got a lecture from Taina, who told me I always give in to people far too easily.

Which makes the current situation markedly different from how I’d thought of it only a moment ago.

I’ve switched off the engine. The air conditioning’s all-consuming vortex subsides and is replaced with a curious sense of calm. I am sure I can hear the sound of a girl in a summer dress cycling past, the breeze in her skirt, the tyres against the asphalt, the conversation about blue pansies taking place outside the florist’s, the hum of the refrigerators at the ice-cream stall. I ask myself what has happened to me, and I know the answer.

The front door of the police station opens.

A man, approximately my own age, angrily looks around, gets in his car and sits down with a thump, as though he is determined to break the seat, and then, with a screech of tyres, he speeds off towards the Reserve Officers’ School. Precisely, I think to myself. The mistakes we can make when we do things in haste, in a tantrum, a state of turmoil.

Only seconds earlier I was about to storm into the police station – and tell them what, exactly?

I’m dying, I might have been poisoned, but I haven’t a shred of proof. My wife is in the garden right now, screwing our young employee, Petri. What are you going to do about it?

I realise all too acutely just how stupid and unmanly it would sound.

If I die – I can’t bring myself to say ‘when’ – I don’t want to spend my last days at a small-town police station revealing details of my private life to all and sundry. Especially as revealing such details won’t achieve anything. What happens, then, if the conspiracy theories 15hurtling through my mind turn out to be true? What happens if my wife and her lover – ten years her junior, no less – really have decided to poison me?

The idea pops into my mind of its own volition, from where I don’t know. I certainly haven’t put it there. But there’s a certain logic to it all: let’s get the fat old git out of the way, then we can stop all this foreplay and get down to business. But why not just file for divorce? I don’t know.

And if we assume that the two of them were to come under suspicion, how would the matter ever be resolved? In what time frame? And how would I benefit from it?

I wouldn’t. I’d be dead.

I step out of the car. The midday heat takes me in its arms, the air is still. I glance around. The deep, bright, radiant green of the trees heralds the height of summer.

Two uniformed officers step out of the station, young men with weapons dangling from their belts. One of them looks over towards me. I smile and nod a hello. The officer looks as though he’s wondering whether or not he knows me. He doesn’t; he couldn’t. He turns, looks ahead and continues listening to his partner. We pass one another, the distance between us a metre and a half at most.

There’s a young schoolgirl working at the ice-cream stall. She has long brown hair and long brown arms. A friendly smile is her default expression. She’s the embodiment of summer.

First I order a scoop of rum and raisin, then a scoop of liquorice and banana, and just as she’s about to hand me the cone, I ask for a third scoop, this time of ye olde vanilla. The girl presses the scoops tighter against one another and hands me the cone, now standing over a foot high. I hand her a fifty-euro note and put the change in the little tip box on the counter. She thanks me in a bright, ringing voice, and I wish her a sunny life.

With the cone in my hand I sit down on a small, stone wall and lick the little melting streams running down the side of my ice-cream tower. I can’t really feel anything. Here I am, right here. It 16occurs to me that’s how it’s always been, I just didn’t understand it before.

Again I look over at the police station. I have to talk to someone. Not right this second, my mouth full of the delicious, sweet, creamy goodness – but soon. From now on, everything is soon.

My parents are dead. I was the only child of an elderly couple, I have no siblings or other close relatives. I haven’t kept in touch with my childhood friends. I have no hobbies, no colleagues. I go through the faces that have populated my life – the sounds they make, their shapes. One after another, familiar people stand up to say something, walk towards me, touch me, look me in the eyes, then saunter away again all the more assuredly. Nobody stops, nobody remains, nobody waits to hear what I’ve got to say. I’m about to lose all hope.

The ice cream makes me feel better. The effect is like injecting a strong stimulant directly into my veins. At least it’s what I imagine that must feel like. I might never have the opportunity to try intravenous drugs in what’s left of this life, so the comparison will have to remain in the realms of supposition. But isn’t that the same for everything? What else is our life if not a mishmash of assumptions, expectations, suppositions and conclusions pulled out of a hat?

