Little Siberia Page 3

  We drive like this for twenty minutes. Then I lose sight of the lights altogether. I come out of a bend and the road straightens up ahead, and I find myself alone in the nocturnal emptiness. The road ahead is so long, the car in front simply cannot have reached the end and disappeared.

  There is only one small lane leading off the main road. I turn and see the tyre tracks. The narrow lane soon turns into nothing but a trail. It’s hard going for the little Škoda. I assume I’m nearing my destination. I turn off the headlights and steer the car onto an even narrower pathway. Judging by the depth of the snow, it must have been ploughed about a week ago. A moment later I stop the car, switch off the motor. Then I step out and listen.

  The sound of an engine. Light flickering between the trees.

  3

  The car is parked in front of a cottage, its engine still running. The headlights illuminate the front of the cottage like a set of spotlights. The cottage is small and run-down. It looks like so many of the old houses round here. The original occupants die and their descendants or distant relatives now spend a week or two at most in the house in the summer – for a couple of years. Then even that comes to an end, and, overwhelmed by the weather and the passing of time, the house starts to subside, like someone losing their grip on a lifebuoy.

  I watch the cottage, the car and the two people from the side, like a theatre performance.

  The pair are wrestling in the snow between the car and the cottage. No. It’s not really wrestling. One is punching the other, and the other is unable to fight back. The thuds of the punches and the possible shouts that follow are drowned by the sound of the engine. I creep a short distance forwards through the snow between the tree trunks, and from there I’m able to walk along the tracks left by the tyres. I’ve had close combat training, and I know more than just the basics of self-defence. I try to recall everything I’ve learned as I approach the pair.

  At the same time I remember why I’ve come out here. I’ve been humiliated enough for one day.

  Jeans, a jumper and a flannel shirt are, of course, relatively light attire for such biting cold, but I don’t plan to hang about. I approach the light-blue Nissan Micra; the smell of exhaust fumes is heavy in the calm, starlit night. Rust has eaten away at the rims of the bodywork. I look at the registration number and commit it to memory. I creep behind the car and look for a suitable route. One of the thieves is lying face-down in the snow. I can deal with him later. The other one walks up to the cottage door, unlocks it and steps inside.

  I wait for a moment then step out from behind the car and trudge through the snow towards the cottage. I pass the guy lying in the snow on his right side, still keeping my distance. I keep well out of the light, just in case the guy inside glances out through the window. For a split second, I think I see the thief in the snow moving, but perhaps not. The car’s headlights are so bright that I can see a long tear in the right sleeve of his jacket, and in that tear is something dark and wet. Maybe he cut his arm climbing through the broken window at the museum. Beside his left arm is a torch standing almost upright in the snow. I can’t help thinking that this is the object that caused the lump above my ear.

  The car’s lights have been left on for a reason – I assume there is no electricity out here. There are two windows at the front of the cottage. In the left-hand one I see a human shadow passing between the floral curtains. I step nearer the door. I know what I’ve come to find. I reach out towards the handle.

  Then the world suddenly bursts into flame.

  And the door comes flying towards me.

  If the snow beneath you feels soft and good, it usually means it’s too late. I know this, but still I enjoy the sensation. Lord knows I need some rest. Or does He? Is there a Lord at all? I open my mouth, snow falls inside. I realise I’m not on a couch or in bed, not discussing what you might call life’s bigger questions. I’m lying in the snow, and I have to get to my feet. I must get up, otherwise I’ll freeze. I have to get inside. Then I remember where I am.

  I was about to go inside…

  The cottage…

  Smoke and dust are billowing from what used to be the windows. The remaining shreds of the curtains dangle round the window frames.

  All this I see in the light of the moon and the stars. The Nissan Micra has disappeared. So has the thief who was lying in the snow. I finally haul myself to my feet. I look around, shivering with cold. Beside me, a few metres from the doorway, is the cottage door. I can’t hear anything. I can’t see anyone. There is a trail in the snow, drag marks. And there’s a torch propped upright. I pick up the torch and stand in front of the cottage.

  I take a cautious step inside, flick the torch into life and allow the beam of light to wash across the interior of the cottage. I have seen many rooms, apartments and houses just like this. I look in front of me, stepping carefully through the debris. This space was clearly once a combined kitchen and living room.

  The fridge seems to have spun round on its axis. The chairs and dining table are spread across the room in different-sized splinters. The shelves have fallen from the walls and collapsed into the middle of the floor. Crockery and various items have smashed, flown through the air and are now strewn in a chaotic mess. And everything – literally everything – seems to have ended up on the floor.

  Everything except…

  I raise the light from the torch to the walls. Something dark and wet. Small damp blotches, larger ones too. Chunks and strips of solid matter.

  I reach the middle of the room and stop. I aim the torch at the floor.

  Right in front of the window, where presumably there was once a dining table, is a pair of men’s winter boots. Or, more specifically, a pair of boots and a pair of legs. The legs look like they might belong to a mannequin. The large boots seem to be stepping in opposite directions.

