2
‘Dead.’
I’ve only slept an hour and a half, and I’m not at all prepared for what Minttu K is telling me. Her voice is hoarse, and she has brought into the room both a hint of morning-fresh perfume and something nocturnal, a heavier note that makes me think of nightclubs and popping bottles of prosecco. It’s a minute past nine, and I have just arrived at the adventure park and sat down at my desk.
‘Kaput,’ she continues, and beneath all that tan she looks as though she might be blushing ever so slightly. ‘End of. What are you trying to do to me?’
I don’t quite understand what she means. My bewilderment is, naturally, compounded because I’m confusing two things. At first, I imagine someone must have found something in the hall or the cafeteria freezer that doesn’t strictly belong there and now Minttu K has turned up to ask me about it. Then, in her hand I see the piece of paper I left on her desk yesterday.
‘We all have to tighten our belts,’ I explain.
‘You’re killing me here.’
‘Not just you,’ I say. I realise this must have sounded rather rude, so I continue. ‘Not you personally. I mean, neither you nor the marketing, nor anyone else or any other particular sector. I’m just trying to save money where it’s possible to do so.’
Minttu K sits down and crosses her left leg over her right. Her trousers are excruciatingly tight.
‘Listen,’ she says. ‘I get that this is all new to you and you’re finding it hard. What with your brother and … all that. This must have taken you a bit by surprise.’
‘You could say that.’
‘But I can assure you, I’ve been in tighter situations that this. I’ll tell you about it one day. You wouldn’t believe—’
‘Probably not.’
Minttu K seems to stop in her tracks. She casts a somewhat longer glance at me.
‘You look kind of … different,’ she says.
‘I didn’t get much sleep.’
‘Honey, I haven’t slept since the nineties,’ she nods. ‘Listen, my point is, reputation is how you sell things. And how do you build a reputation? By doing things and telling people about them.’
Minttu K speaks almost as much with her hands as with her red-painted lips. Her silver rings twinkle in the air.
‘You need to have balls,’ she says and grabs her crotch. I quickly avert my eyes. ‘This piece of paper doesn’t have balls.’
‘It’s a budget proposal.’
‘Exactly,’ she says, now rather animated. ‘I need money, dough, wonga.’
The last sentence seems to fly out of her mouth involuntarily. The words have a different quality to everything else she has said, particularly her incessant saccharine ‘honey’. Her voice sounds more emphatic now, almost with a hint of genuine panic.
‘You?’ I ask.
Minttu K looks away, first at the floor, then at me again.
‘The marketing needs money,’ she says quickly. ‘And I … am the marketing.’
I think of all the missing money. Who ultimately scrutinises the way Minttu K uses her marketing budget? What was I thinking about nightclubs and prosecco bottles a moment ago? These aren’t my only questions. All night and all morning I’ve been asking – thus far only asking myself – how the knife thrower got into the building in the first place. How did he know I was doing overtime, alone? Before I manage to formulate a question, my attention is drawn to the door. I see Laura Helanto before she sees us. She is walking past the open door, but as she notices us she seems to flinch slightly and stops as though she has bumped into something soft.
‘Well, good morning,’ she says eventually.
Minttu K glances at the door, then turns her head away without wishing Laura good morning back. I’m reminded of the change in atmosphere during my introductory tour when we stepped into Minttu K’s office. Laura and Minttu K didn’t greet each other then, either. If I remember right, I haven’t seen them speak to each other once since my arrival.
‘Morning,’ I say and wait.
‘Just on my way to the office-equipment room,’ says Laura and waves a hand towards the end of the corridor. ‘I didn’t realise you were already here, Henri.’
Again, Laura addresses her words only to me. She only sees one person in the room. It’s not all that out of the ordinary. One can’t always get on with everybody – as I know from experience. Perttilä would doubtless send Laura and Minttu K on a confrontation-therapy course with a mentor to guide them in the right direction; it might take place in a yoga room, maybe even by candlelight. But right now, this isn’t at the top of my list of priorities.
‘Why wouldn’t I be here?’ I ask Laura.
She thinks about this for two seconds.
‘You stayed on after closing last night. I thought you might want to rest this morning. Monday is the quietest day of the week, especially before lunch.’
‘Have you seen the rabbit?’ I ask.
It can be an unpredictable rabbit. That’s what Laura Helanto had said only a few hours ago. She looks behind her. The rabbit isn’t behind her.
‘Not yet,’ she says. ‘I haven’t been into the hall yet, I thought I’d just … sort out … one … little thing…’
Her phone rings. Laura steps out of the doorway. I can hear her answering. Minttu K shifts position in her chair, crosses her right leg over her left.
‘Honey,’ she says, her voice syrupy once more. ‘Let’s not cut the marketing budget, okay?’
My thoughts are still with the rabbit, and I’m trying to move them back to Minttu K when Laura appears at the door again.
‘Bit of a situation, I’m afraid,’ she says.
The situation, as she describes it, is out in the forecourt. Someone has knocked over our flagpole – either driven into it or pushed it over. It is a bright, beautiful morning, the wind is cool and autumnal. The light-blue sky is clear and cloudless. We meet at the foot of the flagpole. The yellow-green-red YouMeFun flag is lying on the dry, grey concrete about twenty metres away. To be more precise, we meet at the stump of the flagpole. I look at Kristian, who has called Laura, and it looks as though he is about to cry. Then I realise it’s because he is livid.
‘Fucking amateurs,’ he seethes. ‘Fucking learner drivers.’
‘Who?’ I ask.
Kristian turns to look at me, his eyes glistening and agitated. ‘The people that knocked into the flagpole.’
I look around, turn a full 360 degrees. There is at least thirty metres of space on all sides. Nobody knocks into a flagpole by accident. You have to aim for it over a considerable distance, in fact you have to start heading towards it from the turning that leads down to the car park. That’s 150 metres away. Whoever knocked into the flagpole really put their mind to it.
‘I doubt the problem is with the driving instructor,’ I say eventually. ‘Kristian, take care of this, please.’
‘But who will man the customer-service desk?’ he asks.
‘Isn’t Venla there?’
Kristian stares at the ground in front of him.
‘Ill.’
‘Again?’
‘Yes.’
The flagpole lying on the ground looks more woeful with every passing minute. There’s something metaphorical about it. Something about which I don’t need to be reminded. Kristian and I are alone in the forecourt. The wind is penetrating my shirt, whipping my tie over my shoulder. Inside, Laura Helanto is holding a course for children that seems like a combination of art and aerobics.