8

It’s payback time. Actions have consequences. No one rides for free.

The latter isn’t exactly a Biblical reference. I remember it from years back – a sticker in a public toilet. There’s a ring of truth about it, unlike many of the other things flooding my mind at the moment. I don’t know why my head is so full of things it doesn’t need right now – things that only cause me more unnecessary grief – and so few of the things I actually do need. This, of course, is one of the central conundrums of humanity, one that most certainly doesn’t apply to me alone; but right now, in some exhausting fashion, everything feels like a profound personal insult.

The room is quiet, I am alone, and on the wall the Redeemer sends me a message. The message is that all is already forgiven. It is hard to square that thought with reality, here on a freezing day in a small village in eastern Finland, a day when I have slept badly and lost sight of the meaning of life.

I regret my actions, and yet I do not.

I have embarked on a path, the end of which I do not know.

And if I do what I have planned to do, nothing will be the same again. That said, nothing is the same any longer.

I take out my old phone and insert the prepaid SIM card. The new card starts to work immediately. I don’t yet know the number off by heart, so consult the piece of paper. I notice that as my right thumb keys in the number, the scrap of paper in my left hand is trembling slightly.

The trembling is barely perceptible, but it clearly stems from somewhere deep within. Of course it does. I remember only too well the sensation the first time I typed that number into my phone at the time. It felt like mercy, a victory, a promise. Like life.

The message field glows a bright white, like snow or a bedsheet. Or, it suddenly occurs to me, like a coffin.

I’m not well. I decide that once I have done this I will have some kind of rest, a long one. I haven’t eaten anything. Jealousy no longer feels like jealousy. It has consumed me entirely. I am it. Blackness, bitterness.

I go through the list of risks involved in the first phase of my plan. Those I can see and that I am able to list without feeling nauseous.

So:

If Krista and the unknown philanderer are the type of lovers who are constantly in touch with each other, my plan will not work. But for a number of reasons I find it hard to imagine she is having a long-term, sustained affair. I’m certain I would have noticed something. Besides, the size and population of this village isn’t exactly conducive to keeping things secret for long. It’s far more probable that something simply happened and the pregnancy is the result. Who knows? Perhaps Krista found herself in a situation from which, one way or another, there was no way out…

Gambling. Risk-taking. That’s what this is about. But so many of the facts suggest that, for whatever reason, Krista and the mystery man have already gone their separate ways.

I base this belief on the facts at hand: only two hours ago Krista told me she loved me. She has been affectionate with me, in her words, her gestures, her touch. She has been her own, warm, funny self. She suggested I eat a bowl of her homemade granola for breakfast. (I avoided this by telling her the break-in had taken away my appetite. In a way this is true. And I have never lied to Krista, not literally anyway.) More facts: Krista wants me to join her at the village fête, in the shower, she wants me to think about baby names with her. How many people would do that while they were still fooling around in the neighbour’s bedroom?

I tell myself once again that knowledge will heal the pain.

My fingers feel frozen against the buttons of the phone, though the air in the room is warm. I remind myself that sometimes the things you have to do don’t always make you feel good. I force myself to type.

Hi, I had to get a new number.

You Know Who

I look at the message. Instantly I realise this is going to be far more demanding than I’d thought. I’m going to have to put myself in the role of the lover. I’ll have to act like a desperate, horny hunter. My messages should exude passion, pent-up lust.

Another difficulty, one that I appreciate right now, is a textual one. I have literally no idea of the mystery man’s reading and writing skills. How could I? What if he is one of this modern breed of texters who doesn’t care for spelling or punctuation? I ask myself whether Krista, a literary translator, would fall for someone barely literate. Desire does funny things to us. Man is but flesh. Lust pays spelling conventions no heed.

I don’t quite know why, but the idea of Krista having intimate relations with someone who RITES IN ALL CAPS and has a less-than-adequate ability to deploy them in a sensible order is all the more crushing. I quickly decide that Krista must have found a villager with a flawless grasp of written Finnish. This too feels bad and inexplicable, but it makes it easier to finish my message.

Krista, I had no option but to shut down my old number and get this new one. At the same time I feel like I’m on the cusp of something completely new. I don’t know why. Do you feel like that too? I miss you and I think about you a lot. Just the thought of you drives me crazy. So crazy that I don’t even know who I am. Sometimes I imagine you at my place, but I guess that’s impossible. I hope to hear from you soon. Yours. ‘Maybe still in your affections?’

Ultimately I don’t know which is worse. Writing the message or sending it. One press of the button. The world will either come to an end or it won’t. I can hardly breathe as the message is sent on its way.

I stand up from my chair, which now feels too hot, walk to the window and stand almost tight against it. All in a day’s work, I think to myself. What did you get up to at work? Oh, nothing much. I pretended to be my wife’s lover, that’s all. And that was preceded by a joyride through the woods with an old grenade and the small matter of her adultery. See you tomorrow.

The winter sun casts a cold light against the trunks of the pine trees – not enough to wake the trees from their winter sleep; it doesn’t bathe them in soft, gold invigorating warmth. At this time of year everything is covered in such a thick layer of snow that winter feels as endless as the Ice Age. I feel the cold sheen of the windowpane. There’s something magnetic about it, something alluring. You want to touch it. As if you can hardly believe that the difference between two worlds, between life and death, is so close, right there in front of you.

The phone beeps.

The journey back to the desk feels interminable. I want to read the message, yet I am afraid to open it. The phone is lying on the desk. I sit down and pick up the phone. The new message gleams on the screen.

We should meet. K