I think about things for a second, a second and a half at most.
In my mind I see Krista’s face. She is everything. The thought is as bright as the brightest stars above.
I grip Grigori beneath the armpits, haul him almost upright and pull him towards the car. The door is still open, and I manage to drag him inside. Once Grigori is in the seat I zip up his trench coat and attach the seatbelt. He sits there staring ahead, his eyes wide open. I wrap a dark scarf a few times round the headrest to keep him upright. Grigori is in the passenger seat and looks like a passenger – not someone who’s just shot himself through the heart. I fetch the gun from the ground and kick some snow over the bloodstains, then press the gun into Grigori’s pocket. His fingerprints are all over it, it’s been in his hand, it belongs to him, and fortunately, I’m wearing a pair of black gloves.
Something on the dashboard begins to flash. A phone; a text message has arrived. In the upper corner of the large screen a blue bar glows brightly: the phone is sharing its location data.
Again I glance down to the pathway. Yes, the person I saw has chosen the trail leading towards the yard. Thankfully the path dips slightly before leading up to the museum. The rolling hills give me some cover. I guess I still have a few seconds to get round to the driver’s side, slip into the car, start the engine and drive off, albeit with Grigori in the passenger seat. Then I’ll have time to think about things…
But no. There is no time, not even a few seconds. I can already see the woolly hat bobbing beyond the ridge. Whoever this is, is walking at quite a pace. I dive inside the SUV, pull the door shut. I am about to jump behind the wheel but glance up to the path once more. I see the top of the head, then the face. I last saw that face this morning. There’s no way I could drive towards him without him recognising me. I jump into the backseat and curl up in the footwell.
And not a moment too soon. I can hear the steps; they are heavy and determined. There is a tap on the window on the passenger side. Grigori, naturally, doesn’t answer. The steps move round the car. A moment passes. I can’t see what is happening outside. Then the door on the driver’s side opens. I hear a familiar voice.
‘Grigori,’ says Tarvainen. ‘My friend, I saw your car heading up this way. Stroke of luck I ran into you, eh?’
Tarvainen’s voice and the rhythm of his English reveals that his state of inebriation is profound, acquired over an extended period of time. He climbs into the car. I see a slice of the back of his head. He sits down in the driver’s seat.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he says. ‘A lot. I invite you out here, promise you a million euros. Together we start up a rally team. I get back to the top of the profession. Then you decide you don’t want to. I think about what went wrong. Then I understand. You don’t believe in me, and I wonder how I can make you believe in me. And I’ve got a solution. I’ll show you. I’ll show you how I can drive.’
I hear Tarvainen opening a screw-top bottle, hear him taking great gulps. He grunts, puffs. I can smell the alcohol. His general scent is a mixture of petrol station and a bucketful of garlic.
‘Koskenkorva?’ he asks.
I knew it. He offers the bottle to Grigori.
Grigori needs to answer.
I reach my right hand as far as I can between the seat and the door, careful to keep it out of sight behind the headrest. I find the end of the scarf round Grigori’s neck and grip it. Thankfully the scarf is made of flexible material. I gently pull the scarf to the side, once, twice, trying to make the movement look as much like the shake of a head as possible.
‘You don’t talk,’ says Tarvainen. ‘I know that. Leonid does the talking. You make decisions.’
Tarvainen screws the top back on. The bottle rattles against the dashboard. The engine starts. The back of Tarvainen’s head disappears from view.
‘I’ll show you,’ he says. He is speaking so loudly that it feels as though he is shouting right next to my ear. ‘I’ll show you how to drive a car. Then you can decide. That’s what we’ll do. Is that fair?’
Again I stretch out a hand. I try to think of my options. What if I refuse? I mean, what if Grigori refuses? I don’t believe for a moment that Tarvainen will back down. There will only be more discussion, more awkward questions and even more awkward answers. Maybe letting him drive is the lesser of these evils. It’s a step forward. It has to be. I’m doing this for Krista, I tell myself. I pull Grigori’s scarf lengthways. The stretchy scarf returns his head to its original position. Grigori gives a decisive nod. Twice.
‘Yes,’ Tarvainen yells, in a voice that resembles the sound a man makes when his favourite team scores a goal. ‘Five, four, three, two, one.’
The engine starts to rev as Tarvainen does something with his feet. I hear a thud, then the car leaps forwards.
Tarvainen might well be so drunk that he can’t tell the difference between the living and the dead, but he certainly knows how to drive a car. That much is clear within the first minute.
Even to me, lying in the footwell in the back.
I can feel and hear the snow and ice scraping against the bottom of the car and can only assume our speed must be well over the legal limit. At times we seem to slide almost sideways, but our speed remains the same. Then suddenly – we are flying.
The car’s tyres release from the surface of the road and the motor howls. I feel a sense of weightlessness. Then the entire chassis rattles as we hit the ground again, and Tarvainen slams his foot on the accelerator. I hear him switching between the accelerator and brake pedals, slamming them to the floor in turn, like he’s hitting a punchbag.
I press my feet against the door and hold on to the runners beneath the seat in front, gripping them for dear life.
Tarvainen gives a shout. ‘Hold on, Grigori. This is just the beginning. The motor still has to warm up. The driver has to warm up.’
The engine seems to complain, almost scream at the very thought.
