‘Let’s return to your colleague,’ I say, interrupting him. I know I’m on thin ice. I’m beside myself, but I try as hard as I can to make sure it doesn’t show. Samppa clearly assumes I know something that wouldn’t have occurred to me in a month of Sundays. ‘This is all confidential. I assure you. I only have the best interests of the adventure park at heart.’
This isn’t the whole truth, but as statements go, it is true. Samppa looks at me. This is a rematch of the staring competition I had with Kristian earlier. And I don’t have any more options now than I did then: I must win. Samppa holds his longest pause thus far.
‘Let’s talk honestly,’ he says eventually. ‘There’s the fact that when Juhani hired her, she kind of skipped the queue. I know this because I suggested someone for that position – an old college friend who has really great, innovative ideas about art education for children and adults, and he’d just graduated with a PhD in educational science. But then, completely out of the blue, Juhani hired Laura, a fine-arts graduate who, it turned out, had just come out of prison. It wasn’t for murder or anything like that, but those were pretty serious financial improprieties, or whatever the term is: defaulting on debts, embezzlement, fraud, tax evasion – I’m not sure of everything but it was something like that. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know how that qualifies anyone to work at an adventure park or how Juhani was able to justify the decision. Of course, Laura has a really artistic side, which is now blossoming brilliantly, it’s a good, positive example to us all. And that’s why I’ve come to you to talk about a Kiddies’ Day, or preferably a week, because all the other staff except me are being allowed to realise their hopes and dreams—’
‘Have you discussed this with Laura?’ I ask, again interrupting him. I can’t help myself: he talks the way a marathon runner runs: kilometre after kilometre, hour after hour at a steady speed, and right now I don’t have the patience for it.
‘Kiddies’ Day?’
‘Prison.’
Samppa looks surprised; the surprise looks genuine.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a stare as cold or heard a voice as cold as when a man visiting the park with his children went up to Laura and said something like, hey, nice to see you got out. A few colleagues and I were standing nearby when it happened. And what she said to that man … Wow, I’d rather not repeat it. It was chilling. And I suppose that day we learned that some topics of conversation are best left alone.’
‘This man…’ I ask, trying to remain interested but neutral, though inside I want to shake Samppa and force him to tell me everything, quickly, right this minute. ‘What did he look like?’
‘A kind of … normal guy,’ Samppa replies. ‘Well, no. Maybe not that normal. At least, he probably wouldn’t consider himself normal. He was a bit smug, a bit full of himself.’
After this, Samppa pauses again, and I realise I can’t ask any further questions. I think I recognise Kimmo, but I don’t know what relevance that might have. Besides, I need to get Samppa out of my office. I can feel the weight of the walls, the quickening crush of the floor and ceiling, my strength seeping away. Now I know the cause of my exhaustion and why it seems to be growing. It washes over me, surges from the darkness that has surrounded me all the while, though at times I’ve been blinded by the occasional ray of sunshine.
‘About Kiddies’ Day,’ I say. ‘I promise I’ll give it very favourable consideration.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I’ll try to find a way we can make it happen.’
And I mean it. If I can find a way out of the park’s problems, I will be only too happy to temporarily give up the general manager’s chair to a six-year-old.
For the first time in our meeting, Samppa smiles.
‘Like I said, you’ve been a breath of fresh air in this park,’ he says. ‘You’ve got the Midas touch. Everything you touch starts to bloom.’
25
The screams shatter my eardrums, split my ears. A group of children passes me on both sides. The hall seems more brightly lit than ever. Everything is garish, glaring, over-exposed, and therefore ugly. The children’s squeals are like thousands of nails scraping down a blackboard. The smell of oven sausages coming from the café is reminiscent of a dog park when the snow melts. The steel hills of the Big Dipper glow ice cold and the carriages of the Komodo Locomotive, which usually feel as though they are travelling at a snail’s pace, now look like a decent express service. The park’s general commotion, the incessant sound, the irregular regularity of loud noises – everything has assumed a physical form, like blows coming from all directions, a weight that I feel in every part of my body.
Eventually I have to stop, and I realise this is a good thing. Laura is speaking to someone. The man is about my age, he is gesticulating with great gusto and pointing at Laura’s walls. In every respect, he looks like a man who cannot believe his eyes. I understand him. I too am having difficulty believing what I see. I don’t know if this is a painting world record, but something of that magnitude has happened.
The walls are finished. And they are astounding.
I step back a little and remain standing in the bridge-like area between the Trombone Cannons and the Doughnut. Several of the parents are leaning on the railings too, looking as though a day at the adventure park is perhaps not the most scintillating thing that has ever happened to them. Laura and the man are talking at length.
The man flits between pointing erratically at the different walls, folding his arms across his chest and nodding at whatever Laura is saying. Eventually she and the man shake hands. The man spins around a few times, his eyes find what they are looking for and he walks off in that direction. It’s highly probable that the focus of his gaze is at least one of the infernally shrieking children.
As I approach her, Laura is wiping a white cloth across the indigo left-hand edge of the O’Keeffe wall. She has her back to me, she is dressed in black work trousers and a red T-shirt. Her bramble-bush hair is loose and wild. Perhaps she senses someone approaching, as she turns when I am only a few steps away. Her expression is one of contentment, pride even. But only for a moment. In a split second, everything changes.
‘Hi,’ she says.
‘Hello,’ I reply.
She glances first left, then right. She doesn’t seem particularly thrilled to see me. Not at all.
‘The walls are finished,’ I say. ‘Congratulations.’
‘Just a few touches left. But … thank you.’
All the kindness, the familiarity that I once heard in Laura’s voice, is gone. Not to mention the warmth.
‘Someone seemed to like them,’ I say, thinking how best to proceed.
‘Who?’
‘That man … just now … the one who…’
‘Yes, him, right, of course. A journalist from Helsingin Sanomat. He was here with his children and noticed the walls. He’s coming back tomorrow to photograph them and do an interview for the paper.’
‘That’s wonderful.’
‘I’ll admit, it’s a bit of a surprise.’
Laura looks me in the eyes, and I look back. Her face is neutral, expressionless. Though we are quite near each other, it’s as though our previous connection is gone. It’s hard to imagine that, only relatively recently, we were kissing on a commuter train – of all places.