It occurs to me that her acceptance of the Audi last night symbolizes Kate’s acceptance of the situation, that she’s so fed up that she doesn’t care anymore, and maybe my marriage is in trouble.
“Doctor-patient privilege,” I say. “I do things that are illegal, with the blessing-no, under the mandate-of the establishment. Some of them are ugly. I don’t hide them from her-or many of them, anyway. They bother her. I don’t know if it bothers her because I do them, or because I’m untroubled by them.” I don’t mention her two-day drunk. It was Vappu, might mean nothing.
“Do you take the tranquilizers I prescribed for you?”
“No. Nothing makes me nervous.”
He sighed, leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.
“As your doctor, brother and friend, I’m advising you to have an open discussion with your wife, go on sick leave, stop whatever it is you’re doing, and seek psychotherapy. I’ll find you a good therapist. You’re not getting better on your own, and you need rest and assistance until your brain repairs itself.”
I stood up and thanked him. “I’ll give everything you said consideration.” I left, having no intention of doing any such thing.
28
Noon. The Nyland Yacht Club. The whole gang from last night reappears, except for Aino. She had to go to work. Breakfast libations. Mimosas. Bloody Marys. Beer. The legal blood alcohol content for piloting a boat is twice that for driving a car. You can get pretty smashed and stay law compliant. Everyone dresses warm, coats with sweaters underneath. It’s forty-two degrees Fahrenheit, and cold on the Baltic, especially with the boat in motion.
Living with a foreigner causes unusual habits. Kate can conceptualize minus temperatures in Celsius, but not the plus side of the thermometer, so I’ve gotten in the habit of automatically converting in my head for her benefit. Now I often think in Fahrenheit too, but only on the plus side.
The prime minister has a thirty-one-foot motorized cruiser, a sharp-looking newer vessel. Below deck, it has three double-berth cabins, a big saloon and galley, a head, and seating for navigational equipment.
I text messaged Milo before we left the house, told him I wanted heroin and a throw-down gun hidden in the vessel, along with a GPS tracker, so we always know where it is, and keys to the boat, in case we wanted to use it. I had in mind that it would make for a more convenient way to dump bodies.
We set sail, make our way out to deeper waters, and the blender starts churning. It’s got a motor strong enough to power a car. Down in the saloon, mojitos and frozen drinks made of dark rum and fresh fruit start flowing for the women. I stay away from the hard stuff, crack a beer, find the fishing gear. I pull in perch, pike and sea trout. Milo and Sweetness felt ill at ease around the politicians, without me alongside them for the purpose of social lubrication. They looked for me, saw my catch, now seven decent-sized fish, and took the other two deck chairs on either side of me.
Sweetness had never fished before. I taught him the basics: casting and reeling, how to avoid tangling a line, how to bring a fish in and get it off the hook. He caught his first fish, a good-sized pike, and got little-kid excited. Milo is a good fisherman. The other men come up on deck and sip scotch, to fight the chill, they say. They watch us reel in more fish, want a turn at it themselves. We give up our seats. The interior minister says he’d like a word with me.
We lean against the rail. The wind covers our voices. I hand him an envelope. I decided to deliver his cut personally today. This is one of the things he would like to discuss with me. At present, he takes a fifteen percent cut, which goes to necessities, such as the Kokoomus party’s campaign funds. And yachts. I don’t say it. He doesn’t know I’m out of the drug-dealer-destruction business for the moment.
He needs another five percent bump out of the slush fund. Not retroactive, just from future earnings. He knows I don’t like it and offers an explanation. The money is to go to the Real Finns.
I ask why he would ensure that his competitors have adequate campaign funds.
The interior minister asks me about my political views. I say I envision some kind of democratic fascism. I believe in democracy, but media manipulation and information control has rendered voters incapable of making informed decisions. He agrees, cites the Finnish plan to join NATO that has been crammed down the throat of the public. The minister calls my views simplistic but astute, and shares his own views. The minister waxes wistful.
Finland, not so long ago, he explains, was a paradise for the worker, the common man. Politics, like every other aspect of life, has been globalized. Finland once took care of its citizens. Education. Medical care. The poor. But in fact, all the way back to the post-Second World War days of Kekkonen, it was always a scam, just what it took to keep voters happy, not altruistic concern for the public welfare. The higher powers in government never really gave a damn. Now, the ideals are gone. The USSR fell and Socialist ideals died with them. Finland’s far left and Communists got old, tired, apathetic and greedy, and the pretense of a caring government evaporated. Now, like almost everywhere, it’s every man for himself.
He sighs, miffed. “The ranks of Real Finns,” he says, “are growing by leaps and bounds. They’re scaring the shit out of the other center and left parties with talk of leaving the EU, going back from the euro to the Finnish markka, their politics of hate, blaming the country’s social ills on foreigners. Those parties are suffering mass defections. Kokoomus is the party of the rich, and those who wish to be rich. The fear factor is the key to winning the election. Liberals, knowing they don’t stand a chance, will vote for Kokoomus, because it’s the best way to keep Real Finns out of office. There are seventeen parties. The more momentum Real Finns gain, the more it will pressure members of the other fifteen parties to vote for Kokoomus, out of simple terror. Any show of weakness by Real Finns might give voters hope and encourage them to vote for their party of choice.
“Real Finns, being the party of the common man, receive common donations, and not enough. Veikko Saukko had promised a million euros in campaign funds for Real Finns in early 2009, almost a year and a half ago, then reneged because the party’s anti-foreigner stance wasn’t strong enough. Saukko is a man given to temperamental mood swings, and in fact, he likes me,” the minister said. “I still hope to get him to come up with the promised cash.”
I take the envelope back out of his hand. “You want something from me. After we discuss it, we can discuss money.”
He wrapped his arms around himself, bunched himself up against the cold and laughed. “Most people fear me,” he said. “You couldn’t give a fuck less. Why is that?”
I shrug. “It’s not my nature.”
“I’ve found a truism in life,” he said. “People good at one thing tend to be good at others. You’ve proven yourself adroit in the assignments given you.”
I say nothing.
“Veikko Saukko began in the scandal-sheet business and has a great fondness for dirt.”
I laugh. “You want me to be minister of propaganda and start a hate rag?”
“Yes. And call it Be Happy.”
“What level of dirt?”
“Deep and evil left-wing gossip filth. An attack on Lisbet Soderlund’s character should dominate the first issue. A ‘Thank God that scourge of the nation is dead’ type of thing. Discredit leftists as Commies, fags, dopers, reprobates, nigger lovers. Fearmongering-armed blacks are organized, preparing to kill good, innocent, white God-fearing Finns-should be a major theme. Scatter it in with celeb skank to hide the purpose of the rag. It will impress the hell out of Saukko. Can you do that?”