Helsinki White

8

I came home on Friday. Despite all the work done to me, I had spent only four days in the hospital. I lay about, ate narcotics and tranquilizers as instructed, watched crappy television shows, played with Anu and the cat. I felt fine but a little tired and napped a lot. I was on a one-month sick leave, to be extended if necessary, but I was free to go back to work in two weeks if I chose. On Saturday I caught up on the news.

Parliamentary elections were a little over a year away, and a dark horse was gaining ground fast. The Real Finns Party. It was officially headed by Topi Ruutio, an experienced politician and member of the European Parliament. It had a second leader, Roope Malinen. He held no office, but his blog was the most popular in Finland. The Real Finns agenda was unclear, except that they were anti-foreigner and anti-immigration. The Real Finns had invented a euphemism for racists. They staunchly denied charges of racism and dubbed themselves “maahanmuuttokriitikot,” critics of immigrants. Our population was aging, our birthrate low, and without immigrants to work and pay taxes, there would be no pension money for our retirees. The Real Finns’ answer: Finnish women must bear more children, out of patriotic duty.

Other than hate, their agenda wasn’t clear. They wanted a return to traditional Finnish values. I’m unaware of what traditional Finnish values are, and I don’t think anybody else knows, either.

Real Finns believed that government should decide what qualifies as good art to receive government support. They looked to nineteenth-century-style Finnish classic works as ideals. They made wild promises to spread the wealth that couldn’t possibly be met. They wanted to leave the EU. Their rhetoric reminded me of early Nazi propaganda. Like I told Kate, Real Finns are like a more virulent strain of American Teabaggers.

Real Finns have skyrocketed in popularity because the global financial crisis, coupled with greed by our own leading financiers—despite manipulated statistics indicating we have the world’s strongest economy, leading the world to believe that Finland is some kind of financial paradise—has driven our economy into the shithole. Nearly twenty percent of Finns now live beneath the poverty line. Their jobs are being outsourced to other countries. Inflation is high, wages stagnant. People are frightened, and they’re focusing that fear, placing their blame, on immigrants.

I don’t believe they’re actually pro–Real Finn. I think they’re terrified and protesting the establishment that made them feel this way. I kept up with Real Finn antics because their policies changed daily and, when I felt emotions, it amused me. It’s not funny, though, because since the other parties are suffering mass defections to Real Finns, those other parties are taking positions to stem the tide. Keskusta, a center party, adopted the slogan “Maassa maan tavalla”—“in the the way of the country”—but left the well-known phrase unfinished: “tai maasta pois”—or “get out of the country.” Hate directed at foreigners.

Ruutio is charismatic and at least projects an image of being a good guy with strong if somewhat confused beliefs. He shies away from discussions about immigration and foreigners. Malinen writes well. In his blog, he makes convoluted racist arguments seem reasonable. He’s a good hater. In person, he’s almost unable to speak, and what he does manage to say is aggressive, defensive and often incomprehensible. Interviews give the impression that he’s a maniac in dire need of medication. Ruutio pretends to distance himself from Malinen and his extremism, but in truth, they work in tandem. Neither can do without the other.

I slept in the next day and the door buzzer woke me. It was Valentine’s Day. A detective handed me a thick envelope, a packet of dossiers on drug dealers and their upcoming events. It contained no note to me. The unspoken message: You’re on sick leave, but do as you will. After waking up and having coffee, I called Milo and asked him to come over. I didn’t want to talk on the phone, because ours had likely been tapped.

Kate was less than pleased to see Milo’s face on Valentine’s Day, on my second day of sick leave. He looked hung over. The black circles around his eyes were puffy. His eyes bloody red.

I gave him the envelope. “These are potential heist material,” I said. “You can carry them out at your discretion. But you’re not to take risks. If you act impetuously and someone gets hurt because of it, I’ll fire you.”

I wished I could go. He’s good at black-bag work. Thorough. And he’s slick with a lockpick set, can get through an average door in under a minute. I could learn from him. I hate to think how many B&Es he pulled off while satisfying his voyeuristic desires to develop that kind of skill.

His jaw jutted out, defiant. “The chief wanted me on this team. You can’t fire me.”

“Try me.”

He hangdog acquiesced. “We don’t need to have this conversation. I don’t intend to be impetuous.”

“Good.” I clued him in to leave. “Let me know what happens.”

“I’m getting everything together so when you’re back on duty, we can really rock. I want to have a welcome back party for you. You OK with that?”

I put on the smile I’d practiced in the mirror. “Sure. We’ll set the date later.”

He grinned, happy now. “Great. This party will be so much fun, you’ll want to take it out behind the middle school and fuck it.”

GOING THROUGH THE MOTIONS. Pretending to feel, to care. Without emotions, life lacks meaning. I learned a life lesson from my loss. Nothing has intrinsic meaning. We give meaning to the things important to us. It seems the other way around, that loved ones, material possessions we enjoy, our perceived successes, give meaning to our lives. Not so. Those things have meaning because we have emotionally injected meaning into them. Emotions keep us walking, talking, functioning, striving.

