ERNE MIKSON BLOWS on his coffee but doesn’t even try it. He takes a few drags from his cigarette, and it shrinks by about a third. Despite the warmer temperatures, it’s damn cold, and the sharp breeze makes the wet chill unbearable. Oddly enough, it reminds Erne of the fortress of Carcassonne in southern France, of the December day years ago when he stood on its walls, underdressed, his then wife at his side. The icy rain lashing his face, the masses of snow plopping down from the tree branches and the roof gutters. His wet shoes, his sore throat. At the time, he could blame a passing flu; this time there’s more to the symptoms. This damn cough. As he takes his final drag, his lungs start to burn; they’ve had enough. He’s been testing his body’s tolerance for too long: when he was young, out of a belief in his immortality, and since out of sheer habit. Alcohol has taken its toll but also given a lot to this shy man. Erne has never enjoyed spending time alone with his own thoughts, let alone in the company of others; a drink has always been welcome in both instances. It’s ironic that the liquid nerve toxin that is now killing him has perhaps made it possible for him to live such a long, rich life. A good life, considering how it began. Two sons who have grown into smart adult men, a respectable job with the police force, and a passel of tolerable colleagues, Jessica the closest and dearest of them.
The cigarette falls to the bottom of the ashtray bolted next to the door. The fact that the ashtray is otherwise empty makes Erne feel guilty. Maybe it was just emptied. Or maybe he’s the only smoker in all of Pasila. He hopes it’s the former.
For a moment, Erne is filled with yearning and a longing for the good old days. Maybe this wave of nostalgia was set in motion by the stubbed-out cigarette and today’s almost smoke-free police HQ; maybe by the fact that he has, over the past months, gotten more used to the idea of his own mortality. Nascent old age and the attendant physical frailty are remote bogeymen until they come knocking at your door. Erne is fifty, and his father never lived to be this old. Ever since the big birthday he celebrated in November, Erne has been overtaken by the thought that something changes fundamentally in a man when he lives longer than his father. Erne has spent more time on this planet than his old man did, which means he must be more mature, wiser. It’s as if he has made the transition from journeyman to master. Now his dad would be the one seeking advice and life wisdom, if he still existed in some form. And if he did, all this would negate itself.
The thermometer beeps again—37.3. Not a catastrophe. But alarmingly high.
Erne slips the thermometer into his pocket and grabs the door, which is vigorously pushed open at the same time. It’s Mikael standing there in the doorway like a bouncer.
“Erne? Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
“What do you mean?” Erne says, then remembers he left his phone on his desk. He wanted just ten minutes completely to himself. “What’s going on?”