I stop and I listen.
The silence is like the sea standing perfectly still. From what I observe of the collision between man and rabbit, I conclude it is the man who has been forced to yield. Lizard Man is lying on his back, vacantly staring at the ceiling of the adventure park, far from the angry, cursing, threatening man he was just a moment ago.
The rabbit looks almost the same as before, only now it is missing an ear again.
With a spot of geometrical adjustment, Lizard Man fits into the boot of the car.
I start the engine, drive slowly to the other side of the building and peer towards the entrance. The doors are shut; Esa’s security cameras were switched off a long time ago. The rabbit is upright again with its ear in place. Perhaps my previous experience helped make standing the rabbit upright and clearing up my tracks such a quick operation. Having said that, the ear will not withstand another conflict. Cleaning it, fixing it and gluing it in place took almost as long as everything else put together. But it looks like it is firmly attached to the rabbit’s head once again, and at a quick glance I doubt anyone will be able to see any evidence of hand-to-hand combat.
I look at the adventure park a moment longer. Not because I want to make sure of anything in particular, but simply because it is there. I remember my first day at work, the way I wanted to be rid of the park for good, how I considered every minute I spent there a minute wasted. How wrong I was. And how differently I think now. Now I see something that deserves to be protected and must be protected. I know people use the word love in all its different forms and in all possible contexts to refer to everything from washing powders to grandmothers, from muesli to holiday destinations, but my heart thumps, my chest pounds and my mind seethes at the thought that someone is trying to threaten my adventure park. I have to say it, if only to myself.
This is my adventure park. I love it and I’m going to do anything it takes to save it.
The route is familiar by now. The traffic thins out as the number of lanes decreases. The night turns darker, squeezing the car tighter and tighter. The headlights guide me round the darkening turns and bends. On the dirt track, I can finally drive completely alone. I recognise the familiar intersection and slow down on approach. I take the path leading gently uphill, I reach the top of the hill and begin to drive down the other side, I steer the car out of the protection of the forest and before long I can make out the figure of the barn ahead and to the right.
Do I really believe that the big man is out?
That being said, this isn’t the first time I have turned up at his extraordinary farmyard unannounced. If he is at home, I can say I have come for a chat. The time of day won’t be a problem; his operations don’t adhere to standard business practices anyway, and I doubt he cares much for office hours. And there’s no reason for me to show him the contents of the car. Lizard Man is in the boot, permanently subdued. He’s unlikely to run out into the yard and surprise us.
Ultimately, this is a classic example of the old adage that you first need to rule out the impossible: in this instance, turning back. Then you need to look at what options are left: there is only one direction – full steam ahead. You have to start with what can be resolved, then you can resolve something new in order to move forwards.
I steer the car back to the dirt track.
A moment later, I turn onto the path leading up to the yard, driving at precisely the speed I would if I were arriving for an impromptu visit. The path feels unbearably long. The headlights glide across the house and the yard. I open the window, switch off the engine but leave the lights on. I listen. I can’t even hear the wind in the trees, let alone the sound of birdsong. It’s so late in the autumn that even the mosquitoes have stopped buzzing. I smell the moist earth, there’s a lingering hint of summer, a late blossoming, an after-burn.
And there’s something else too.
Cinnamon buns.
In the middle of the night.
I switch off the headlights and wait for a moment. The house is dark and it remains dark, except for a faint light in the left-hand window, which I know to be the kitchen.
It only takes a few seconds to add up what I can see and smell, and I reach the conclusion that there are no alternatives: I will have to go in and eat another gargantuan cinnamon bun in what would normally constitute my sleeping hours – most likely with the big man watching over me while Lizard Man rests in peace in the boot of the car. This outcome is far from optimal, but if an excess of carbohydrates at this unfortunate hour of the day is all that’s required in my effort to save the adventure park, I’ll do it.
I take a deep breath, step out of the car, walk up to the house, take the steps up to the porch and wait for the door to open. I wait a little longer. Nothing happens. I ring the doorbell which, last time, I didn’t even get to touch. The doorbell peals through the dark house. I wait again. Nobody moves inside the house. I look at the door, then try the handle. It turns.
The house smells like a mid-sized bakery. I take one step further inside, then two steps, and, trying to keep my voice as normal as possible, I call out and ask whether this is a good time to pay a visit. There is no answer, so I raise my voice and ask again. And again, nothing. It seems the house is empty. I proceed carefully into the kitchen.
The buns are already in the oven.
I’m no expert when it comes to baking, but I do know this.
The average baking time for cinnamon buns is approximately thirteen to fifteen minutes. When the buns are this big – I can see their size as I peer into the oven – baking time can take up to seventeen or even eighteen minutes. Judging by the current colour of the buns, they must have been in the oven for roughly four to five minutes already.
I see something else on the table: an empty coffee packet next to the coffee maker. There is already fresh water in the coffee maker and a new, clean filter in the top, but then … the big man has realised he’s out of coffee. And you can’t have cinnamon buns without coffee.
I remember the map of the area. There is a petrol station in the opposite direction from where I came, perhaps five or six minutes’ drive away.
I am used to performing multiple calculations in my head at once. Complicated, challenging ones. I am used to the presence of several simultaneous variables. I am able to compare calculations to one another while working through them. Of all available options, the conclusion I arrive at is the best, the one that will most likely lead to the optimal result, the one that significantly increases the likelihood and probability of the next desired outcome more than any of the other options on the table.
I run.
I return to the car, open the back door and take a flashlight from the footwell. I flick it on and walk towards the barn. It is an old building with a ramp leading up to a wide set of doors. The doors are closed. I walk round to the side of the barn facing the woods from which I stepped out into the yard on my last visit. I find a small door that is unlocked and slip inside. The odour of mould is like a blade cutting through my nostrils. It’s so sharp and powerful that I feel as though I can almost see it in noxious clouds in the light of the torch. There is an uneven coating of cement on the floor, and the small, narrow windows remind me of a prison cell. I step over planks of wood, debris, piles of rubbish. After a quick search, I locate the stairs and climb to the upper floor.
The floorboards creak as I move around the tall dust- and mould-smelling space. Each time the flashlight illuminates something, the item seems to leap out at me, to take a step or two forwards out of the darkness. Almost everything is exactly where it was the last time I visited. I walk the length of the barn and emerge at the far end of the main space, just as the big man did at our first meeting. I continue towards the large main doorway and lift the plank placed across the latches to hold it shut. I push the doors open and walk down the steep slope leading out into the yard. Then I reverse the car back up the slope and stop once the vehicle is half inside the barn, then switch off the engine.