  Again I look at the walls. The owner of the legs is smeared evenly across the walls and the ceiling. On the ceiling, right above the feet, is a larger, hairy blob the size of a hotplate on the cooker. Given its colour and the length of the hairs I assume this is a scalp. I look back at the boots. Even without my military training, I know this man doesn’t need an ambulance. He’s not in any danger now.

  I feel a deep-rooted sense of gratitude for the German engineer who must have stood up for himself at a car-factory design meeting and demanded that seat heaters should reach such high temperatures, that in normal circumstances they would roast your backside. Now the seat heater is like an open fire that I could curl up beside. Except, of course, there’s no time to curl up. I’m driving at break-neck speed back to Hurmevaara and the museum.

  My head throbs with the bleak thoughts running through my mind, not just about the evening’s events but about the situation at home. I’ll soon be a man with no family, I think, and my wife has had to make do with the village stud. I try to prevent the theft of the meteorite and end up witnessing an unfathomable series of events that culminates in an unfortunate soul blowing himself up, leaving his body spattered across the panelled ceiling of a remote cottage. And I didn’t even find the meteorite. What have I done wrong? I might ask right now, if I could muster any belief in the power of such questions.

  I jump out of the car and in a few seconds I am at the front door. I take out my set of keys, open the door, and with that I am in the War Museum once again.

  My phone is where I left it, between the Bible and the crime novel. I pick it up and run into the hall where the meteorite is being kept. I key in the number for the police in Joensuu and am about to report the meteorite stolen when…

  …I realise that it hasn’t been stolen.

  There it is in its glass cabinet.

  I stop. There is broken glass on both sides of the meteorite. Then I see what is missing. A grenade. These artefacts shouldn’t be active any longer, but that’s cold comfort to Puss in Boots at the cottage.

  I breathe steadily, the phone in my hand. I hear the voice of the police at the other end. I look at the m
eteorite. It might have set off on its journey at the beginning of time. It has hurtled through space at immeasurable speed and has struck the Earth at this precise time and place. I raise the phone to my ear.

  ‘Hello? Anybody there?’ the officer asks again.

  ‘I’d like to report a robbery,’ I begin. ‘Someone has broken into the Hurmevaara War Museum. I was battered unconscious. The intruder seems to have made off with a wartime grenade. That’s all I know.’

  4

  It’s come to this.

  People often use this phrase, though I assume most are either joking or say it in situations in which things could still go in a variety of directions. I only know one direction I want to take. It’s the direction that’s been given me.

  It’s another few hours until daybreak. I give the police a statement, tell them what happened at the museum, show them the broken window, the smashed display cabinets. The police pass the case on almost immediately, handing it over to the local army brigade in Kainuu. The missing hand grenade is a matter for the army, the police officer explains, especially since it wasn’t supposed to contain live ammunition. I look up at the officer and think how reality seems to escape our assumptions with increasing regularity, but I don’t say it out loud. I call the cleaner, who is doing the night shift at the paper factory. She promises to come and clean up when she’s finished work in three hours.

  After this I call Turunmaa, tell him the news and ask him who can come and replace the window. Turunmaa says he knows a guy who fixes windows at a decent price and promises to call him. Then I get to the main reason I called. I tell him I’ll gladly take on all the remaining night shifts at the museum. He doesn’t make a fuss about it; it’s fine by him, they can all get on with other things and Himanka can carry on sleeping in his own bed.

  After I hang up, another police officer reminds me that there was a break-in at the museum three or four years ago. Back then thieves took a map allegedly showing war-time attack strategies, and there was some minimal vandalism to the toilet facilities. From his tone of voice it’s clear he doesn’t consider either break-in the most exciting case of his career.

  Nobody says anything about the meteorite.

  And relatively quickly I’m alone again, waiting until the morning staff arrive.

  By now a reddish glow taints the eastern horizon. The winter sun is low in the sky, its beams making bright slashes through a frozen world. I know perfectly well that the thieves were after the meteorite. Nobody breaks in to a museum in order to steal a thousand euros of loot when they could have a million. Something must have gone wrong. The grenade was about the same size and weight as the meteorite. Maybe the thieves were in a hurry, or they mistook the grenade for the meteorite for some other reason. It was dark in the room – I’d turned off all the lights at the timer switch. Maybe the person who smashed the display cabinet was different from the one who struck me with the torch. I don’t know.

  But what I do know is that one of the robbers is still out there. Somewhere. The meteorite will be here for another four days. Nobody is going to take it on my watch.

  They can try, I think to myself.

  But you have to draw a line in the sand.

  And that line runs right here, right through me.

  Krista is asleep. I take some ibuprofen to soothe my headache then have a hot shower. But the chill isn’t just on my skin; it’s somewhere deeper, complete with the usual faint tremors. They seem to come from deep inside me, from the places where the muscles are attached to the bones, and almost flinch away from one another. I’ll freely admit that I don’t see the meteorite as simply a meteorite. The stupid, inanimate rock could be worth many millions of euros, but that doesn’t interest me. It’s the integrity of that rock that interests me. And it’s an integrity upon which I can have a real effect.

