‘May I ask you something?’
The man turns to look at me. He says nothing. The girl shouts at him for the umpteenth time. This time the voice sounds further away. Soon the park will swallow her up altogether.
‘What would you say to an adventure-park loan?’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a loan that you can take out as soon as you step into the adventure park.’
‘Really?’
‘Not quite yet,’ I say, trying to contain the flood of ideas rushing through my mind. ‘But let’s assume the adventure park did offer such loans, and let’s assume the interest on that loan was several percentage points cheaper than for the next-cheapest loan of its kind. Would you take out a loan like that?’
The girl’s voice has disappeared. She has already dived into the depths of the park. The man and I notice this simultaneously and both look towards the hall.
‘What options have I got?’ he asks.
I ask him a few follow-up questions, and he answers. Then I offer him and his daughter free tickets to the park. The man stands in front of me, the tickets in his hand.
‘Thank you,’ I say and tear two tickets from another batch. ‘These are for the Curly Cake Café. Parrot Pancakes with cream and strawberry jam are on special offer today.’
I hand the man the tickets. He seems to be thinking things through.
‘When can I take out that loan?’ he asks.
‘Very soon, I believe,’ I say. ‘I’ll be meeting the investors again any day.’
3
The car park is an empty field, and above the field a full moon glows. The door of the adventure park slides and clicks shut behind me as I walk towards the bus stop and the last bus that will take me to the train station, then home. The moon looks about as much like creamy Finnish cheese as it possibly can: it is yellow and hangs heavily in the sky, almost within reach. I imagine Schopenhauer sitting on the windowsill, staring hungrily into space. I hear my own footsteps, the hum of traffic along the highway up ahead. More precisely, my ears are still ringing with the ratcheting of a large calculator. I’ve been counting all afternoon and all evening. This is the first time since leaving the insurance company that I have felt so much satisfaction in my work. I realise that this is happiness.
I feel almost lighter. Besides the fact that I’m hiding a man in the freezer, I’m in debt to numerous companies, the state and a gang of criminals who knocked over my flagpole (both flag and pole have now been taken away, leaving only a concrete plinth with a short stump jutting up in the middle), and the pain in my shoulder is more acute than at any time thus far. My steps are quick, it feels as though my feet barely touch the ground. Numbers race through my mind. This is what the real, serious application of mathematics can give us. Happiness, comfort, hope. Sense and logic. And above alclass="underline" solutions.
Mathematics wins. Mathematics helps. Mathematics—
A car appears behind me. I haven’t heard it approach because it must have started accelerating from behind the building and, initially, the sound of its engine merged with the general roar of traffic coming from the highway. It only stands out from the background noise once it has turned the corner and begins heading for the middle of the car park, where I am walking. The car is tall, and it’s heading right towards me. I don’t recognise the car, but I don’t stand around thinking about it, waiting to get a better view of the insignia on the bumper. It’s an SUV, large and heavy.
I turn and break into a sprint. All I can think of is the ditch running between the car park and the road. You can’t drive across it and keep all four tyres on the ground. Few people would be able to jump across it either. You have to go down one steep side of the ditch then climb up the steep incline on the other side. Suddenly the edge of the car park feels kilometres away. I run and run, and for some reason it no longer feels like I’m almost walking on air. On the contrary, it feels as though my feet are glued to the tarmac. I hear the car’s tyres. I hear its motor. I suddenly change direction and hope it confuses the driver.
My diversionary tactic works. But only for half a fleeting second. The tyres screech against the asphalt. The car turns. I hear the tyres turning, the motor roaring, as the driver first slams on the brake, then hits the accelerator again. It’s as though I’m being chased by an exceptionally agile tank. I change direction again, making my own journey longer in the process, but the driver doesn’t fall for the same trick twice. I’m beginning to doubt I’ll be able to reach the ditch. It’s quite simply too far away and the SUV is quite simply too close. Still, I continue running. The sound of the engine drowns out everything else. The noise grows louder, the engine revs, moves up a gear. Before long the bumper is right at my back. A moment more and I’ll be under the car. Another moment and…
The car passes me. The mirror on the passenger side clips my left shoulder, the one with the knife wound. I stagger from the impact and see the SUV making a quick, tight turn. And that’s all I see.
I fall to the ground, roll over a few times, the asphalt grazes my knees, my palms, my elbows. I hear the tyres screech again, then the SUV’s door opens. I hear footsteps and realise I should start running again, because this time I haven’t got a rabbit’s ear to help me. But just as I’m trying to clamber to my feet, AK yanks my hands behind my back and hauls me upright.
The pain is dizzying. I try to wriggle free of his grip, but it’s no easier than last time. For us to be equal wrestling partners, I would have to be twenty years younger and seventy kilos heavier. That’s not going to happen tonight.
We take a few steps towards the SUV. The back-seat door is open. For some reason, it occurs to me how much my life has changed since, only a few weeks earlier, I was taking part in Perttilä’s Positive Impact seminar. Then I see Lizard Man in the driver’s seat, his expression every bit as cold as his eyes.
The SUV heads out of the city. AK is sitting next to me on the back seat, his headphones over his ears. I’m sure I can hear the constant, low-pitched thump of his music. AK holds me by the wrist. No handcuffs, no tape, no cable ties. Only his palm, the width of a chopping board, and his fingers clamped like steel cables around my mathematician’s wrist. We’re still no match for each other, but at least this time he’s not twisting. On the one hand, I’m relieved that the person who tried to scare me by nearly running me over is someone familiar, but on the other I realise there’s no time to lose. We are not on our way to the cinema or to grab a hot dog.
‘I was expecting you sooner,’ I say. ‘I’ve been doing some calculations. I have a suggestion.’
‘I’ve got a suggestion too,’ Lizard Man replies immediately but doesn’t continue, so the nature of his suggestion remains unclear.
‘It’s just, I wasn’t sure how to contact you,’ I say and try to stretch my legs. My knees are still sore from the fall. ‘I don’t even know your names. Well, I know his. Sort of. I assume the letters denote his first and last name. There are about fifty men’s names beginning with A in common use in Finland, but about five hundred surnames beginning with K. But if we look at the distribution of these names across different age demographics, and assuming I can more or less correctly guess his age, it’s much more likely that he is Antero Korhonen than Abraham Keräsaari. I trust in the laws of probability, and this would have been a good start if only I’d—’