‘Do you know all the staff at the park? All the customers? Do you have years of experience with the technical side of running an adventure park?’
I quickly glance around. ‘If it is sabotage,’ I ask, my voice hushed, ‘is there any reason why you shouldn’t be first on my list of suspects?’
Something flashes in Kristian’s brown eyes. He assumes a sturdier stance, his legs further apart, and even his shoulders seem to broaden. There he stands in front of me like a wall of muscle.
‘For your information,’ he says, his fricatives hissing, ‘I built this Komodo Locomotive myself. I screwed those red lamps into the engine’s eyes. They weren’t on the original. That was my idea. I told Juhani it would bring the train a sense of speed and danger, in a good way. Juhani agreed. Juhani thought it was a good idea.’
Kristian looks serious. Again, he seems completely sincere. I must admit, he doesn’t look like a man who would derail his own train.
‘Why did you say it must be sabotage?’ I ask.
Kristian stares at me for a moment longer, then gestures towards the beginning of the bend in the track. I turn and hear him behind my back.
‘Someone left a thawed-out chicken leg on the track,’ he says. ‘From that point, the engine was destabilised, then as the curve became tighter, it came off the rails completely. This could have caused a very serious incident.’
I respectfully disagree about the possibility of large-scale carnage. The thawed chicken leg, however, sounds like a far more acute cause for concern. The only place there should be any chicken legs is in the freezer in the café.
‘I’ll look into it,’ I say quickly, before Kristian has the chance to speculate any further. ‘Everything is in order now. The train is up and running again and—’
‘When are we going to make the announcement?’
It takes a blink of the eye for me to realise quite what he means, then another blink of the eye to come up with something suitable to say. Kristian notices my hesitation.
‘We agreed on this,’ he says.
‘In actual fact…’
‘I’ve already told people I’m going to be the new general manager.’
The last sentence spills out of Kristian’s mouth so quickly that even he seems taken by surprise. In a fraction of a second, he blushes, his eyes moisten, glistening, like someone either furious or devastated.
‘Told whom exactly?’ I ask. ‘And why?’
Kristian is so flustered that he is almost out of breath. A fresh throng of children is approaching the train.
‘Just some people,’ he mumbles, his voice lower now.
I can sense that the pressure inside Kristian is malignant; it’s growing. Of course, he’s embarrassed, but he is also furious and extremely muscular. At this point I don’t need any extra problems. And while I really want to bring this conversation to an end, I am perturbed by almost everything about it: the derailed kiddie train, the thawed chicken leg, Kristian’s unwavering desire to become the general manager, all the people who know that Juhani promised him this in the first place and how much they know about the park’s internal affairs. Then, as the children approach the train like the walking dead – inexorably yet all the while fumbling for the right direction – I have a thought that might bring at least temporary resolution to the situation. I think of my former boss.
‘Kristian, do you think of yourself as an open and emotional leader or a more traditional, hierarchical leader?’ I ask.
‘What?’
‘Have a think about it,’ I say. ‘Leadership isn’t what it used to be. Nowadays leaders need a whole range of different qualities: not just a results-oriented understanding of the internal emotional dynamics of the workforce but also a holistic awareness of our interactive, socio-experiential economy and an appreciation of its primary importance at all levels of an empathy-driven, interpersonal leadership philosophy.’
I could never have imagined hearing myself talk like this, but right this minute I am indebted to my former boss Perttilä for all those years listening to his nonsense. Perttilä’s words flow from my lips as though someone has pressed ‘play’.
‘I want—’
‘To be the general manager,’ I nod. ‘But before that, as the company CEO, I want to be sure you have the necessary internal, external and emotional skill set for the job. I suggest you take part in at least one and, if possible, several training sessions. I want you to draw your own emotional map, find your own treasure trove of positivity that will help teach you to recognise the spectrum of deep emotions both within yourself and in others, and only then will you be able to lead your team all the way to the summit of success.’
Kristian’s gaze has wandered to the other side of the park.
‘Can you embrace the gift of your team’s unique emotional success story?’
‘What?’
‘It’s an essential part of working life these days,’ I say and, disconcertingly, I can almost hear Perttilä’s voice. ‘Your strength might lie in an area where a weaker person might become swept away. That makes you a safe emotional harbour. When strength and weakness combine, a collective synergy emerges from within both, creating successful, empathetic prosperity.’
I can see Kristian doesn’t understand a word I’m saying. There’s nothing to understand. Even I don’t know what I’m talking about.
The children are all around us. The train will soon start moving.
‘It’s probably best if you look at some different training options, then together we can choose the most suitable. Remember: at least two different courses.’
With that, I walk off. I glance over my shoulder and see Kristian pushing the Komodo Locomotive into motion.
Once back in my office, I do a little more work. It still feels like Juhani’s room, right down to the name on the door. I’ve asked Kristian to change the plaque, but he hasn’t done it yet. All other repairs are sorted out quickly, but he still hasn’t got around to this one. I can guess why. I have placed my new laptop on the desk and replaced Juhani’s computer. On the left of the laptop is a pile of my own paperwork, on the right printouts of Laura Helanto’s murals.
I soon realise I’m doing something I find very peculiar. (The reality is, everything I do these days feels peculiar.) It seems as though every time I accomplish a demanding task, I pick up the printouts of the murals and look at them for a moment. As though admiring them were a reward for getting my work done. It feels both entirely logical and, as I have been forced to admit many times before, utterly insane. I can’t find a single concrete, rational explanation for my behaviour. I look at a series of images and … simply enjoy looking at them for their own sake. That’s it, that’s all there is to it. But that can’t be all there is to it.
I am an actuary.
I know that can’t be all there is to it.
7
While sitting on the train I calculate that, assuming the train arrives at Helsinki Central Railway Station on time and I take the most direct route to the Ateneum, I will have – before meeting Laura Helanto in the same place – two and a half minutes for every significant painting and thirty seconds each for all the other works in the standard collection. That should be enough, I think as I gaze out of the window at the autumnal panorama flashing past. It’s been a cloudy day and the landscape, which otherwise flickers in front of my eyes like a multicoloured quilt, is now like the patched, dusky surface of something darker. My carriage is almost empty, and all I can hear are the sounds of the train. It makes the waning of the day feel more real, as though large pieces of a puzzle were being moved by a higher, irresistible force.