‘Who’s “we”?’ asks the big man.
I turn to my left. The man is swinging calmly at the end of the rope. I look at the big man. Perhaps it’s best not to say that ‘we’ means those of us who are still alive.
‘You,’ I reply. ‘You and … me. We will lend people money.’
‘I already lend people money,’ he says.
‘And that’s precisely the problem,’ I say. ‘These loans have no legal protection. And cash has the same problem, no matter which direction you move it in. The solution to this is a bank that offers payday loans.’
Lizard Man laughs again, again the laugh is short, scornful. The big man doesn’t pay him any attention.
‘In fact, he gave me the idea in the first place,’ I say and glance over at Lizard Man, his expression now more hostile than ever. It occurs to me that I am somehow about to step on his toes. ‘And everything became clear to me when I was selling tickets at the park. Initially, it was the matter of the interest on my brother’s original loan from you. I couldn’t help thinking that the interest rate seemed very … loan-sharkish. In a nutshelclass="underline" we set up a payday loan company with the capital that the park will accrue through the increased volume of ticket sales. We will offer our customers small loans, which they can receive immediately. The body of loan customers will grow, as will, I believe, footfall at the park in general, because people will instantly have more money at their disposal. As sales figures rise, we can either grant more loans or I can pay back my brother’s debt to you. That way, you will receive not only the original sum of the loan, but the interest on all the smaller loans too. And what’s more, so far all that money is legal and above board.’
‘You’ve clearly given this some thought,’ says the big man.
There’s no need to look at the hanged man. I recall one of Perttilä’s favourite buzzwords.
‘I’m highly motivated,’ I say.
‘But now that everything is sorted out, what do I need you for?’
For this question, I always have an answer at the ready.
‘I am an actuary.’
Lizard Man laughs for a third time, but this time the laughter is forced, the scorn a little unsure of itself.
‘By that, I mean that my arithmetic skills are of the highest calibre and, as such, they are invaluable to you: I am one hundred percent reliable,’ I continue. ‘And I presume, based on what I have, shall we say, seen and personally experienced in recent weeks … I presume I am the only person in this room without a criminal record.’
This time nobody laughs. Nobody pipes up to defend their honour or reputation. Perhaps I have struck a nerve. I might just have saved my life.
‘I am the only one of us who can establish a money-lending service like this and I am the only one who can count everything,’ I add.
The barn is silent.
‘We might have use for a man like that in certain circumstances. If the proposal is legit.’
And what if it isn’t? Will my noose be tied to the same quadbike or a different one?
The big man holds a short pause.
‘How soon?’ he asks eventually.
‘How soon, what?’
‘How soon will we see if this works or not?’
‘Two weeks from when the bank commences operations,’ I say, though my original calculations were based on an initial phase of a month. Right now that feels too long.
‘And what happens if everything falls through?’ he asks.
‘I’ve taken that into consideration too,’ I say. ‘It won’t fall through. If nobody takes out a loan, you will still have legal, clean money to the sum of the original investment. That, at least, is a win. If, meanwhile, people don’t pay back their loans and the bank goes bust, which I don’t think is at all likely, then the adventure park acts as a guarantee, which again means that you will get at least the original investment back. And, again, this money is all above board.’
I quickly glance at Lizard Man. He doesn’t look remotely satisfied. He looks as though a storm is raging within him.
‘And what happens if the profit levels aren’t high enough?’ asks the big man.
Involuntarily, I catch a glimpse of the hanged man. I say what I have to say.
‘This is the crux of my idea,’ I say. ‘I believe we’ll be able to find that elusive happy medium…’
‘What’s happy about that?’
I haven’t forgotten the father who arrived in his Opel with his little girl, desperate to play in the adventure park. My idea is to set an interest rate that makes the act of lending money sensible for all concerned. But now, for the first time, I see a hint of an expression on the big man’s face. On closer inspection, this isn’t an expression either. He simply opens and closes his eyes a few times.
‘I thought you were an actuary. Now you want to be a money lender,’ he says.
His tone of voice seems to have lowered the temperature in the barn by at least ten degrees. I decide this probably isn’t the best time to talk about the importance of the principles of mutually beneficial banking.
‘That’s the point: I can be both,’ I say. ‘Precision. Everything will be calculated with the utmost precision.’
The big man looks at me again. Several seconds pass, during which a decision is reached about my fate. I know this. We are in an isolated location, and besides the dead man and me, there are only criminals present. Not exactly the optimal circumstances for a spontaneous outburst of positivity, as Perttilä would say. Eventually, the big man turns his head and nods in Lizard Man’s direction. I can’t help it, but I turn my head to look behind me. At first Lizard Man shakes his head a few times, then he sighs and eventually nods. Whatever he has agreed to, he does so very, very reluctantly.
‘Actuary or no actuary,’ says the big man. ‘We’ll be keeping a close eye on you.’
Then for the first time he looks at the man hanging from the roof beam. When he eventually speaks, his voice is pensive.
‘Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.’
The return journey is a repeat of my arrival. My eyes are blindfolded. We first drive along smaller roads; the car still smells of aftershave and pine-forest Wunderbaum. The air conditioning blows chilled, frigid air against my thighs and face. AK holds me by the hand. Nobody speaks. Nobody except me, once we reach one of the larger roads, which I deduce from the hum of traffic and passing cars.
‘Who was that man?’ I ask.
Lizard Man answers almost immediately:
‘The last mathematician.’
6
When I break the news, Esa looks disappointed, as though he is trying to swallow something angular and foul-tasting. But his voice remains calm.
‘It’s a question of the park’s security,’ he says. ‘And security is, in many ways, like a long, drawn-out defensive battle. The line of defence is only as strong as its weakest link. I’ve been dealing with the cash deliveries for a long time. It’s part of the park’s overall defence strategy.’
‘Defence strategy?’ I ask.
‘I drew up a strategy a while ago, and Juhani signed off on it,’ Esa nods. ‘The strategy is based on the best military practices from around the world.’
It’s been three days since I pitched my proposal in the nocturnal barn.
Now Esa and I are in the control room, lit only by the electric glow from the array of screens in front of us. Working as a money courier was never part of Esa’s official job description, and he has been using his own SUV to do the job without receiving any compensation for mileage or petrol or anything else for that matter. I’d assumed he would be only too happy to give up this extra task. I assumed wrong. Yet the cash remains a problem (not to mention the body in the freezer at the Curly Cake Café or the fact that, at any moment, I might end up hanging from the rafters in an isolated barn). I have two grey sports bags full of cash. More to the point, the problem isn’t so much the cash as the people that this cash will encounter along the way.