We pick up speed.
The vehicle begins to shake in a way I’ve never experienced before. The car must be at the very limits of its abilities. I assume the German SUV’s abilities are already quite substantial, and in extracting the last remaining drops of horse power from the engine, the speed along the narrow lanes of Hurmevaara must surely be approaching suicidal dimensions.
‘We’re halfway there,’ shouts Tarvainen. ‘Then you can decide.’
So Tarvainen is still planning on asking Grigori questions. The main thing is to avoid hurtling into a rockface or the trees. Down in the footwell, my ears ache from the noise. When I am on the verge of begging for mercy, the car suddenly turns into an aeroplane again. It’s a long-haul flight. Tarvainen howls above the sound of the engine.
‘Grigori, the meteorite is my million bucks! Another million from you. That’s the original plan. Imagine – an international rally team!’
Our return to solid earth feels like an explosion. Tarvainen slams his foot on the accelerator. I guess we must be over halfway now. I can cope with the rest, if the car can cope. If Tarvainen can cope with his state of drunkenness and doesn’t make the kind of decisions that a man drunk on the idea of instant riches can make. Again the car takes flight.
‘Don’t say anything, my friend. A bit more, then we can shake on it…’
The flight is just as long as the previous one. The crash landing hurts me to my kidneys.
‘Surprise!’ Tarvainen shouts.
So it is possible after all: the car begins to pick up speed. The chassis rattles as the bottom of the car smashes against the snow and ice with such force that I can feel the impact through my body. I hold on. I can’t speak. I wouldn’t be heard anyway, because I can’t get up. The car seems to be floating in a purgatory between sky and earth. For a moment, nothing happens.
Then Tarvainen simultaneously stamps on the accelerator and the brake, does something with his hands – I can hear him rattling the gearstick and thumping his hands on the dashboard. The car launches into a wild spin. I press my legs in one direction and my hands in the other.
The SUV is like a food blender. It spins, the world around it spins. Tarvainen makes the motor wail, revs the engine more and more, letting it drop, then revving it again. The spinning seems endless – but somehow we manage to stay on the road.
At last the speed seems to die down. It slows gradually until we are gliding calmly across the ice like a speed skater after crossing the finishing line. And finally, finally we come to a stop. My arms hurt. Though I’m lying down, I feel dizzy; but at least I’m alive. Inside the car it’s quiet. After a while I hear the sound of a bottle-top being unscrewed.
Tarvainen stretches his head back, takes a long gulp and finally hisses. ‘World champion,’ he says.
I’m unsure whether he’s referring to what just happened or to what might happen in the future – the future he and Grigori seem to have been planning together. A future in which, for one reason or another, cracks have started to appear. I’m in such a state of shock that I don’t comprehend what’s happening. Tarvainen says something and, after a moment, repeats himself. Naturally he offers the bottle to Grigori. I reach out my hand, only to pull it back at the last minute.
Grigori’s scarf has disappeared.
It must have loosened during the rodeo-ride a moment ago. Of course, Grigori’s head is now drooping down towards his chest. My theory is confirmed when I hear Tarvainen scream. It is a scream of terror, and he starts shouting out apologies. A few drunken words confirm the matter. Tarvainen thinks his reckless driving has caused Grigori’s death. A heart attack, maybe, or a stroke. To Tarvainen’s mind this looks like yet another lethal driving mistake – exactly the kind of misjudgement that sent him and his map-reader hurtling into an Alpine river. The map-reader drowned, but Tarvainen managed to survive – drunkard’s luck.
The door opens. Tarvainen clambers out of the car. I hear his feet thudding to the ground; he starts running the moment he is back on terra firma. The footsteps disappear into the distance.
I try to climb out of the rear door, but the child lock is on. I have to get up, haul myself between the front seats and crawl out via the driver’s door. I don’t so much as glance at Grigori. Finally I manage to extricate myself from the car.
I vomit as soon as my feet touch the ground, hurl out everything inside me. I can’t remember the last time I felt this terrible, physically and mentally, or when the nausea has been this powerful and lasted this long. Perhaps it was in the field hospital in Afghanistan.
For a moment I support myself against my knees, then take a few steps away from the car and look around. At first I can’t work out where I am, then I recognise the T-junction and see the familiar road sign.
We are a few kilometres from the centre of Hurmevaara. Tarvainen is nowhere to be seen. He has disappeared into the frozen night.
The car has come to a stop in the middle of the deserted intersection. Behind us is a steep rockface. A set of deep skid marks reveals which direction we slid from. Tarvainen brought the car to a standstill about a metre and a half from the rocks. Admittedly a tour de force. But that’s as far as my respect goes. I vomit again.
I don’t know what to do. I have no plan. In fairness, I didn’t have one before either. I realise that until now I haven’t needed one. All I had to do was trust in life and divine providence, whatever that means in my case. But in this situation, in this situation right now, I need a clear plan of action. There doesn’t appear to be one. Nothing can prepare you for something like this. Not to mention…
She is the one I should be thinking about. She is the one I’m afraid of losing. Everything else seems to be in flux, in doubt – but not her. I love her. I want to live my life with her.
The thought is, at the very least, conflicting, because it doesn’t change the fact that she is still carrying another man’s baby and I am in the middle of an intersection with a dead man in the passenger seat.