Kristian approached me again about the general managership, but this time his approach had changed. It was no longer as aggressive or impatient as before. Now there was a smile that, though it looked forced, was broad and revealed his astonishingly white teeth. Kristian told me he had found courses that were fantastic and mind-blowing. Moreover, he looked strikingly different in a smart, light-blue shirt. We didn’t have time to get into details – he told me he would get back to me once he had talked to his mentor, whatever that meant – because his phone rang, interrupting us, and besides, I had to continue my discussion with Minttu K.
The scent of gin, Mynthon pastilles and Pall Malls enveloping Minttu K grows stronger by the day. With the blinds closed, disco music blaring and its bar-like spotlights, her office is like a nightclub. In the mornings, her voice is so rasping that it could sand down a tall spruce tree. Needless to say, she wants to increase the marketing budget again. I wonder – out loud – where our last marketing investment has disappeared to, as only a single, measly box of posters and flyers advertising the park’s banking operations has ever materialised. Minttu K says I clearly don’t know anything about long-term branding strategies, key target demographics and influencer interaction. This matter, too, is still unresolved.
Another unresolved matter is that of the freezer in the café. Johanna watches over the café as if it were her own. In a way, it is hers, and in other circumstances this would be a good thing. Our customers seem more than happy with the quality and quantity of our food and pastries. I too have been very content with the hearty ham-and-cheese sandwiches I’ve eaten there. But what I saw there last time I picked up a sandwich somewhat complicated matters. Padlocks have appeared on all the freezers. Johanna said it’s about ice cream going to waste: in addition to the occasional bit of shoplifting, she says that opening and shutting the freezer lids unnecessarily heats up the contents. Things that are frozen need to stay frozen.
And on top of all this is Lizard Man’s demand for fifty thousand euros.
What I need is a time out. And that’s why I am here. My decision is based on purely mathematical reasoning.
Whenever I encounter a problem in the later stages of a complicated calculation, I return to what is most important, that is, the original problem. It’s pointless trying to solve an individual problem, if the core of the problem is still unresolved and if it is obvious that this core contains the key to the entire problem.
And that is ultimately the reason for arriving under the cover of the trees. I didn’t want to take the long path up to the farm only to come face to face with Lizard Man. I can’t see the SUV anywhere. He isn’t here. But who is here? I haven’t seen any signs of movement in the yard. The house is a two-storey prefabricated building, light yellow and built in imitation of a traditional farmhouse. The white door of the garage is closed.
I make my move.
I walk from the forest into the yard, and approach the house and porch, and I’m not entirely sure what it is I can smell in the air. Of course, there is the damp forest, rustling in the northeasterly wind, the fields opening out on the other side, but there’s something sweet too. I take the steps up to the porch, see the doorbell on the wall, and just as I am about to press my forefinger against the white, round button, something startles me. I instinctively back away towards the edge of the porch, almost falling over it.
The door starts opening by itself. Things like that don’t just happen. I hear a voice from inside.
‘Henri, come on in.’
The fresh cinnamon buns smell just the way I remember from cafés and bakeries. We sit down at a sturdy wooden dining table. In the middle of the table is a pile of cinnamon buns, one of them on a plate next to my porcelain coffee cup. Sitting across the table is a man, taller than me, his broad, spade-like face slightly reddened.
‘I’m been trying out a new recipe,’ he says. ‘But I think the biggest difference is that I’ve started using only organic flour. It really affects the taste. Some people say they can’t tell the difference, that it doesn’t matter what flour you use, but I vigorously disagree. It’s organic flour or nothing. What do you think?’
The big man talks about baking in the same voice with which he hands out death sentences. There’s no point asking how he knew I was walking towards the house or the exact moment I arrived at the door. He knew.
I pick up the bun and take a bite. An idyllic rustic landscape of fields and forest opens up in the window to the side. The bun is soft, warm, it melts in the mouth. I chew under his watchful eye. Once I have swallowed my mouthful, I tell him the buns are a towering success.
‘And the organic flour?’
I don’t need to think about this for long.
‘Organic flour or nothing,’ I say.
‘A few more little secrets,’ he says. ‘A slightly shorter baking time and slightly more butter. It takes courage to leave the dough a bit raw in the middle. And the cinnamon should be fresh. Eat, eat, eat.’
I eat. A black pistol in his resting right hand lends a certain added motivation to the big man’s request. The cinnamon bun is large; it’s a lot of cake. I am about to stop, but the big man indicates with a flick of the wrist and his pistol that I should continue chewing. And so I find myself in a fake farmhouse in the middle of the southern Finnish countryside, stuffing my face at gunpoint with a half-kilo cinnamon bun, the size of two fists.
We don’t speak. Of course, I can’t speak as my mouth is full and my jaws are chomping, but the big man is silent too. The small black hole in the muzzle of the pistol is pointing right at my chest. All I can hear is the sound of my own eating. After what seems like an eternity, I finally swallow the last morsel of bun and wipe my mouth. We look at each other.
‘Well?’ he asks.
‘Delicious,’ I say, thinking I should probably attempt to use the correct terminology. ‘Just the right oven temperature, the texture is buttery and creamy, and the organic flour ties everything together perfectly.’
The big man looks at me as he might an old fish.
‘I mean, you must want to say something, as you’ve come all the way out here.’
‘Right,’ I nod.
That is indeed why I have come. Either I will be taken into the red barn or to Lizard Man’s favourite pond, or I will be able to walk the three kilometres back to the bus stop on my own two feet.
‘I have a problem with the mid-level staff,’ I say, trying to watch the big man’s face, to gauge his reaction one way or another. ‘It’s a problem that has a detrimental impact on what you and I have agreed.’
‘By mid-level, you mean…’
‘I don’t know his name. Last time, I came here in his SUV. His friend, the tyrannosaurus, goes by AK.’
The big man laughs. The laugh is short and is over quickly. His eyes are a shade somewhere between blue and grey; they are like two scratches, as though he has been squinting for years and eventually the squint got the better of him. I take a deep breath. I tell him how I got into the SUV, how my face ended up providing a seat for a naked woman and eventually – and most importantly – how the big man’s employee wants fifty thousand euros of the money that by rights belongs to the great baker himself. I leave out the bit about the baker, but other than that I tell him everything just as it happened.
After that, we sit in silence again. I hope the silence doesn’t mean I will soon have to eat more cinnamon buns. I can’t do it. My stomach is so full of sugar, butter and the aforementioned organic flour that it aches.