I’ve never had thoughts like this before. I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing.

The ice cream feels good in my stomach. It’s a small victory.

Once again I go through the people in my life and eventually come up with something that might yet prove useful.

The short car journey to the office goes far more smoothly than the psychosis of the previous drive. I steer with my right hand, hang my left out of the open window and let the summer air blow against my face.

The town is quiet and warm. I drive along Mannerheimintie and for the first time I notice the park that spreads out on both sides of 17the road. On the left it slopes down through the shade of the trees towards a pretty little pond, and to the right its green undulates across what is left of the town’s old fortifications.

Eventually I turn onto Teollisuuskatu, but I don’t pull up outside our premises. I can hear Taina’s voice. There’s a certain castigating tone to it, like when she told me that I never see things through, that

I give in too easily. That voice merges with the sight I witnessed only a moment ago. I feel livid.

I drive on about seven hundred metres until Teollisuuskatu makes a ninety-degree turn to the left and changes name. I pass a dark-blue building.

The Hamina Mushroom Company. Three men who, six months ago, appeared out of thin air.

They’ve been in contact with our Japanese clients. I know for a fact they’ve promised our clients more competitive rates and higher quality. Of course, it’s an empty promise because such a combination is completely impossible. But as a salesman I know a pitch like that is music to the ears of any importer. I don’t know how they’re planning to attract good pickers or how they’re going to organise the harvest. It can’t be a question of money, as the Hamina Mushroom Company doesn’t have a client anywhere near the size of ours.

The forecourt is empty. There’s generally a van decorated with garish signs parked outside. Sometimes one of the building’s large lever-gear doors is open, through which I can hear the strains of the latest Finnish pop songs and see at least one of the company’s owners having a cigarette on a couch carried out into the yard. This time, though, everything’s quiet and the building looks deserted.

I drive on for a while and make a U-turn. I approach the blue building again and try to focus my eyes. Nobody. Nothing. I pull into the side of the road before driving onto the forecourt.

It’s only midday, and I’m already here. The morning’s events seem to have happened longer ago than is feasible. I take my foot off the clutch, steer the car round in an arc in front of the building, stop and step out.18

In addition to the lever-gear doors, the building’s long wall also features a standard door. Beside it is a buzzer; I press it. A moment later I press it again. Nobody opens the door, and I can’t hear steps from inside. I give the door a try. I turn the handle and the door opens. I step inside and call out. No answer.

Immediately in front of me is some kind of office; I’ll have to walk through it to reach the other areas of the building. I stop in the office, though. The tables and shelves are empty. A solitary laptop computer and an office chair facing the door suggest that someone might have been working here and has left in a hurry. The entire room is dominated by a portrait – a photograph blown up many times and then framed. President Kekkonen’s eyes fix on my forehead and won’t relax their grip, even though I turn and continue further into the building.

They’ve certainly made an effort with the kitchen and staff room. That is, they’ve made an effort in the way that men make an effort if they’re given free rein over interior design. A tall bar counter and a large drinks cabinet with glass doors show that these men certainly like their beer. The selection is mostly Estonian, and there’s plenty of it.

The kitchen is tidy. To the left of it is the staff room, complete with a couch, an enormous television and an impressive sound system. I look through the neatly organised shelf of CDs and DVDs. Soft rock and action thrillers; Arttu Wiskari and Vin Diesel. A punching bag hangs from the ceiling, a pair of red boxing gloves dangle on the wall, and beneath them is a selection of hand-held weights.

When I turn around, though, what I see on the opposite wall is something altogether different.

