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Authors: Jan Costin Wagner
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asked Joentaa.
Nurmela still did not reply; there was a crackle on the line.
‘Alligator. Alligator. That’s not it, Ari-Pekka, that’s not it,’ said the TV presenter, gesticulating.
‘Are you crazy?’ said Nurmela.
‘Thanks for calling in, Ari-Pekka.’
‘What?’ said Joentaa.
‘Look, it’s three in the morning. I’m asleep. My wife is asleep.’
‘She’s gone,’ said Joentaa.
‘Who?’
‘Larissa.’
‘Kimmo, I’m going to—’
‘I have to find her,’ said Joentaa. ‘Do you know—’
‘Stop going on about that damn woman.’
‘I went to the house where she was working, but she isn’t there any more, and I thought you might have another number or address where she . . .’
‘No, darling, no, no, go back to sleep.’
‘. . . where she worked.’
‘Hamster, no, that’s not it. No, the first letter of the name is A. The initial is A.’
‘Yes . . . lie down, darling, I’ll be right back.’
‘Are you listening to me?’ asked Joentaa.
There was more crackling on the line, and then Nurmela’s whispering voice came through quite close. ‘Now then, listen to me, Kimmo, you arsehole. I want to get some sleep. I don’t know the woman, and she doesn’t interest me either.’
‘I have to find her as soon as possible,’ said Joentaa.
Nurmela said nothing.
‘Like now,’ said Joentaa.
‘Kimmo, I’m hanging up,’ said Nurmela evenly.
‘She left the key,’ said Joentaa.
‘Ape, no. Ape isn’t the answer,’ said the presenter, who had now lost her bra.
‘She never did that before.’
Nurmela had hung up, and for a while Joentaa watched the TV presenter.
Then he rang the number flickering on the screen. He waited for the now familiar message that he had been hearing for hours when he tried it, to the effect that all the lines were in use, and advising him to try again a little later.
Instead, another voice informed him that he was in luck and would be put straight through.
He waited.
The woman on the screen bobbed up and down on tiptoe and asked him his name.
‘Er, Kimmo,’ he said.
‘Kimmo, lovely to talk to you.’
‘Thanks. The same to you.’
The woman on the screen laughed, and Joentaa bent forward and narrowed his eyes to see her better.
‘Kimmo, dear, are you still on the line?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have a lovely voice.’
‘Do I? Thanks.’
‘What is the right answer?’
‘Giraffe.’
The woman laughed, a sudden, shrill laugh. ‘The initial is A, sweetie-pie. The name begins with A.’
‘I’m right, all the same.’
‘I’m inclined to think our friend Kimmo isn’t totally sober.’
‘Are you hanging up on me now?’
‘Thanks for calling in, Kimmo.’
The sports channel was showing a tennis match. He sat on the floor, leaning back against the sofa, and followed a few rallies before his head fell to one side.
One of the players served an ace. Applause.
Just before darkness came down on him, he asked himself, with remarkable clarity, whether he was falling asleep or falling unconscious, and what the difference really was.
21
11 August 1985
Dear diary,
Saara laughed because I played all the wrong notes. I hadn’t practised the piece, but I didn’t want to admit it. I think I sat there stiffly and tried to press the right keys, but it sounded terrible.
Saara laughed, and suddenly stroked my hair very lightly. It felt incredibly good. As if she was petting me. Then she said we’d better play something else, and I could choose the piece, and then Risto was standing in the doorway asking what there was to laugh about.
‘Nothing,’ said Saara, quick as a shot.
‘Oh, nothing?’
Saara shook her head, and Risto asked what the idea of the boy was supposed to be. I think he meant me, and Saara didn’t get round to answering because Risto took a couple of quick steps our way and hit her.
Just like that.
She sat there, and I think she started trembling.
Risto went away and came back after a while, and he said we could play
Nurmela still did not reply; there was a crackle on the line.
‘Alligator. Alligator. That’s not it, Ari-Pekka, that’s not it,’ said the TV presenter, gesticulating.
‘Are you crazy?’ said Nurmela.
‘Thanks for calling in, Ari-Pekka.’
‘What?’ said Joentaa.
‘Look, it’s three in the morning. I’m asleep. My wife is asleep.’
‘She’s gone,’ said Joentaa.
‘Who?’
‘Larissa.’
‘Kimmo, I’m going to—’
‘I have to find her,’ said Joentaa. ‘Do you know—’
‘Stop going on about that damn woman.’
‘I went to the house where she was working, but she isn’t there any more, and I thought you might have another number or address where she . . .’
‘No, darling, no, no, go back to sleep.’
‘. . . where she worked.’
‘Hamster, no, that’s not it. No, the first letter of the name is A. The initial is A.’
‘Yes . . . lie down, darling, I’ll be right back.’
‘Are you listening to me?’ asked Joentaa.
There was more crackling on the line, and then Nurmela’s whispering voice came through quite close. ‘Now then, listen to me, Kimmo, you arsehole. I want to get some sleep. I don’t know the woman, and she doesn’t interest me either.’
‘I have to find her as soon as possible,’ said Joentaa.
Nurmela said nothing.
‘Like now,’ said Joentaa.
‘Kimmo, I’m hanging up,’ said Nurmela evenly.
‘She left the key,’ said Joentaa.
‘Ape, no. Ape isn’t the answer,’ said the presenter, who had now lost her bra.
‘She never did that before.’
Nurmela had hung up, and for a while Joentaa watched the TV presenter.
Then he rang the number flickering on the screen. He waited for the now familiar message that he had been hearing for hours when he tried it, to the effect that all the lines were in use, and advising him to try again a little later.
Instead, another voice informed him that he was in luck and would be put straight through.
He waited.
The woman on the screen bobbed up and down on tiptoe and asked him his name.
‘Er, Kimmo,’ he said.
‘Kimmo, lovely to talk to you.’
‘Thanks. The same to you.’
The woman on the screen laughed, and Joentaa bent forward and narrowed his eyes to see her better.
‘Kimmo, dear, are you still on the line?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have a lovely voice.’
‘Do I? Thanks.’
‘What is the right answer?’
‘Giraffe.’
The woman laughed, a sudden, shrill laugh. ‘The initial is A, sweetie-pie. The name begins with A.’
‘I’m right, all the same.’
‘I’m inclined to think our friend Kimmo isn’t totally sober.’
‘Are you hanging up on me now?’
‘Thanks for calling in, Kimmo.’
The sports channel was showing a tennis match. He sat on the floor, leaning back against the sofa, and followed a few rallies before his head fell to one side.
One of the players served an ace. Applause.
Just before darkness came down on him, he asked himself, with remarkable clarity, whether he was falling asleep or falling unconscious, and what the difference really was.
21
11 August 1985
Dear diary,
Saara laughed because I played all the wrong notes. I hadn’t practised the piece, but I didn’t want to admit it. I think I sat there stiffly and tried to press the right keys, but it sounded terrible.
Saara laughed, and suddenly stroked my hair very lightly. It felt incredibly good. As if she was petting me. Then she said we’d better play something else, and I could choose the piece, and then Risto was standing in the doorway asking what there was to laugh about.
‘Nothing,’ said Saara, quick as a shot.
‘Oh, nothing?’
Saara shook her head, and Risto asked what the idea of the boy was supposed to be. I think he meant me, and Saara didn’t get round to answering because Risto took a couple of quick steps our way and hit her.
Just like that.
She sat there, and I think she started trembling.
Risto went away and came back after a while, and he said we could play
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