Read Online The Healer by Antti Tuomainen - Free Book Online Page A

of music and shouting.
    It took effort to make my way through the wall of people to the counter and at least as much effort to get a beer ordered. A pint of beer was slammed down in front of me; I paid for it and tried to see if there was anyone in the bar I knew. The bartenders running back and forth behind the counter weren’t familiar, nor was the thin-bearded loudmouth bumming money next to me. He looked remarkably young up close.
    I had come to this bar for years, sometimes too regularly. It was on the route I walked to or from downtown back when I lived on Mechelininkatu. That was the time before Johanna. It wasn’t a good time.
    Patrons at numerous tables had already passed the point where coherent conversation becomes impossible—the only point now was to manage to make a noise at all, to lean on one another and drink some more. I didn’t recognize anyone so I continued into the back room.
    It was even more poorly ventilated than the front. The smell of liquor and piss intertwined and took command of the air. The people at the tables were complete strangers to me, and I was already turning back when I saw a familiar face through the narrow crack of a half-opened door at the rear of the room. A broad-shouldered bartender that I remembered from ten years before finished stacking a pile of boxes, picked up the top one, walked out of the storage room, and slammed the door shut behind him with one elbow. He noticed me. I gave him a cheerful hello and wished I could remember his name. I couldn’t, so my greeting was brief. He continued to the front room with the case of vodka in his arms.
    I followed him and shouldered my way up to the counter. I put my beer down on the glass countertop and put my hand in something dark and sticky. I greeted the bartender again. He noticed me and came to stand in front of me behind the counter. He hadn’t really changed in ten years; his face was a little more angular, it was true, and there were deep lines in his cheeks on either side of his mouth. His eyes had dimmed and become more expectant, as sometimes happens with age. But his ponytail was still there, his shoulders still spread broad, and the stubble on his chin was the same dark, scruffy mat as it was long ago.
    I took my phone out of my pocket.
    â€œI used to come here,” I said.
    â€œI remember,” he said, and added, with a certain emphasis, “vaguely.”
    â€œMy wife disappeared.”
    â€œThat I don’t remember.”
    â€œIt didn’t happen here,” I said.
    He was looking at me now the way he must have looked at most of his customers. He knew very well that there was no point in trying to have a conversation with a drunk about anything more complicated than an order of beer. His face held a completely neutral, closed expression; this was the end of the discussion as far as he was concerned. As he was turning away, I raised my hand.
    â€œWait,” I said, and he turned back toward me. “I’m looking for my wife, and also for another person, a man.”
    I clicked open the image of Pasi Tarkiainen, enlarged it, and handed the phone to the bartender. The phone shrank in his hand to the size of a matchbox.
    â€œHave you ever seen this guy here?” I asked.
    He looked up and handed the phone back to me. The edges of his mouth were curled and his eyes widened ever so slightly.
    â€œNever,” he said. But a fleeting, non-neutral expression flashed in his face.
    I looked at him for a moment, trying to grasp the hint of something that I’d just seen in his eyes.
    â€œHe lived around here,” I said. “I believe he’s been in here many times.”
    The bartender waved a hand in my direction. His arm was big enough that he could have reached my nose from where he stood.
    â€œI believe you’ve been in here many times, and all I remember is the time years ago when we had to carry you to a taxi.”
    I put my glass down and managed