At the ticket office, Kristian – Venla is still on sick leave – receives the money when he sells tickets; park manager Laura counts the money in the till and hands it over to the cash-security manager, Esa, who deposits it in the bank. I’m now forced to relieve the latter two of these tasks – if nothing else, for their own safety. And the fact that I want to save both the park and my own life.
‘Esa,’ I begin, and realise I will have to resort to a form of détente diplomacy. ‘I respect your work. And I don’t want to undermine your … overall strategy. This small shift in defensive priorities will—’
‘The adventure park isn’t on the offensive, is it?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘We defend our own turf convincingly, that’s enough.’
The last three days have been full to the brim. I have been managing the adventure park, crunching the numbers, filling in forms, I have made various fiscal declarations, provided necessary documentation. And generally worked round the clock. I have created a new, temporary book-keeping for the adventure park in Excel, the aim of which is to spread out future increased sales revenue as seamlessly as possible over a sustained period of time, then, once the situation is over, to make the excess money disappear altogether. In doing so, I have reminded myself that the intention is simply to survive our current debts, to evade a possible death sentence and keep the adventure park afloat. I have also paid a visit to a lawyer named Heiskanen – that is his real name, according to the business card and bill he gave me – in his office in Kallio and given him a number of tasks. I need his knowledge of the law and some very quick action.
Everything needs to be ready in just a few days. In theory. But first I have to sort out…
‘The adventure park will always strive to be a peaceful operator,’ I say and look Esa in the eye. ‘You have my word. Our strategy of neutrality and non-aggression remains in place.’
The feverish glare of the monitors makes his eyes gleam in his shadow-covered face. I fear the same must be true of me too. We stare at each other for a while. Eventually Esa gives me a quick, military nod.
‘Fine, you take care of the cash deliveries, and I’ll move to the reserves for a while,’ he says. ‘But remember, if the situation escalates, I’m always at the ready.’
‘Thank you, Esa.’
We sit in silence for a moment longer. Naturally, my mind is aflutter with a thousand questions that our conversation has thrown up, but in a very short time I have learned something fundamentaclass="underline" I don’t want to know about everything or to find out about everything. If Esa has drawn up a strategy to defend YouMeFun in the eventuality of a guerrilla attack, good. I doubt Juhani will have given the matter much thought. I can almost hear his voice – sounds great, man, good job – as he gives Esa the thumbs up without having listened to a single word. I stand up.
‘Semper fi,’ Esa says.
I recognise the phrase. ‘Always faithful’, the motto of the US Marine Corps. It’s unlikely that either one of us has ever served in an elite North American military unit, and I decide against speculating out loud about the statistical probability of the matter. I thank Esa for his dedication, leave the control room and step out into the hullabaloo of the park.
In the afternoons the hall is filled with sound and movement. By now, some of the children are beginning to tire: there are considerably more tears and tantrums than in the mornings. Some of the children, meanwhile, become even more excited, slipping off the final shackles of restraint as closing time approaches. By this time, the parents who arrived at the park in the morning already look as though they are planning to do something criminal then quickly leave the country.
It doesn’t take long to find Laura Helanto. In her right hand she is holding a professional-looking measuring tape and in her left a folder. The folder is familiar; the last time I saw it, it was on my kitchen table when she was showing me her sketches. Laura is standing with her back to me, and I am about to say hello to her but begin to doubt myself. What if she is particularly attached to her role in the park’s finances? I take a deep breath, prepare myself and say hello.
Laura Helanto spins around and gives me the quickest smile I have seen in a long time. The smile has the same hazy, stupefying effect as before: I have to remind myself exactly what I’m about to say.
‘Frankenthaler,’ she says and points her measuring tape at the concrete wall. We turn our heads in sync. The wall bears different-shaped curves and markings in white chalk.
‘We need to make a few organisational changes,’ I begin, and tell her that I will take responsibility for all transportation of cash from now on and that I hope this isn’t a problem.
‘Of course not,’ says Laura, her eyes fixed on the wall. ‘On the contrary.’
Then she turns to me. And smiles. ‘Every extra minute I can spend on this is invaluable. Thank you so much.’
I am about to say something, though again I’m not entirely sure what, but I miss my chance. Laura’s phone rings. She takes it from her pocket and looks at the screen.
‘One minute,’ she says and answers.
We stand on the spot. Laura says a few words then ends the call. She shakes her head.
‘It’s Tuuli, my daughter,’ she says. ‘I’ve been trying to find her a physiotherapist who specialises in working with children with asthmatic complications. But it’s not cheap, and the bank still won’t sign off on a loan.’
We look at the wall, the grey concrete, the white chalk markings.
‘There’s a Monet exhibition on at the Ateneum at the moment. It’s open till eight this evening. What do you say?’
My first reaction is akin to both the excitement and the slowing effect that seeing Laura’s smile arouses in me. And my next reaction too is completely automatic.
‘Six o’clock suits me fine,’ I say without giving it a second thought.
I’m not sure if I’ve said something amusing or not, but Laura smiles all the same.
‘Great,’ she says. ‘See you there. Is it okay if I move on to de Lempicka now?’
I nod, say goodbye, see you at the museum. I only manage to utter these last words once Laura has already started walking away and is allowing the measuring tape to wind itself back inside its case.
I have almost made it to the other side of the hall when I hear someone call my name.
The Komodo Locomotive has come off its rails. Despite what one might think, this is not a large-scale catastrophe. No human casualties were sustained: the kids were simply lifted out of the train’s carriages. I position myself next to Kristian, and together we shunt the engine back into place on the tracks.
‘I don’t understand this,’ I say to him when we have assured ourselves that the engine can once again pull the chain of carriages without any hiccups. ‘How can a train that you have to pedal come off its rails? At the corners, the maximum speed can’t be more than ten kilometres an hour.’
Kristian runs his eyes first along the tracks, then the entire length of the train.
‘Sabotage,’ he says, so quietly that I have to put the word together in my mind. Then I too look at the miniature train set made of wood and metal. Kristian’s words don’t make sense at all.
‘I don’t think so,’ I say, and perhaps I’m about to say something else too, but Kristian shakes his head as if to forbid me.