The man’s small blue eyes slowly opened and closed. I didn’t want to think of a lizard, but I did. A reptile, an iguana.
‘When he died, Juhani’s debt was two hundred thousand euros,’ the man said. ‘Now it’s two hundred and twenty thousand. You know why?’
‘Which debt are we talking about?’ I asked.
‘Do you know why?’ he repeated.
‘First I have to know which—’
‘Because now there’s interest to pay,’ he said. ‘And the interest rate is ten percent.’
‘Over what period of time?’
‘The time since he popped his clogs. Your brother, that is.’
‘Two weeks and four days? Ten percent interest? Where did he agree to that?’
‘Right here in this room,’ the man said, opening out his arms as if to bequeath me the office I already owned. ‘We shook on it.’
‘You shook on it? Two hundred thousand?’
Now the man clasped his hands in front of him, showed them to me and nodded slowly. This bizarre performance of his had gone on long enough.
‘This is absurd,’ I said. ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave. I don’t know who you are, and you won’t tell me. And you don’t have a formal agreement or contract. There’s no sense in this. Please leave.’
The man did not move. The mutant hadn’t moved throughout the whole conversation. The older man’s small, piercing eyes closed, then slowly opened again.
‘I can increase the interest rate, if necessary,’ he said.
I shook my head. ‘You come here demanding two hundred thousand euros—’
‘Two hundred and twenty thousand,’ he corrected me.
‘And as for that interest rate,’ I said. ‘Ten percent in two weeks and four days. That’s nearly six hundred percent per annum.’
‘Did you just work that out in your head?’
‘Of course. It’s a simple enough calculation:
‘Impressive,’ the man said.
‘What is?’
‘You worked that out pretty quickly. I wouldn’t have been able to tell you anything about the annual interest rate.’
‘I calculated it so that you’d see what nonsense you’re talking. The next time you try to swindle someone, at least try to make the numbers sound credible.’
‘Credible?’
‘The way Wertheimer almost conned Einstein himself, for instance. Wertheimer presented him with the following conundrum: an old car drives for two kilometres, first uphill then downhill. Because the car is old, it can’t drive the first kilometre faster than an average of fifteen kilometres per hour. The question is: how fast must the old banger drive the second kilometre – going downhill, where it can drive faster – so that the average speed for the entire journey is thirty kilometres per hour?’
The man pursed his lips a few times, then reached a conclusion.
‘That’s an easy one,’ he said. ‘Two kilometres. The first kilometre at fifteen km/h. Fine. The second has to be at forty-five. Because forty-five plus fifteen is sixty. Sixty divided by two is thirty. So forty-five on the way down and Bob’s your uncle.’
‘So one would think,’ I said. ‘But it’s a trick question. The right answer is, it’s impossible. Not even if the car shot down the hill like a space shuttle.’
The man said nothing.
‘At a speed of fifteen kilometres per hour, it takes the old car four minutes to reach the top of the hill, a journey of one kilometre,’ I said. ‘But how long does it take to drive up the hill and back again at an average speed of thirty kilometres per hour? The journey up and down is two kilometres in total. At thirty kilometres per hour, two kilometres will take four minutes. Thus, the car needs only four minutes to cover the whole journey at the faster speed. But these minutes have already been used up by the time it reaches the top of the hill.’
Again, those iguana eyes. The eyelids lowered, then rose again.
‘Einstein only realised this once he started looking at the problem in greater detail,’ I continued. ‘But not everyone is like Einstein. Not even you. No offence. I’m just saying you should look a bit more closely at things, like Wertheimer.’
‘What about you?’
‘What about me?’
‘Did you fall for it?’
‘At first,’ I replied honestly. ‘But because I calculate everything carefully and think methodically through everything I do, I noticed almost straight away what was going on. You can’t trick me. I don’t leave anything to chance that doesn’t need to be left to chance. I believe in the calculus of probability.’
‘Sounds promising.’
‘In what way?’ I asked, without really knowing why. I just wanted the men to leave.
‘With a view to understanding our situation here,’ he said and turned his head. ‘Let’s add another level of understanding, shall we? Ay-Kay.’
The last, confusing word was seemingly aimed at the mutant. He didn’t react at all, perhaps there was something more interesting coming from his headphones.
‘AY-KAY!’
The mutant flinched, removed the headphone from his right ear. I could hear a low-pitched thumping. The mutant, who I now realised answered to the initials AK, looked at the older man with renewed interest.
‘AK,’ said the older man. ‘If you would.’
After this brief instruction, everything happened very quickly.
AK replaced the headphones over his ears, slid his phone into his tracksuit pocket, took a few brisk steps that, with surprising speed and agility, brought him round the desk and right next to me. In the same series of movements, he gripped my right hand as though it were part of his own body.
I was wrenched out of the chair and under AK’s arm. I caught the thick smell of aftershave and deodorant. The pain felt like an explosion whose pressure waves rippled through my body. AK twisted my little finger upwards. With my free hand, I grabbed AK’s hands and tried to prise them from round my own. It was like trying to stop a dam bursting with your bare hands. AK twisted again. I was paralysed with pain, couldn’t breathe.
‘Right, Einstein, or whoever the fuck his friend was. AK here could pull your finger right off. I’ve seen him do it. He just yanks it off in one go. It’s impressive. I like the sound. Like pulling a leg off a roast chicken. It’s a meaty, juicy sound, only much, much louder. I don’t know if that’s what’s going to happen right now. He can’t hear me. Can you hear me, Henri?’
I nodded once, twice.
‘Good,’ said the man.
AK twisted again.
‘It looks like this has all come as a bit of a surprise to you. You see, your brother Juhani liked playing poker. He liked it a lot. We lent him money so he could keep on playing. Everything was going well. He kept playing, we lent him more money. He paid his debts, then borrowed some more. Where’s the problem? We were all happy bunnies. Then suddenly he stopped paying but carried on playing. Not such happy bunnies now. Do you follow?’
I nodded twice, this time in much quicker succession. The older man waved his hand like a football referee disallowing a goal. AK let go. My hand was on fire. AK returned to his spot near the wall, as if he had never left it. I felt my right hand with my left. I couldn’t tell if anything was broken.
‘Looks like your finger’s still attached,’ said the man, then paused. ‘Two hundred and twenty thousand euros.’
‘I don’t have—’
‘You do, and I know you do,’ he said. ‘The petty-cash register is in good shape.’
I heard these last words twice, first when he uttered them, then as I mentally repeated them to myself. He knew.
‘In case you’re thinking of calling the police,’ he continued, ‘think twice about that. In the worse scenario, the amusement park will close down and you’ll still owe us the money. Then how will you pay your debts?’