I promised myself that I would keep living life as if I felt emotions, in the hope that one day I would feel them again. I promised myself I wouldn’t forget that although I felt no emotions, others did, and theirs remained important. That the most important things in life lie outside my inner being. I had duties to fulfill, whether I found meaning in them or not.

But I was running on sheer desire. Childlike. That meant I had some form of emotion left, but base, almost animalistic, primitive. I tried to squelch it. The childishness that was now a part of me, however, had a blurred sense of right and wrong. It had no interest in them. I had to guard against that part of myself, be wary of it, suppress it. The trick, I realized, was to act through the memory of emotions. In that way, I could at least outwardly be the same person I was pre-surgery.

In early afternoon, Kate went grocery shopping. Anu slept. I had promised to cook that evening, was going to make linguini carbonara. Nothing quite like salty American bacon was available in Finland until recent years, and so carbonara is a relatively new dish for me. Bacon. I love the stuff.

I was gimping across the floor on crutches, a newspaper tucked under my arm, on my way to the couch to sit down and read it. Then I lost it, went incoherent, got dizzy and light-headed. My chest got tight. The world went slow motion. I felt myself going down. A few minutes later, I came to, sprawled on the floor. It scared me.

I followed my first instinct and called Jari. He said I’d suffered a seizure, but told me to stay calm. Especially in the first week after surgery, this could be a onetime event. To be on the safe side, though, I should start on anti-seizure medication and, depending on how things went, stay out from behind the wheel of a car for three to six months instead of just the standard one month following non-problematic brain tumor removal.

I nixed that idea automatic. I wanted my freedom, wanted my car back. I told him if it wasn’t an anomaly, I’d take the medication, but wanted to wait and see first. He said that was OK.

But I was afraid to pick up Anu, in case I had a seizure while I was carrying her. Kate would be home soon, I had to think fast.

Mobility was difficult enough already. I had a baby carrier that fit in the front, against my chest. I put her in it and then walked around on crutches. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me. First, I lost feeling for my own child, and now I was afraid to pick her up.

I went with my first idea, called Arvid and explained the situation, omitting the lack of emotions part, and told him I didn’t want Kate to find out about the seizure because she would try to insist that I take the medication. This total truth thing with Kate didn’t seem to be working out for me.

“Can you come here and stay for a few days?” I asked.

“What will it help, and on what pretext?”

“It will help because I don’t want to fall with the baby. You carry her for me. The pretext is you say you were in Helsinki and just decided to drop by and visit. You seem dispirited, so I invite you to dinner. You accept, and then later, old man that you are, pretend to nod off on the couch.”

“I doubt I’ll have to pretend,” he said. “I’m two days older than dirt. I nod off frequently.”

“I’ll suggest putting you up in the spare bed for the night. Then, in the morning, you just don’t leave. You help out with the baby, carry her to me or for me, and I point out how much easier this makes life for me. I say you’re probably just lonely, that you just lost your wife after fifty years of marriage.”

I waited for a response, but none was forthcoming. I shouldn’t have said that, it cut too close to the bone. He was so lonely and sad that it was unbearable for him. That’s why he called me so often.

“I can spare a few days,” Arvid said. “What am I supposed to do about bringing clothes, though? I can’t exactly show up with a suitcase.”

“When it becomes apparent that you’ll be staying, I’ll send one of the boys to pick some things up for you.”

“All right. I won’t be long. I’m coming by taxi.”

“Why? A taxi is a hundred euros.”

“I’ve been meaning to visit anyway. I’ve got a couple things for the baby and can’t carry them to the bus stop.”

“That’s nice of you to think of her. I’ll pick up the tab.”

“No, you won’t.” He rang off.

KATE CAME HOME loaded down with groceries. After she put them away, I said, “I’ve got a Valentine’s Day gift for you.”

She smiled. “I have one for you too, but I thought we would wait until after dinner to exchange them.”

I’d planned in advance, bought them weeks ago, and I wanted to give them to her while we had a private moment, before Arvid arrived. I put on my practiced smile. “I want to do it now.” I hobbled off to the bedroom to take it from its hiding place in the closet and came back with a small, gift-wrapped box.

She had a dozen white roses in her hands. “Just a small expression of love,” she said. “I have something else for you too, but it’s physical in nature. You have to wait, though, to let the anticipation build.”

A blow job. About the most thoughtful gift she could give me at the moment. The way I’d felt since surgery, if I couldn’t eat it, drink it or fuck it, I didn’t want it.

My knee hurt. We sat on the sofa. She opened her gift. A Kalevala necklace with a silver oak leaf, and matching earrings.

I put the necklace on her. She stood in front of the foyer mirror and tried on the earrings. “They’re lovely,” she said. “Delicate and feminine but with a Viking air about them.”

“They’re about as traditional Finnish as you can get,” I said. “Kalevala jewelry is based on ancient Nordic combined with modern designs.”

