Last spring I turned sixty-one. As a birthday present, the post brought me a little surprise, and boy, what a real red-letter day it was. The social awarded me a permanent disability pension! It felt like I’d won the lottery. I walked to the toilet by myself, the letter in my hand, and Jappe just sat at the kitchen table staring at me, his jaw almost touching the floor. I pulled on my best clothes and even took the lift downstairs—the last time I used the lift must have been back in the nineties when Nipa was still alive. I strode into the supermarket and filled my shopping bag with food because it felt like the whole world had opened up to me, then I skipped across to the bus stop like some young whippersnapper and took a ride into town. I accidentally left the bag of food on the bus, but at least I still had a bank card in my pocket. The railway station looked so nice that I bought a ticket all the way to Pori. I spent three months dashing from one place to the next, and I can’t remember a thing about it. I would probably have carried on like that indefinitely, but one day Jappe turned up and took me home.
Now I’m back sitting at the kitchen table and Jappe has to help me to the loo again. But it doesn’t matter. The good thing about this permanent disability pension is that if I get well again, I can jump right back into the jobs market any time I want.
We’ve been swimming so long I bet you’re really hungry. Mummy’s brought some grapes. Have some of those. You must be very thirsty. I’ve got some carrots too. See? The little baby carrots that you like so much. Munch a few carrots first, then have some grapes. Right, T-shirt on, pants on. Mummy’s almost dressed already. Let’s see which one of us can get our socks on first. Look, here’s a banana. Eat that and you’ll be able to walk all the way out to the car park. It’s such a long way, you can’t even see it out of the window. It must be at least fifty metres away. Come on, socks on, please, Mummy’s already combed her hair. Have a digestive biscuit—that’ll make you grow. Tie your hair back now, Mummy’s already got her trousers on. Don’t just stand there. Eat your biscuit, trousers on, jumper on, and we’ll be just fine. Look, I’ve brought you a doughnut too, your blood-sugar levels must be low after all that splashing around. Wasn’t that fun? Take a bite of your doughnut. Look, give me the biscuit if you’re not going to eat it. Sweater on. Chop, chop, Mummy’s ready to go. You haven’t touched your banana either. Did you eat any of those grapes? Carrots? Goodness me, you hardly eat a thing, you’ll waste away. Just think, you’re almost three years old and you’re still that small. You’ll never turn into a big girl if you carry on like that. Do you want to be like Mummy one day? If you do, then you’d better start eating properly. Don’t you worry, us girls will be just fine, even though Daddy left us and went off with that bitch. God, I hate her, but we’ll be all right though, won’t we? If you walk back to the car nicely, there’s Coke and popcorn, OK?
A stinking salmon carcass had been left lying on the kitchen counter. I chucked it in the bin. I sat down at the kitchen table, but I hadn’t quite finished my green tea when the doorbell rang. It was Tuukka, said he fancied a quick shag. I was like, just let me finish my tea, will you? He’s like, he hasn’t got time to wait around. I took care of him in the hallway. I nipped into the bathroom, then back into the kitchen; the smell coming from the bin slapped me in the face as I made a fresh pot of tea. I’d just lit a cigarette when my phone rang. It was Tuure. He was sitting in his car outside and needed a blow-job. I was like, come up to the flat, I’m still in my nightie. He’s like, no, you come down here. I pulled a dressing gown round my shoulders and took the lift down two floors. Only once the lift had jolted into motion did I remember I’d forgotten the rubbish bag. At least it was warm in the car. Once we were done, I walked up the stairs and popped into the bathroom on my way back to the kitchen. The tea was brewed to perfection and tasted really good, the stink from the rubbish bin notwithstanding. I smoked a Camel and went through to the bedroom. I’d just pulled on a T-shirt when the doorbell rang. There were two blokes standing outside. I was like, what? Can we come in, one of them mumbled. Fuck off, I said and slammed the door in their face. I went back into the bedroom, pulled on my jeans and heard the blokes pushing something through the letterbox. I dashed to the door to look, and there was a piece of paper lying on the mat. I snatched it up and read it: My name’s Mage and that’s my mate Samppa. He’s a bit of a retard. Can you help him out? He’s still a virgin. I crumpled the piece of paper, threw it in the smelly bin bag. I wiped the counter, and just as I was about to take the whole stinking thing out, my phone rang again. It was Jarkko, said that he was delivering an order to Tikkurila, that he was in the mood, and he’d be at my place in two minutes. I threw the rubbish bag into a corner of the hallway, took care of Jarkko and finally took the whole fucking thing out to the rubbish bin. When I got back to the flat, someone gave the door a sleek knock three times. I couldn’t help smiling because there’s only one person in the world who knocks like that.
I quickly pull on my clothes, give my teeth a cursory brush and run out to the car. I’ve got to be at the hospital before nine. I drive through two sets of red lights. I leave the car in the hospital car park, located far away from the main door, and run to the lift. I’m three minutes late. I press the button for the fifth floor; the lift seems to rise so bloody slowly, then finally the doors slide open. He’s standing there in a green coat, and he’s so livid that there’s spittle bubbling at the corner of his mouth, he won’t look me in the eye, but keeps his lips tightly shut. We rush into the bathroom the way we always do. I give him the bag and he slaps a five-hundred-euro bill in my hand. He doesn’t say anything, but from his trembling hands I can tell that waiting in the operating theatre there’s a patient whose skull he’s about to bore open. He disappears into the cubicle and locks the door. I step out of the bathroom, head back to the lift and catch my breath. His hands aren’t trembling any longer.
So you decided to order a cab in the middle of the night? You’re a brave woman; there are all kinds of junkie drivers out at this time of night, and not all of them are nice guys like me. The night shift always brings out the freaks and perverts. Anything could happen. Imagine a situation where I tell you to undress and spread your old muff on the back seat, so I can get an eyeful of it in this little mirror here. I wouldn’t do anything else, I wouldn’t touch you, wouldn’t say anything, I’d just look. You haven’t got the number of my cab because you didn’t know how to order by text message, but called the switchboard instead the way people did in, you know, prehistoric times, and besides, by the time we got to the airport, you’d be in such a state of shock that you’d forget to write down my reg number. Just imagine I was some kind of serial-killer cabbie, a real psycho that pulled a gun on you, released the safety catch and pointed the thing at you while I was driving. I wouldn’t say anything, I’d just point the gun at you, and once we’d arrived at the airport, I’d slip it back into my pocket. If you went crying to the police, they’d just think you were crazy—which you probably are anyway. All kinds of things can happen when you race around in a taxi to catch a budget flight at this time of night. You’re better off flying with a proper airline so you can travel at a decent hour of the day. The predators come out at night, you know that, right? Just think about what happened in Pori. Did you read about that? There was this young cab driver, small and skinny, a guy just like me, spends all night driving around the town centre. Then outside a pub some bitch waves her hand at him, the kind of slag that’s slept with at least half the town. Taxiii, she squeals. And it really fucks this driver off. He picks her up, turns on to a small lane into the woods and stabs her six hundred and two times with a hunting knife, then drives back to the motorway, washes his hands in a toilet at the petrol station and carries on with his shift until morning. Sure, there was a bit of blood on the steering wheel, but not a single customer noticed it. Was it Terminal 1 or 2?