I walk over to take a closer look. I’ve seen Samurai films, and these swords are the same as the ones I’ve seen in the hands of those stern-faced warriors. I reach up and carefully lift one of the swords from its mount. I pull it from its sheath. The blade is long. The steel glints, the sharpness of its edge gives me shivers – cold, unpleasant shivers. I press the sword back into its sheath and replace it on the wall.19

I still haven’t seen anything remotely related to mushrooms. If I were to judge purely on what I’ve seen, I’d guess this was a cross between a sword-fighting club and an Urho Kaleva Kekkonen appreciation society. Still, the office, kitchen and staff room only cover a small amount of the warehouse’s total area. I open another door and step onto the factory floor.

In less than thirty seconds I am both more envious and more taken aback than I have been in a long time. Or I would have been, if I hadn’t already been taken aback twice today.

The equipment and machinery are better and more modern than ours. It all glows and gleams, and clearly hasn’t once been used. There isn’t a single scratch, a single speck of rust. I walk around the facility and swallow back my surprise. I wasn’t expecting this.

It seems clear that

    a) our competitors are serious;

    b) they are something altogether different from what I’d imagined;

    c) for the third time today I’ve been caught with my trousers down.

I take back that last metaphor. I haven’t once been caught with my trousers down. Maybe that was my mistake.

We have a very real competitor.

I still think of the company in the plural – as ‘ours’. It’s hardly surprising. Taina and I own the company together, we founded it together, and together we have built up our little success story. It feels important; it is important. The business might just be the most important thing in my life right now. At the very least, it has remained constant and unchanged all morning, something that at this point can be considered a minor miracle.

Sunlight streams into the operations room through the only window in the wall with the doors. The air in here is cool. I’ve probably seen everything I came to see. I stand on the spot for a moment, then walk back the way I came. Kekkonen can vouch that I walk all the way out of the building.20

I jump into the car, accelerate out of the forecourt and turn onto Teollisuuskatu, which runs straight along the back of the building.

It’s a stroke of luck. The Hamina Mushroom Company van is coming in the opposite direction. All three men are sitting in the cab. They each look at me in turn as I pass them.

21

4

‘A week,’ says Olli as he spreads mushroom pâté on a slice of fresh rye bread. The pâté is a centimetre thick, the slice of bread is like an antique ski. ‘Then the first batch will be ready to leave, if you ask me.’

Olli is a veteran mushroom professional, an expert on mushrooms and all aspects of their quality, packaging, drying, preserving, freezing and shipping. He is a fifty-one-year-old grandfather. He is someone I might be able to talk to, at least about some of my problems.

‘So I can promise the Japanese a shipment next Wednesday?’ I ask.

‘You can promise anything you like,’ says Olli. ‘But the forest will decide.’

‘Of course.’ You have to interpret Olli a little, sometimes even translate him into plain Finnish.

‘We won’t know until we know.’

We are sitting on the patio outside the office. Olli begins tucking into a bowl of puréed meat-and-potato soup. Coffee slowly drips through the filter. I’m still full of ice cream. I have no appetite. Perhaps I can manage a biscuit. I take one from the bowl on the table, break it and put a piece in my mouth.

‘Olli,’ I say, ‘can I ask you something?’

‘You’re the one that pays the wages.’

‘This isn’t to do with work. It’s a … personal matter … and quite pressing. It’s actually very pressing. From now on everything is pressing. It’s best you know that.’

Olli looks at me with his brown eyes. He has thick, dark hair, combed back with gel, and an angular, friendly face. This is what George Clooney would have looked like if he’d been born in Hamina, eaten plenty of carbohydrates and spent his life working with mushrooms.22

‘My question is … well, it’s to do with the opposite sex. Women.’

Good job I made that clear, I scoff to myself, in case he didn’t realise I’m a man. Olli doesn’t seem perturbed. He nods. I turn my head and look over towards the neighbouring plot. The grey industrial building is at a slight angle.

‘I mean, you’ve got experience,’ I say.

‘Five decades.’

I’m about to say something but do a quick calculation and turn back to look at Olli. ‘I guess, sometimes, you’ve been … how should I put it … disappointed…?’

Olli sighs. ‘Five decades, mate. That’s how long I’ve been disappointed.’

I can’t conceal my bewilderment. ‘I thought that…’