The door buzzer rang. Kate answered. Arvid stood there with the taxi driver, who had helped him carry the mountain of packages up the stairs. The driver left. Arvid extended his hand to Kate. “I’m Arvid Lahtinen,” he said. “I’ve heard so much about you, it’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

“And yours,” Kate said. “Kari has said nothing but good things about you.” She gestured at the piles of gift-wrapped packages. “What is all this?”

His smile was shy. “Some odds and ends for baby Anu.”

I was unable to help them. Arvid and Kate moved the boxes into the middle of the living room floor.

“Good to see you, Kari,” Arvid said. “You look well. And younger. Without that scar, you look like somewhat less of a thug.”

“Kind of you to say so.”

Kate also said it makes me look younger. It wasn’t entirely gone, but almost. The skin was smooth, but there was a slight red discoloration, barely noticeable. The surgeon said the results are seldom this good. Also, I hadn’t been to the gym since well before the beginning of the year. I was slimmer as well.

“Please,” Arvid said, “open the boxes.”

Kate and I were both awestruck. There were clothes of different sizes to last Anu for a year. An antique musical mobile decorated with wooden fantasy animals. A jumperoo. A variety of stuffed animals. Everything designer brands. The best money could buy. After the last package was open, Arvid took one more from his coat pocket and handed it to Kate. Inside was a silver box with Anu’s name and birth date engraved on it. It’s to keep Anu’s baby teeth in. Arvid had spent a grand, maybe two, on all this. I was taken aback. Kate was moved to tears. The old man knew how to make an impression.

He was actually eighty-nine, not ninety as he habitually stated. I knew, from reading his secret police dossier while investigating him for murder, that he would turn ninety on March third. His appearance and movements, though, suggested a well-kept man in his seventies. Despite his advanced age, mentally he was sharp as a tack, and he had a good sense of humor. The three of us sat down for coffee and pulla, sweet rolls flavored with cardamom. He asked to hold Anu, and bounced her on his knee while we talked. He told stories from his life and travels. He had the social knack, spoke neither too much nor too little. He was charming the pants off Kate. If he were fifty years younger, I wouldn’t have left him alone in the same room with her.

With a powerful blat, followed by a giggle, Anu announced that she needed her diaper changed.

When we were alone, I asked about feeding Arvid’s four cats while he stayed here.

“That won’t be necessary,” he said.

It was hard to imagine that he gave them away after his wife, Ritva, died only weeks ago. They were all the company he had left, and they had been with him and Ritva for many years.

“How come?” I asked.

“They mourned Ritva and meowed non-stop. You ever read the Edgar Allan Poe story ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’?”

“Yeah.”

“It felt like that. They never stopped crying for her. I felt like I was going out of my mind. I couldn’t give them away. They belonged to Ritva. So finally, I put them in a burlap bag and drowned them in the bathtub. Next to helping Ritva die, it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

And he’s killed hundreds of men in war, so that’s saying a lot. Arvid must be the toughest man I’ve ever met. The image it conjured was horrible. The cats choke, gag and struggle while he holds them under the water. Bubbles rise to the surface of the water as their lungs empty, until finally, they go limp.

“I built a wooden box for a coffin,” he said, “and buried it in the snow. In the spring, when the ground softens up, I’ll dig a grave out back behind the house for them.”

“Why did you buy all those things for Anu?” I asked.

“I told you, I think you’re a good boy. You remind me of your grandpa, my friend. I felt like doing something nice.”

“That was more than nice,” I said.

He just smiled.

After a while, I didn’t have to prod her, Kate asked Arvid to stay for dinner. He played his role well, changed Anu himself once, with deft movements. He told Kate that he and Ritva had two boys, but both died before adulthood. One from cancer, one from a car crash. The story brought tears to her eyes. After a meal, a cognac and a little more conversation, it was as Arvid said. He drifted off to sleep. It had been a much more action-packed day than he was accustomed to. I prodded him awake and asked if he would like to spend the night in the spare bed. He nodded agreement, made it into Anu’s room and was asleep again within minutes.

Before bed, I asked Kate if she would mind if I invited Arvid to stay with us for a few days.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because he’s lonely, and I think the company would help him get past the death of his wife. They were together for fifty years. He’s suffering.”

“He’s got too much pride. You can’t say that to him.”

“I can say he can help me out with Anu and give you a little more freedom, and that would be true. Carrying Anu around while I walk on crutches is hard.”

“Is he really a mass murderer?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“He’s so sweet, and he’s wonderful with Anu, but he killed a man in cold blood, in a restaurant I manage. I suspect he’s a charming sociopath. And now he’s sleeping in our house. The situation is bizarre. I have … reservations about this.”

“He only kills Russians, not babies. Not even baby Russians,” I said.

The joke combined with the strange situation made her start to giggle. “A few days,” she said. “I don’t want a permanent houseguest.”

“Thanks,” I said.

She kissed me, and gave me my Valentine’s Day present.