I know what this is about. His boss. My bank. The fact that my business suggestion was taken seriously despite Lizard Man’s chuckling and chortling.
He taps a finger against AK’s knee. AK pulls his phone from the pocket of his black-and-white tracksuit and turns the large screen towards me. On the screen is a photograph in which I have my face pressed deep inside a naked woman’s groin. Both my hands are raised into the air, one of them showing something that – by complete coincidence – looks unmistakably like a victory sign. In all probability, someone looking at this image for the first time wouldn’t necessarily know it was staged. It would simply look like an image of me at my least glamorous moment. Lizard Man nods to AK, who returns the phone to his pocket and concentrates on his primary job: staring vacantly ahead.
‘A small reminder before we start discussing the schedule,’ says Lizard Man, then leans towards me and brings his face close to mine. ‘What do you say? When can I come and pick up the first fifty grand?’
I can smell his breath. It is a blend of unbrushed teeth and something badly digested.
‘I don’t have fifty thousand euros,’ I say, straight up.
It’s true. In one week, I have granted many loans while paying off the park’s debts using the money from the increased revenue figures – which was always the plan – to such a degree that, at this moment in time, the park’s account is almost empty. Things will start to rectify themselves next week when the first loan repayments start to arrive – with interest.
‘When…?’ says Lizard Man. ‘That was my question. I don’t care how many times everything has to go through your fucking system or whether you have to check, double-check and explain every transaction six hundred times. When? I said. You realise that means a point in time? So, get your calendar out, Einstein.’
I say nothing.
‘Very well,’ he continues. ‘Seeing as you’re exceptionally hard of thinking today and have no suggestions of your own, I’ll tell you when. You can put it in your calendar, yes?’
I do not reply.
‘Or do I have to ask AK here to … pick a bone with you?’
‘Yes, I can write it down,’ I say.
‘I’m going on a little trip, so Monday two weeks from now will do fine. That gives you plenty of time. Twenty-five thousand per week. I’m sure you can do the maths yourself, you’re a clever boy. Two weeks.’
Finally, Lizard Man leans back in his seat. It feels as though the temperature in front of my face lowers and the air instantly thins and freshens. The train begins to slow; we have already arrived at Martinlaakso. Lizard Man props a hand on his knee, stands up. He looks down at me, says nothing. Then he turns, heads towards the door. AK only gets up once the train has come to a complete stop. Again I am surprised at how agile he is, how quickly and silently he moves. For an enormous man, he is as furtive as a little fox. He steps down onto the platform, and for a moment I see their backs. Then the train jolts into motion again.
And just then, I hear the same announcement from both ends of the carriage:
‘Tickets, please.’
16
Esa is sitting in his large chair in front of a wall of monitors, like a king whose kingdom has disappeared from beneath him. Esa cannot control anything, his job is simply to watch as things happen. Again, you could almost take a pair of scissors and cut the air in the room, which is thick with sulphuric fumes whose specific origin and composition I cannot and will not try to identify in any greater detail, not least for my own wellbeing. The control room has the feel of a claustrophobic studio flat, and the lighting is dim because Esa has switched off the overhead lights, meaning the only light in the room is coming from the monitors. The overall effect is something between a science-fiction film and flashbacks to my army dormitory.
My visit takes him by surprise, I can see as much. He’s even more surprised by what I ask him.
‘Has something happened?’ he asks. ‘We have all the videos, but I haven’t watched them because I didn’t know anything was wrong.’
Esa is clearly confused. It’s understandable. I tell him nothing is wrong, there’s just something I want to check. I give him the date, the estimated time and the area outside the adventure park that should be covered by the security camera. Esa’s fingers dance across his keyboard. In an instant, the familiar SUV appears on one of the monitors. I look at the time code, the exact minute and second, and commit it to memory. With that done, I want to get out as soon as possible. There’s something about the noxious air that after a while feels almost numbing. This must be the first time I have ever come close to suggesting someone might consider changing their diet. I decide against it. Instead I thank him and take a step back.
‘Is there something I’ve missed?’ he asks and spins 180 degrees in his chair. He’s wearing the same US Marine sweatshirt as before.
Perhaps, I think, that your diet seems to consist solely of pea soup and pickled cabbage. I don’t say this out loud because Esa’s expression is now almost panicked.
He continues his line of questioning: ‘Has the park’s perimeter been breached? Surely nobody has stolen anything…’
‘No, nothing like that,’ I say. I need a moment to think. Either way, Esa will make assumptions about why I wanted to see the security tapes. And in any case, he has all the tapes at his disposal, containing thousands and thousands of documented events. I make my decision.
‘I just needed to check the time,’ I say.
At first Esa looks a bit baffled, then his bafflement melts into a nod, which in turn shifts to a form of collegiality: where before he was standoffish, almost cold towards me, now he looks understanding and empathetic.
‘Personal matters,’ he says.
‘Yes. Very.’
‘You want to find the owner of a certain vehicle? I can have a look…’
‘There’s no need,’ I say with a shake of the head. ‘I already know.’
We both look at the image on the screen.
The SUV on the screen grows in size. I feel almost like I’m moving inside it, I can feel the cold gust of air conditioning at my feet. But only just. I doubt the slightest breeze has blown through this room in years.
‘I think I left my travel card in that car.’
My travel card isn’t the primary reason for my interest in this vehicle, but it’s certainly one of them. My fine from the train is in my jacket pocket, reminding me of the fact. Three stops on the commuter train ended up costing me eighty euros. In so many ways, it’s simply too much. Esa is still thinking about what I just said and runs the fingers of his right hand across his geometrically impeccable goatee.
‘If there’s any way I can help,’ he says eventually. ‘I work for the adventure park, and I am ready to serve.’
I say nothing. He sounds at once like a soldier and a teddy bear.
‘Thank you for your service,’ I say. ‘And if something comes up, I’ll be sure to let you know.’
I suddenly feel bad for my cruel thoughts about his digestive problems. This strange emotional rollercoaster has been going on for some time now. Naturally, it is strongest in Laura Helanto’s company. All weekend I’ve felt the kiss she placed on my cheek on Friday evening. And now – out of the blue – I find myself thinking that ultimately we are all people, all imperfect, and so what if one of us has a challenging flatulence issue? All it means is that air whiffs a bit when it leaves the body, sometimes unbearably so, but that doesn’t make someone a pariah, someone we should run away from.
‘And likewise,’ I add, ‘if I can help, I will.’
