ROGER KOPONEN TOSSES back the rest of his Calvados, swishes it gingerly around his mouth, and doesn’t catch the tiniest hint of apple or pear. Cheap crap. And yet the meal itself has been a positive surprise, for which thanks are due not to the organizers but to Alisa, the thirty-something manager of a local bookstore. A hot little number who has capitalized on a beautiful face and melodious laugh by keeping her figure in mint condition. CrossFit. She mentioned it earlier when she was explaining how her ex-boyfriend had forgotten the keys to his third-floor apartment, and they had climbed in by piling up garden furniture and . . . blah blah blah. Who gives a shit? Roger watched the discreetly gloss-moistened lips form the words instead of paying attention to the details of the story. The germane point was that some months ago, the boyfriend who featured in the story had, by either his, her, or mutual decision, earned the prefix “ex.”
The way Alisa has been looking at Roger is the way single women in their thirties—who are wavering between eternal youth and the burgeoning urge to reproduce—do in the best-case scenario. Roger relishes the attention. He was never a ladies’ man in his youth. Just the opposite, as a matter of fact. His interaction with the opposite sex got off to a miserable start during early adolescence, and it took nearly two decades for him to recover from those original disappointments. As a young man, Roger had been too weird and different for women his age, and it was only upon reaching his forties that he genuinely started to have confidence in his appearance and charm—so that nowadays he could actually accept that the woman sitting across from him was batting her eyes at him and not the Shia LaBeouf look-alike standing behind him, pouring more crapple-flavored hooch.
Age has brought Roger success, money, self-confidence, and above all the sort of charisma that a spray tan, shirt-stretching abs, and a thick head of hair are incapable of producing on their own. Women want him. Like many inveterate oat sowers, he has found his segment, the type of woman he never fails to get. Maria eventually joined this happy club. And Alisa the bookstore manager is inevitably going to be included in it too.
“Am I the only one who hasn’t read the Witch Hunt books yet?” Alisa asks with a laugh. The sycophants sitting around the table bray their ironic disapproval and join in the laughter. Alisa takes a sip of her wine and shoots Roger a playful look from behind her glass, shrugs conciliatorily as if she has just pelted him in the back of the head with a snowball. She is flirting through provocation. And Roger finds it incredibly sexy. He feels a swelling erection and considers the possibility of rising from the table and visiting the men’s room. Alisa would follow him; there’s no doubt about that. He could take the little bookseller for a real ride without having to look at her lying next to him in the bed of his hotel room afterward. Without having to come up with something private and profound to discuss when there is nothing left to talk about.
“You’re in the minority, Alisa,” Pave Koskinen says at her side, his spoon filled with melted ice cream from his dessert plate, and continues: “It feels like everyone has read them. Even people who never read detective novels.”
Roger lowers his glass to the table, smiles at Pave, and is certain that his phony grin has failed to conceal his revulsion. The old fart has shed whatever remained of his dignity by refusing to drop the toadying and trying to rescue his star author from a jab that, in his deplorable lack of social insight, he does not recognize as a mating dance.
“I’m going to powder my nose.” Alisa dabs at the corners of her mouth with her napkin as if etiquette requires her to do so and stands. She’s a step ahead of him. Roger’s eyes trail her as she walks around the table in her high heels and, when passing Roger, discreetly brushes against his back. An unnecessary gesture; the game is obvious. Roger takes a moment to eye the dinosaurs sitting around the table and sees that only Pave has raised his uncertain gaze to follow Alisa. So you have a pulse too, Pave. Roger strokes the stem of his Calvados glass and considers his next move. It’s been more than six months since the last incident. He has since promised himself countless times that he will never fool around behind Maria’s back again—at least in situations where the risk of being caught exceeds the temptation. This is a borderline case. The desire blazing in the young woman’s eyes makes her particularly intriguing, and over the course of the dinner, it has become clear that there’s no point in expecting a deeper connection. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. A couple of minutes is all he needs.
Roger pushes back his chair, lets out an almost perceptibly excited sigh, and stands. He glances at the clock on his phone and notices that he has received three calls from an unknown number and a WhatsApp message from Maria. Two hours ago. The yard lights still don’t work! Beneath it a crying emoji—and an orange angry face.
Roger feels a wrenching in his gut. The fact that he suffers pangs of conscience for his behavior doesn’t make him feel like any less of an asshole. Roger suddenly understands that it was wrong for him to commit to Maria simply because he didn’t want anyone else to nose in on his kill. He knows that any middle-aged man would give one of his kidneys to grow old next to a woman like Maria. And despite that, he’s rushing off after the girl from the bookstore.
Don’t stress. I’ll handle it tomorrow. Roger waits for a moment to see whether Maria reads the message, but when she doesn’t, he returns the phone to his pocket.
“Please, excuse me,” he says, not offering an alibi, and stalks off. It’s only after he steps out of the private dining room that he hears the flies gradually dare to resume their buzzing. Going on about what a great evening it has been and how they’re sure Roger thought the event was a success too. The restaurant is otherwise empty, and Roger crosses the deserted dining room toward the toilets. He passes the reception desk, nods at the desk agent who has just answered the phone, and spots the door to the ladies’ room. It has been left slightly ajar. His heart pounds harder, and in his mind’s eye, he sees how in no time flat he’ll be hiking the black-and-white dress up to waist height, pulling the panties to the side, and thrusting himself into that young woman, putting a hand over her mouth to prevent her from arousing the curiosity of other guests.
But just as he’s reaching for the door handle, he hears a voice behind him and freezes, like a teenager who’s about to sneak out for a party and is accosted by the angry voice of his mother. But the tone of this voice isn’t scolding; it’s somehow apologetic. It belongs to the woman from the reception desk.
“Excuse me. You’re Roger Koponen, aren’t you?” she says from a safe distance.
“Yes,” Roger replies, wondering whether he can still claim, with any credibility, that he misinterpreted the symbol representing a shepherdess’ silhouette.
“There’s a phone call for you.”
Roger registers that the desk clerk seems concerned. A phone call? Amazing fucking timing. And before he can ask, she continues: “It’s the police.”
“What?” The question blurts rudely from Roger’s mouth; he is simultaneously surprised and disappointed. The sound of high heels clacking against the tile floor carries from the ladies’ room.
“The police are on the phone. They said someone is on their way.”
“Wh—”
“Your wife. It’s about your wife.”