‘Laura. Hi.’
I turn my head and see a man approximately my own age. That’s where the similarities end. He is short and athletic, his muscles clearly visible beneath his black T-shirt. He has intense eyes, a deep shade of brown, and short, dark hair.
‘Kimmo,’ says Laura. ‘Hi.’
After this, we all turn our heads a number of times. Standing next to the man named Kimmo is a much younger woman, her hair dyed pitch-black, clearly pregnant and clearly embarrassed. She is shorter than Kimmo, and so small and thin that her baby bump is like some kind of impossible optical illusion. Each of us looks at least once at everybody else standing at the four corners of the very geometrically precise square we seem to have formed, then our eyes return to what we were looking at in the first place.
‘So, buying paints,’ Kimmo says to Laura. ‘Exhibition coming up?’
‘No,’ Laura replies. ‘Yes. Sort of.’
‘This is Susa,’ says Kimmo, and points at Susa’s stomach.
‘I’m Henri,’ I introduce myself.
Kimmo glances at me, says nothing, then turns his attention back to Laura.
‘I must have missed the news about your exhibitions.’
‘I haven’t had any,’ she says. ‘I’ve been spending my time on … other things.’
‘Right,’ says Kimmo. ‘How’s Viivi doing?’
‘Her name is Tuuli,’ says Laura, the temperature of her voice now below freezing. ‘Tuuli is doing fine.’
‘My big opening is next month,’ says Kimmo. ‘I’m looking for barbed wire, some metal poles and wire fencing. This new work is a critique of globalisation, the way it controls us and will ultimately destroy everything, crushing everything under its weight. Nature, people, art. The way it forces us all into a stable to eat, shit, spend money and die. Only money has any meaning now. Money, money, money. Consume, consume, consume. I totally reject that. It’s still half finished. You know me.’
Laura says nothing. Perhaps she doesn’t know Kimmo the way he thinks she does.
‘I want to show how claustrophobic it feels in this police state, this infernal, market-oriented living hell that has become our new normal,’ Kimmo continues, and it seems to me as though he hasn’t even noticed whether Laura answered him or not. ‘The way we’re all being constantly oppressed. One of my works was sold to a gallery in London – the one we visited together – then another one went to Malaysia, another to Toronto.’
Kimmo glances over at Susa.
‘We just moved in together, a bigger flat downtown. We needed the space, what with the little one on the way. Susa won’t mind me saying it’s a boy, Kimmo Junior.’
I don’t know Kimmo and I’m not sure whether this kind of chit-chat comes naturally to him. But I do know he ought to think about the words he uses, because at the moment there’s no sense, no logic whatsoever to what he’s saying. I wonder for a moment whether I should tell him so. Laura manages to speak before I have a chance.
‘We have to get going,’ she says, lifts the last of the paint pots from the counter into the trolley and pushes the trolley into motion. I start pushing too.
‘Hey,’ says Kimmo as we pass him and Susa. ‘What’s going on with you? I’ll send you an invitation to the opening. Do you still live in Munkkivuori?’
It’s only once we’ve paid for the paints that I ask Laura when she lived in Munkkivuori.
‘I’ve never lived there,’ she replies.
‘Then why did Kimmo say that?’
‘Because he’s a self-centred, self-obsessed man who thinks only about himself and who thinks every idea that pops into his head is pure, unadulterated genius that we mere mortals should admire the way parents marvel at their toddler’s light-yellow poo – which is what most of his thoughts are when you scratch the surface. Because he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, which was swapped for a platinum spoon when he held his first exhibition, which was a success just like all his other exhibitions since. Because Kimmo is a fake, he’s spoiled, privileged, blinkered, lives in his own rancid bubble where he’s a big fish in a very small and muddy pond. Because nobody ever says no to him. That’s probably why.’
The sliding doors open, we walk out into the car park. The trolley’s wheels chatter, the pots clatter.
‘How do you know him?’ I ask, almost without noticing.
‘Does it really…? From my student days.’
Laura pauses for a moment, then sighs more than speaks her next words.
‘And we dated for a few years. It didn’t go very well. The premise was all wrong.’
At first I think the air temperature must have dropped significantly, that night has fallen surprisingly quickly, then I realise that nothing outside has changed. The September evening is relatively warm, the car park is well lit, and the landscape isn’t in any way nocturnal. I don’t know where all the levity has gone, the tingling that I felt a moment before. And my imagination is suddenly changed too. Where in the past I saw only Laura, now I see Laura and Kimmo together. It’s an extraordinary phenomenon. It feels like someone is running a rake across my guts.
We arrive at Laura’s car, she opens the boot, I begin lifting the pots of paint inside. I feel almost nauseous, as though, these days, I don’t fully know myself any more.
‘I suppose I should ask you something too,’ says Laura as I lift the final pot into the boot. ‘What did that policeman want today?’
I straighten my posture, press the boot shut. Is this what has been bothering her all day; is this why she was so silent earlier? And how does Laura know about it? I haven’t mentioned the policeman’s visit to anyone. But I don’t want to lie to her.
‘He was asking about possible connections between Juhani and a certain man,’ I say, and it is the truth.
‘The man in the photograph?’
That’s right. Detective Inspector Osmala walked around the hall once I’d returned to the entrance.
‘Yes.’
‘What’s it all about?’
We are standing at opposite sides of the car, speaking across the roof.
‘The police believe Juhani and that man had some financial differences of opinion.’
‘Is everything alright with the park?’
I hesitate for about half a second.
‘The transitional phase looks like it’s going to eat into our accounts,’ I say. ‘But I believe everything will work out in the end.’
Laura is silent, then opens the door on her side of the car.
‘Good to hear,’ she says.
The atmosphere in the car is somehow different now than it was before, and I guess it can’t be because the boot is stacked full of freshly mixed pots of paint. For a moment I’m not sure what it is that’s spinning through my mind, until the echo grows stronger one spin at a time. The premise was all wrong. That’s how Laura described her relationship with Kimmo. I find myself wondering about the nature of that premise, its precise nature, its essence. I don’t know why I’m thinking what I’m thinking. I don’t know quite what the years-old relationship between Laura and the spoiled contemporary sculptor has to do with me or why the thought conjures up images I’d rather not see. But it seems there’s very little I can do about it.
13
Schopenhauer’s small, sinewy body is quivering and shivering like a kitchen appliance. He is purring more keenly than he has for a long time. He has eaten his breakfast, surprised that I haven’t already left for work, though it’s the first workday after the weekend, but am instead sitting on the sofa with my own breakfast. He follows me and sits down next to me. His long, black fur gleams in the morning light as he looks for a suitable spot and a comfortable position to sleep off his breakfast. Most of the sun is still hidden behind the building opposite, but its glow across the cloudless blue sky is so grand, so irresistible, that even a small slice of it is enough to line the living room with warm, bright light.