Little Siberia Read online

  I had saved a pill popper.

  I park the car outside Hurme Gym and step outside; Afghanistan quickly disappears from my mind. It’s a cold evening. Hurme Gym is situated in an industrial area on the outskirts of Hurmevaara. It’s a small area, but there’s plenty going on. You can find everything, from spare tractor parts to dried sauna whisks. The latter are naturally shipped to Helsinki, along with other items designed for the hapless millennial generation. The gym is housed in a former slaughterhouse.

  I step inside, and the darkness outside is replaced by a fluorescent glare.

  Räystäinen is waiting for me. Apart from him, the space is empty.

  The large space is open-plan in every respect: there is plenty of room between the machines and barbell stations. Räystäinen is kitted out in white gym shoes, a black training jacket and a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms. Across his chest is the embroidered image of a heavy-laden barbell, bending at each end as though lifted by an invisible power.

  Räystäinen is clearly nervous, and I guess I’m not at my most relaxed either. I remember the long scratch on his arm, the pain around my temples, the intruder lying in the snow.

  ‘Quiet evening,’ I comment and look around.

  The gym is well equipped. There are countless machines of various types. Dumbbells are neatly stacked in their stands. Something about the empty barbells and motionless machines seems to heighten the sense of abandonment. I notice there’s no music either. I hear Räystäinen crack his knuckles. More than that, I hear the phone in his pocket beep as a text message arrives. Räystäinen casts his eyes over the high ceiling as he sticks his hand in his pocket.

  ‘Cardio day,’ he says as if to explain the lack of clientele. ‘People plan their workouts like that.’

  Räystäinen glances at his phone. He doesn’t seem pleased at the message. I doubt whether his claim about cardio workouts holds water; it’s hard to imagine that yesterday the gym was full and today every client is out skiing or running.

  ‘This is perfect for us, though. We can do your assessment in peace and quiet. See what kind of shape you’re in and decide what direction to take.’

  ‘Precisely,’ I say, but Räystäinen has already turned his back and asks me to follow him.

  We start with some deadlifting. It used to be my favourite exercise, back in the days when I did a lot of weightlifting. It’s a few years ago now, but I’ve still got the technique. Räystäinen seems impressed. Naturally he gives me advice, but I can hear in his voice that he had hoped to take a firmer grip on the proceedings, so to speak. The atmosphere lightens up when we start sharing our weightlifting experiences. He is still wearing his training jacket. And his phone is still beeping as messages keep arriving. Eventually he puts the thing on silent.

  ‘I didn’t expect you to be so familiar with this,’ he says as we move on to bench presses. ‘I always took you for a man of the spirit. You know, like you forget all about your body and concentrate only on what’s in the soul or whatever it is.’

  He says this as though he were talking about Jesus. At the same time he sounds somewhat disappointed at the thought that I’ve come to his gym – in my own car – just like any other man, and haven’t, say, walked effortlessly across the snowdrifts or turned protein shakes into wine. I won’t be telling him how sinful I have been only this afternoon.

  We spend a moment warming up, talk about the basic technique of the bench press.

  I lie down on the bench and grip the bar. Räystäinen is standing behind my head to spot me, to give me some help should I need it. The idea is to establish your maximum lift. I position my palms along the bar and lift it from the stand. I balance the weight with my arms. Just then Räystäinen begins to speak.

  ‘That meteorite is worth a million, you know.’

  He is right above me, upside down. In a second the atmosphere changes.

  ‘I mean, it’s hardly surprising somebody tried to break into the museum. That million euros is reason enough.’

  Räystäinen brings his own hands nearer the bar and raises them upwards, preventing me from returning the bar to the stand.

  ‘Even if you split it into a couple of parts, there’s plenty to go round,’ he says. ‘You said there were two intruders, but by my counting even if there were three or four, you’re still talking about a nice sum of money.’

  I lower the bar to my chest and try to lift it again. I know instantly that it’s too heavy.