  I look at Krista’s bottles of shampoo, conditioner, shower gel. Jealousy whispers to me about when and why they have been used. I feel as if it’s inside me – like five litres of rancid, lumpy milk that I can’t seem to vomit up from my stomach.

  Water drums against my head and neck. For a moment I close my eyes, then open them again. The reddened water swirls round my feet and disappears down the drain. The burglars were prepared to use violence. And they did.

  I won’t be turning the other cheek.

  And that’s the main reason why I didn’t tell the police about the cottage, the explosion or the missing accomplice. In the course of the last twenty-four hours I’ve already taken a battering without being able to respond. That’s what Krista’s news felt like. I’m not planning on waiting for more people to walk all over me. I plan to find and, if necessary, stop the burglar myself. Either when I’m on guard duty or not. It might not be the right thing to do, but it’s got to be done. Besides, if years of theology studies have taught me anything, it’s that the quest for perfection is futile; perfection simply doesn’t exist. Someone else can try to find it, but not me.

  I brush my teeth. I’m out of my mind. I understand why. Hard times lie ahead.

  5

  Krista wakes me. She is sitting on top of me, her slender hips pressing down against my own. Cotton pyjamas separate our bodies. I look up at her.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asks.

  She has opened the curtains. Judging by the amount of light spreading through the room, I guess I must have slept for a few hours. I should be on my way to work. Krista’s thick brown hair falls on both sides of her face. Her grey-green eyes are unique; they always seem to reflect the light even when it’s dim. My wife is a beautiful woman. She is still a beautiful woman, I think.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  ‘Minna said someone broke in to the museum last night.’

  Minna is married to Jokinen, the local storekeeper. Turunmaa must have called Jokinen, who then told his wife all about it. Minna and Krista are good friends. I know she wishes I could be friends with Mr Hannu Jokinen, but for one reason or another I’m not. I know most of the villagers like him. He chats with all the customers in his store, remembers people’s special orders, even their birthdays, and even has groceries delivered if the customer wishes.

  ‘It was … just a break-in,’ I say and rub my bleary eyes.

  Anything that happens in a small village is common knowledge in a matter of seconds. It’s a striking phenomenon. Sometimes I think that, were I to stub my toe while alone in my house, someone would call within fifteen minutes to ask how my foot was.

  ‘Just a break-in?’ asks Krista. ‘Darling. Nothing happened to you, did it? Was it terrifying? Are you all right? Why didn’t you wake me up when you got home?’

  I don’t know which question to answer first. I tell her I was taken by surprise and that the intruders made off with an ancient grenade. I tell her the police visited the scene and passed the case on to the army.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say eventually.

  ‘That’s the most important thing,’ she says and strokes my head. Her slender hand touches the bump on the back of my head. ‘Oh, sweetheart. It’ll all be fine. Things always work themselves out. You just have to be careful. You’re going to be a father soon. You can’t just—’

  ‘I’ve signed up for all the remaining night shifts. All four of them.’

  Krista’s hand stops. ‘What about us?’

  What us, I think, quicker than I even notice. I look at Krista and something almost sinister flashes through my mind.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask, though I guess I already know what she means.

  ‘It would be nice to talk about it, think about things, together. Names, even,’ she says eventually and touches her abdomen. ‘But we’ve got plenty of time to talk about all that, I suppose.’

  ‘Names?’

  ‘People generally give their baby a name.’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, though this is the first time the matter has crossed my mind, and even then it’s not of my own volition. A cold wave of jealousy heaves within me. ‘I’ll try and think of
something suitable.’

  Krista looks at me long and hard. ‘We can do it together,’ she says. ‘That’s the whole point. After all, it’s not just your baby…’

  A phone somewhere gives a text-message beep. Krista glances at hers, on the table on her side of the bed. It’s only a quick glance, but it catches my attention. Krista’s phone is like a broken doorbell, chiming constantly. I, meanwhile, can leave my phone in my jacket pocket, forget all about it, and assume the following morning that nobody needed to contact me. If you’d asked me the day before yesterday to think of something negative about my wife, I would probably have said she’s a bit too attached to her phone. Now I might mention something else.

  Krista turns her head. ‘What about Saturday night?’ she asks.

  The winter fête in the neighbouring village. I’d been vaguely aware of the fête until last night, the events of which erased it from my mind. Hardly surprising.

  ‘I don’t want to go by myself,’ she says. ‘And I don’t like the idea of you sitting all by yourself in that museum while the rest of us are dancing and having fun.’

  Isn’t that exactly what you’ve been doing all this time, I think to myself.

  ‘I want you to be there,’ she continues. ‘And I want to go too. You know how much I like karaoke. Why can’t someone else take care of the night shift? Why do you have to do it?’

  Because one humiliation and one near-miss are quite enough, I think. Because you, my dear, you have…