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.

‘Should I be worried?’

‘About what?’ I ask, genuinely confused.

She pauses before answering.

‘In general.’

‘Why on earth should you be worried? Like you said, it’s a museum in the middle of nowhere.’

Krista looks at me.

‘Be careful out there,’ she says.

My attention is drawn to the final two words.

‘At the museum?’

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘There was a break-in last night, in case you’ve forgotten.’

‘I haven’t forgotten. But what makes you think I need to be careful?’

Again, a genuine question.

I’m standing in the middle of the living room. Beneath my feet is a thick rug, but it feels as though the cold is rising from the earth, through the soles of my feet and coursing upwards into my nerves and muscles. Krista takes just slightly too long over her answer.

‘There might be other people interested in that meteorite,’ she says. She is trying to sound off the cuff, but she doesn’t quite nail it. ‘I mean, people other than those who broke in last night.’

She straightens the blanket. It didn’t look crumpled to me. I wait for a moment.

‘There were two intruders,’ I say. ‘I told you this morning.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ she says. ‘So, be careful.’

‘I will, I promise,’ I say. ‘You’re right. The thought of a million euros might tempt other people too. It’s a lot of money.’

Krista turns to look at the television, the screen is reflected in her eyes. The blue of the sky and sea, the green of the jungle.

‘You could pay the mortgage many times over with that,’ she says trying to sound light-hearted, again failing. ‘And we could get a little cottage in Provence, like we’ve talked about sometimes.’

I try to resist the thought forcing its way into my mind. It’s a terrible one.

This is the thought that I try to resist: there’s a link between Krista’s surprise pregnancy and the attempt to steal the meteorite. Krista is somehow involved in the web surrounding the meteorite. Nobody is forcing this thought upon me, nobody is suggesting this is the case – not even me. But suddenly the thought seems perfectly logical. This is what might have happened: Krista and her lover have met up. They have developed a relationship of trust. The lover tells her about a way to get rich quick. Krista’s interest is piqued, either because she is so entranced by the lover or because she has suddenly discovered a new side to herself.

No.

No, I tell myself. This is jealousy in its purest form. And jealousy is craziness. It thrives that way; craziness is like petrol to its black fire. I’d rather think that Krista is expecting quadruplets and each one of them has a different father. That there has been an eighth wonder, a miracle of biology and physiology, and this is the result: four children fathered by four different villagers. Even that sounds more plausible than suspecting my own wife of attempted robbery.