  ‘It makes you think, you know, about family … I mean, starting a family is a difficult and expensive business. The Holy Spirit just won’t cut it.’

  ‘What?’ I gasp.

  The bar will not move.

  ‘Well, I understand you – you two – are having a go.’

  I put all my strength into trying to lift the bar.

  ‘I can’t…’ I almost bellow.

  ‘I know, we’re having trouble too…’

  ‘The weight,’ I say through clenched teeth.

  ‘If you combine your…’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If…’

  ‘No,’ I say, this time very loudly. ‘No, no to everything. No. Now lift it off.’

  Räystäinen places his palms beneath the bar, but he doesn’t lift it. By now my muscles are stiff. Why won’t he lift the bar? It’s almost as if he’s wondering whether to help me at all. Slowly the bar begins to rise.

  I have to push it all the way up. Räystäinen gives only minimal help. I get up from the bench, turn and look at him, trying to steady my breathing. Räystäinen’s expression has changed. I can’t read it. He just stares at me. There’s a metallic taste in my mouth, as though I’d bitten into the bar.

  How much can I tell him?

  If I let on straight away that I know where he got that scratch on his arm, he will know it was me at the cottage and that I failed to tell the police about it – assuming the scratch on his arm is from the museum window. And what did he just suggest to me? Nothing concrete, of course. He was just talking, thinking out loud maybe. But he very nearly left me lying there with the bar across my chest. That’s what it felt like, though it would be impossible to prove.

  Just then he takes a quick step forwards, right towards me. I instinctively grab a five-kilo weight from the stand beside me. I’m not sure quite what I expect to happen next, but hearing Pirkko’s shrill voice is not high on my list.

  ‘Joel,’ she chirps. ‘I didn’t know you came here too.’

  I turn quickly, the five-kilo weight still in my hand. Pirkko looks first at it, then at me.

  ‘Ah, you’re working out,’ she says, genuinely surprised. ‘And with dumbbells too!’

  For the next half-hour we all stick to our respective roles. Räystäinen plays the part of the enthusiastic personal trainer. I play the student with a renewed interest in keeping fit. Pirkko plays at being interested only in her own workout and studiously pretends not to see us or listen to us.

  As a teacher Räystäinen is both overly tense and completely vacant. Either he wants to continue our conversation about the meteorite or he would rather be somewhere else altogether. Or – and this occurs to me as I grip the cable pulley and see him watching the piles of weights moving up and down – maybe he is thinking of how best to get me stuck beneath a hundred-kilo weight again. I could be wrong. I’m tired, exhausted. The last twenty-four hours has sapped my energy, and on top of that, here I am, lifting weights.

  Pirkko’s performance is almost as bad. The large, empty room serves only to heighten the sense of her presence, and I can’t help noticing how experienced she is in the gym. She is slightly older than me and she’s worked in the church office for years. She is divorced, and her adult son is studying in Helsinki. She is very pleasant, she’s good at her job, and I know I should apologise to her. My communication with her has been misleading. I’ve been selfish and thoughtless. The thought doesn’t do anything to alleviate my general sense of unease.

  We reach the end of the session.

 
Räystäinen has been taking notes in a small jotter. In a loud voice he says he will put together a thorough personalised workout programme for me. The effective completion of the programme will involve me joining his gym and working out three times a week. I thank him but stop short of signing on the dotted line. Räystäinen’s expression reveals his disappointment. He is agitated too; you can hear it in the way he taps the computer keyboard next to the cash register. It’s me that should be agitated, I think. I’m thoroughly exhausted. I turn to Pirkko. She is nearby, busy doing abdominal exercises on the floor, and doesn’t see me.

  ‘See you tomorrow, Pirkko,’ I call out.

  She stops her movement, remains on all fours and looks up at me. ‘Great,’ she says. ‘I’m doing legs tomorrow.’

  I haven’t a clue what she means, I realise, and shake my head. ‘No … No, not here.’

  ‘Somewhere else?’

