‘Was there something you wanted to ask?’
The question takes me by surprise.
‘Actually’ – I nod, though now I’m not so sure if there’s any point to this conversation; or any conversation, for that matter – ‘I don’t know.’
‘As you’re there,’ says Laura and glances in both directions as though she is crossing the road. ‘Then maybe it’s best if I … There’s something I’d like to say.’
The children’s yells and the sounds of the adventure park are like a squalling sea behind us, as though we were standing on a wind-swept beach trying to make out what the other is saying.
‘This isn’t easy,’ she begins. She twists the cloth in her fingers. ‘I should have … told you … earlier.’
I feel a sudden rush of relief. Laura is finally talking about what made me so agitated in the first place. This is for the best; she can tell me in her own way, and I won’t have to ask.
‘This can’t be easy,’ I say and give her an encouraging nod. ‘I truly understand.’
She seems somewhat surprised at my words. ‘No, it’s not. It’s … good to know you understand. You and I … had a nice time.’
‘A very nice time,’ I add.
‘Yes,’ says Laura, but she does it in a quick, quiet way, the way you might say something just to get it over and done with. It makes me feel as though I ought to say something too. But now all I can think of is some kind of follow-up to my previous comment, something along the lines of ‘a very, very, very nice time’, but that feels wrong for a variety of reasons.
‘But,’ she continues. ‘Sometimes nice just doesn’t cut it. How should I put this: you and I … I think we’re on different paths.’
‘Obviously,’ I reply. ‘You’re an artist and I’m a mathematician, now managing an adventure—’
‘No, that’s not what I … This isn’t easy to say.’
There is definitely a new tone in her voice, as though some part of her is hurting, badly, but she doesn’t want to show it, and now I have the feeling I’m riding on a train hurtling towards something collapsed, most likely a tall bridge. The feeling is instinctive; until now I had no idea I was on any kind of train.
‘I mean, at this point in my life and in your life,’ she says. ‘We’re going in different directions. That’s what I mean.’
She touches her glasses without actually moving them at all.
‘Well, I should just spit it out,’ she says, faster, her voice now somehow forced. ‘What I’m trying to say is that … what we had is over.’
I look at her. She still looks like the person I knew a minute ago. All I can do is say what I honestly think.
‘I don’t understand.’
Laura has turned away. I see a tear running down her cheek. ‘I’m sorry.’
I feel another tower block come crashing down on top of me, and again the shrieks of the hall are unbearable. My mind does several things at once. I feel I’ve made an error in my calculations, a critical error. Everything that has happened between us – Monet, the dinner date, our conversations and my interpretation of those conversations, the extensive kissing on the train, a night of very thorough and balanced back-and-forth intimacy – added up to this. No matter which method I pursue, it doesn’t seem logical; each time I calculate it, I end up with vastly different results. And most alarmingly, I appear to have lost the ability to proceed in any direction that might have seemed sensible just moments ago. I simply stand on the spot and watch another tear trickle down Laura’s cheek.
‘Over?’ I say, though I’m not sure who to.
Laura nods and says nothing. Her lips and cheeks tremble almost imperceptibly.
I’m not sure how long we stand there opposite each other, but at some point we move at the same time, she turns towards her O’Keeffe, I start walking back to my office. I walk through the blaring hall, careful not to step on any of our clients, and eventually reach the office. I sit in my chair until closing time.
I lock up the park and switch off all the lights. Then I call a taxi to meet me at the front gates. This goes against my principles for two reasons: my monthly travel budget is carefully calculated, and this taxi journey will effectively ruin the figures, and besides, driving from door to door has a detrimental impact on my daily exercise. However, the arguments in favour of this ex tempore trip in a Mercedes Benz are compelling. Something has exploded inside me, leaving a lifeless crater behind.
26
On the morning of the laying of Juhani’s urn, I wake before 06:00 a.m.
I have remained at home, but the last two and a half days have been spent in a fog. A thick, asphyxiating fog. What’s more, I’ve noticed that most practical matters can be taken care of from the laptop on my kitchen table or my phone, even the upcoming renovations to the Big Dipper, which I address in back-and-forth emails with Kristian and the machinery retailers, the contractors and subcontractors. Kristian seems to rise to the challenge of the general managership at even the slightest opportunity. He does the right thing, he behaves the way you should when opportunities present themselves: he grabs them with both hands. And it’s not his fault if my own prospects aren’t all that attractive right now.
I lean against the sink; the kettle is bubbling and gurgling. I look out of the window; it is the time between dark and light, that time of day when you can see shapes in the landscape without knowing whether they are the contours of real, concrete objects or simply the product of your imagination. My laptop lies shut on the far side of the kitchen table as though it is radiating something toxic. It pushes me away, resists when I try to approach, creates a force field around itself, a bubble. This morning, the feeling is particularly strong.
Schopenhauer has eaten, and now he is sitting with his back to me in the space between the kitchen and living room, and washing his face, his front paws diligently wiping at both sides. What if he was right all along, that excess effort is always pointless and that in this life it is always best to focus on what is most important and walk calmly by when someone suggests anything other than eating, sleeping and sporadically keeping watch on the balcony, and that nothing ever ends differently from how it has always ended: with struggle, defeat, loneliness and eventual death.
I cut into the loaf of rye bread, toast two slices, place a few discounted turkey slices on top, pour hot water into a mug and sit down at the table. I open the newspaper and see the picture straight away: Laura posing in front of her Tove Jansson adaptation. I turn the pages and find the article. It is a full, double-page spread with three photographs. The text introduces Laura and her work. No mention of prison. That was mean-spirited of me, I recognise that. But many of my emotions these days are new, and at least to some degree uncontrollable. In the largest of the three photographs, Laura is leaning against the wall, and the mural behind her inspired by Tove Jansson looks as though it continues into infinity. From reading the article, the impression one gets of Laura is that she is a beginner, that this kilometre-long wall is the first that she ever painted. Just seeing her picture hurts me; the fog becomes thicker, condensing around my chest and stomach into its own cold, nagging space, which grows the longer I look at the image. I fold the paper, look out of the window for a moment and chew on the toast. Then I take my mug of tea, move to the other side of the table and switch on my laptop.
And a moment later I have to steady myself against the table so as not to fall off my chair.
The information has been updated.
Nobody who has taken out a loan has paid up, neither the original sum of the loan nor the interest. Not a single one. The bank’s profits from its first cycle are zero, no more no less. I stare at the figures, but they don’t change. This means that nobody has upheld our very fair and reasonable agreement. Nobody seems to think that a pay-day loan at a very low interest rate is a bilateral agreement. The product, which we named Loan Sense and whose concise, fact-based information leaflet laid out in the simplest possible terms quite how rare such an opportunity really is, has not compelled people to cooperate with the rules. I quickly recall that, when I started the bank, there was always the risk that someone might not repay their loan. But reason – and mathematics – dictated that the majority of people would make the repayments on time, because our terms and conditions are better and our interest rate lower than those of our competitors. This is simple mathematics. It has been proven in practice. And the original capital … is now in the borrowers’ pockets. Or, as I quickly come to realise, it’s probably not there either any more. Far more likely, it has been squandered, frittered away, flushed down toilets around the world.