‘Hiya,’ he says.
‘Hello,’ I say, and I can hear from my own voice that I’m surprised to see him. Samppa has never before tried to strike up conversation with me. I’d assumed it must be because, with his nursery-teacher’s education and youthful persona, he probably enjoys the kind of independence that is beyond most of the park’s employees. He quickly glances over his shoulder, his silver earrings flash, then returns his eyes to me.
‘Have you got five?’
‘Yes,’ I nod, once I work out what he means. ‘Five minutes. Take a seat.’
Samppa sits down and starts organising the bracelets on his wrists. The colourful tattoos along his bare forearms dance here and there; I make out Mickey Mouse, some kind of angel, something resembling a Viking helmet. His name tag has six love hearts, one for each letter. This is the first time Samppa has set foot in my office – in fact, it’s the first time the two of us have been alone together. I wait for him to get his bracelets, his jewellery and himself in order and tell me why he’s here. But he doesn’t say anything. He just sits there looking at me.
‘Is everything alright?’ he asks eventually.
‘What do you mean?’ I’m genuinely confused at his question.
‘You look kind of stressed out,’ he says, and raises his shoulders slightly. ‘But I get it. Death shows how fragile we are.’
‘Death?’ I ask, and wonder how Samppa knows about the car accident at the cycle-path construction site.
‘Your brother.’
‘Yes, right,’ I say, and hope I don’t sound like someone whose brother’s passing is a trivial event. ‘Absolutely. It’s been a … surprising and, as you say, fragile time.’
‘That’s another reason I wanted to wait,’ he says, again without continuing his thought.
‘And what is it you’re waiting for?’ I ask.
‘I wanted to respect that fact that you’ve experienced a terrible loss and that it must be quite difficult to adapt to a new job. And I’m not the kind of guy who barges into new situations like a bull in a china shop or who always wants to be first in line for everything. I believe in the virtues of soft power.’
Another pause. This gives me a moment to think about what I know of Samppa’s soft power. Very little, is the answer. I know I was relieved that he took care of the children’s playgroups, the adventure corner and other activities without feeling he had to tell me about them. With hindsight, I suppose I automatically assumed that he is the only park employee who exclusively does the very thing he is paid to do. I don’t know what it would be like to run a business with thousands of staff all wanting to do something other than what they are paid to do, but I know that juggling a business with only a handful of employees is already akin to solving the most complex theoretical mathematical conundrum.
This time I don’t intend to help him end the pause. Perhaps Samppa realises this too.
‘I’ve noticed that a lot of the park’s staff have been given new opportunities these last few weeks,’ he says. ‘Which is a good thing. Learning new things gives us confidence, and an increase in self-confidence encourages us to try new things, which in turn leads to learning new skills. It’s a positive cycle. You see it in children – and adults too. Esa has started talking about things other than the marine corps; Kristian is taking managerial courses; Laura is painting; Johanna is trying out new recipes. I’ve been following this development. This is great leadership. You have introduced a fresh new approach, really aired the place out. Everybody has found new facets to their work.’
Samppa pauses briefly.
‘Almost everybody.’
Aired the place out. I try to dismiss the thought. I haven’t been particularly aware of Esa or Johanna’s positive cycles, but gradually I begin to understand what Samppa is saying. He wants something. It’s only natural. Everybody seems to want something on top of what they already have.
‘What do you have in mind?’ I ask.
Samppa looks as though he is mentally weighing things up. The fingers of his right hand fiddle with the bracelets on his left wrist.
‘A Kiddies’ Day. Here in the park.’
I look at him. ‘A Kiddies’ Day?’
‘Yes. In big letters. Maybe even a Kiddies’ Week. But we can start with a day.’
‘Isn’t that the whole point of the park? That a day spent here is quite literally a Kiddies’ Day?’
Samppa shakes his head.
‘Immersion,’ he says. ‘Role reversal.’
Samppa holds another, now-familiar pause.
‘I don’t follow,’ I say. I genuinely don’t.
‘This will take courage.’
‘Very well.’
‘You probably don’t think of these things, sitting there in your manager’s chair all day in peace and quiet, locked away from it all.’
I say nothing.
‘Okay,’ Samppa nods. ‘For one day, or preferably a week, children are adults, adults are children. It’s role reversal. And stepping into someone else’s role – that’s immersion. For one day, or preferably a week, the children get to make the rules, bake cakes, keep watch, even paint the walls if they like, and the grown-ups can play.’
I say nothing.
‘Imagine,’ he says. ‘A child sitting there in your chair, a kid being boss for a day, or preferably a week.’
I take Samppa’s advice and try to imagine this scenario. I imagine a child having a meeting with Lizard Man. A child rummaging in the freezer and discovering a frozen grown-up. A child in debt to the big man.
‘You see?’ he continues. ‘The idea gets wilder the more you think about it!’
‘True,’ I say.
Samppa shifts in his chair, he sits up straighter, and the fingers fidgeting with his bracelets move all the more quickly.
‘As far as I’m concerned, we could get this started very quickly. I’ve already designed some background material both for the kids and the grown-ups. Many adults find it surprisingly difficult to enter into their children’s world. They have lost the ability to play. Of course, that’s partly because they are frightened of—’
‘No,’ I say, aware that I’m interrupting him in full flow.
‘No, what?’
‘No,’ I repeat, and pause. I can’t tell him anything about what is really going on at the park or behind closed doors.
‘No Kiddies’ Day, at least not right now,’ I say in as conciliatory a tone as I can muster.
There’s an instant change in Samppa’s body language. After all that enthusiasm, hitting a wall really hurts, I know that. His face starts to redden, and there’s a gleam of annoyance in his eyes.
‘Why not?’
‘It’s just … not possible right now.’
Samppa stares at me as though I have personally offended him. And it seems I have.
‘Painting the walls wasn’t meant to be possible either,’ he says.
‘What’s that got to do with it?’
‘You’re afraid of play, but you’re not afraid of cavorting with criminals.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Like many adults, you’re afraid of playing—’
‘Yes, I get that bit,’ I say quickly. ‘But what did you mean by criminals? Did those men turn up here at the park? Did they approach you?’
Samppa squints, as if to sharpen the image of me that is beginning to take shape.
‘What men?’ he asks. ‘I’m talking about Laura.’
Naturally I don’t know what it feels like to have a tower block collapse on top of you, but for a brief moment I get an inkling of the emotions that must engulf the ground floor half a second before everything hits. I say nothing and concentrate instead on staying seated in my chair and maintaining my expression and posture.
‘Indeed,’ is all I can muster.
‘Of course, I don’t mean that prison itself makes anyone suspect in some way,’ Samppa continues, switches fidgety bracelet and, naturally, fidgety finger too. ‘I really believe that people can change. Everybody deserves a second chance. That’s why I came here to talk about a Kiddies’ Day, or preferably a week, which will open up—’