  ‘What?’ I ask before again realising her misunderstanding. ‘I mean see you at work.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ she says. ‘We need to look at those hymnals.’

  And with that, she winks at me. It’s an impressive wink too. She’s upside down, her eyes large and brown. Instinctively I look away towards Räystäinen, now standing beside me. He hands me a sheet of printed paper, presumably my personalised workout routine. I’m convinced he saw that wink, and I get the impression he’s waiting for an answer. I don’t have one.

  I fold the piece of paper, place it in my pocket and thank him for everything. I glance at the barbell resting on its stand above the bench and leave.

  4

  The inside of the car is refreshingly cool. The chill of the seat feels like opening the curtains on a bright morning. It simultaneously wakes me up and calms me down. I reverse and turn the car around, shift into first gear and look over towards the gym. Next to the door is a large window. In the window stands Räystäinen; the light coming from behind him makes him look even bigger and blurs his facial features. He raises his hand in what looks like a goodbye. I raise a hand too and drive out of the car park.

  I think about what just happened, about Räystäinen’s words. Naturally, I’ve never before taken part in such a surreal workout. It’s hard to say whether I know more or less than I did before. Räystäinen might be one of the intruders, or he might just be an irritable gym owner. I’m fairly sure he’s not Krista’s lover. Or could he be after all?

  I think of all those text messages pinging on his phone. The timing is almost too good to be true. I left the house and went straight to the gym. Krista is by herself for the first time since sustaining her injuries, and as we know, she likes to sort things out straight away. His phone was beeping like there was no tomorrow.

  Was Krista trying to contact her lover’s ‘old’ number and not the one I offered her earlier today? Has Räystäinen expanded his attempts to start a family beyond his own wife? He is a brawny man, and in his own very peculiar way he is tough, relentless. Maybe…

  Black poison flows through everything to do with Krista and her current situation. I grip the steering wheel.

  The village has settled down for another winter’s night. Smoke rises from the chimneys; the high street is virtually empty. The layer of fresh snow a few millimetres thick, which fell earlier in the afternoon, has made everything white again. I drink the protein shake I bought at the gym; essence of chemical mango fills the car as I glug it down. I pull my phone from my pocket. I’ve received a call from a number not in my contact list.

  I call the number and recognise the voice immediately. The man wants to talk about the subject he knows best: the impending end of the world. I tell him we haven’t got time for that. To be precise, he says, we won’t need time, because when the world stops there will be no time. I can’t face getting into an existential debate with him. Perhaps he can hear in my voice that I’d prefer he got straight to the point. I must admit, it takes me slightly aback when, for perhaps the first time ever, he does just that.

  He thinks he has identified the perfume I’m looking for.

  I pull over outside the petrol station. I need to fill the tank anyway. And I’m more alert now than five seconds ago.

  ‘I’m not sure about it,’ he says and begins to hesitate.

  ‘You’re not sure it’s the right perfume?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m sure of that, but I don’t know whose it is.’

  Then we have the same problem.

  ‘Can you say where you smelled it?’ I ask him.

  ‘That’s why I’m calling,’ he says. ‘I was having a beer. We should talk about that too one day. I try to take comfort in the Lord, but sometimes alcohol does the job a bit quicker.’

  ‘We are all only human,’ I say.

  The petrol station is quiet. I park the car by the petrol tanks; nobody will complain at this time of night. In Helsinki people would already be blowing their horns and reaching for the nearest crowbar. The light beneath the roofing is yellow, making the snow look like fibreglass.

  ‘Once I’ve had five pints, the world loosens its half-nelson,’ the man continues. ‘I know it’s wrong, that sort of escapism…’

  ‘I’m not sure I’d say it’s wrong,’ I say, and I know I’m interrupting his train of thought. ‘Ultimately, human existence is a pretty complicated matter. Jesus thought God had abandoned him. John of the Cross spoke of the “dark night” of the soul. Luther descended into despair and anti-Semitism.’

  The man is silent.

  ‘I can’t make you out,’ he says for the second time today.

  ‘Perhaps we should simply trust in the Lord’s mercy. After all, it is everything,’ I say. ‘So, you were saying you smelled the perfume?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says, snapping back to the moment. ‘When I was in the Golden Moon.’

  ‘When?’

  The man pauses before answering. ‘I left about an hour ago. I think I might still be under the influence. Maybe the effects are wearing off. It’s the most wretched feeling in the world. It’s the Devil’s curse.’

  ‘Something like that,’ I concede.

  The call comes to an end. I get out of the car, unscrew the fuel cap, pick up the icy pump and fill the tank. It seems to take longer than usual, and the frosted air no longer feels as refreshing as before. I return the pump to its holder and step inside to pay. There are a few people in the café. The owner of the petrol station is leafing through a tattered tabloid; according to the headline, a singer of yesteryear has apparently squandered all his money.

  The owner barely raises his eyes from the paper as I pick up a bottle of windscreen fluid, take out my card and pay. This suits me fine. My thoughts are already in bars and nightclubs. I realise people often use perfumes and aftershaves before going out on the town, but still. Maybe there’s something I can latch on to here: the Golden Moon Night Club.

  I go home and take a shower.

  It takes a while to explain to Krista why I had to start my workout routine today of all days. I don’t lie; I tell her I’ve had enough of Räystäinen harping on about it. This is true in one sense, in the sense that people are truthful to one another at all. We choose what we say, cherry-picking certain details, scrupulously omitting others.

  Jealousy is corroding me, inching its way forwards like rust, swelling and blistering. When the agony becomes unbearable, it feels as though the only way to survive is to play a role, to step aside from myself and what is happening to me. If I don’t, it feels as though I might shatter into pieces, or implode.

  After my shower I feel marginally better. For a moment. Then I catch sight of the shelf in the bathroom cabinet where Krista keeps her perfumes. I look at them. I know the thought is mind-boggling. But I have to be sure. I pick up each bottle in turn and sniff them. None of them resembles the scent I am looking for.

  I close the cabinet door and see my face in the mirror. I sigh and think about what I am about to do next. I pick out a clean shirt and pull on my best pair of jeans, run some gel through my hair. I try to look
like my normal self. I’ve got my work cut out.

  Krista is lying on the living-room sofa, her right leg propped up. My stomach lurches every time I see her injured ankle and the bandages around it. What I did was wrong, I know that. Immediately after that a small, spiteful voice seems to whisper in my ear that Krista isn’t exactly without sin either – after all, she started this ball rolling; without her original transgression nobody would have injured their leg. The voice is loathsome. It’s a voice that seems to justify acts of evil. It’s a very human characteristic, I know that, inherent in our nature. But it doesn’t make things right or good. It changes the way I look at Krista, the world, everything.

  ‘Wow,’ she says. ‘I thought it was a model, but it turns out it’s my own wonderful husband.’

  She is lying beneath a large red blanket, glowing with warmth and softness. At least, I know that’s what I would think under normal circumstances. I know she is my beloved wife, but I can’t muster that feeling right now.

  The television is switched on. A group of volunteers has been flown out to a paradise island to talk behind one another’s backs. The task doesn’t seem to cause them too much trouble.

  ‘You’re off to keep an eye on the meteorite,’ she says, and I recognise the tone of voice. There’s more to come.

  I think of Räystäinen, the rally driver, and the friends he mentioned. I think of the perfume.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You’ll be by yourself in the museum, won’t you?’

  ‘I hope so,’ I say, trying to lighten the mood, but Krista isn’t easily fooled. Her expression is genuinely inquisitive.

  ‘Is that why you’ve dressed up smart and put gel in your hair? To be alone in a remote museum all night?’

  I’ve dressed up smart because I’m going to a karaoke bar. I can’t say that, of course. In fact, the whole reason for my going is, in many ways, extremely vague: it might or might not help me work out exactly what I’m doing, and why. But right now I need to look at this from her perspective. I don’t have time to answer before she fires more questions.