10

I brush the snow from our front step before going inside. The morning is dark and quiet. I can see the lights in the house next door, the lady sitting there eating breakfast. She is at the table, reading the morning paper; the lampshade above her head looks like it is hanging in mid-air. The snow puffs up as I sweep it with the broom, forming small, silent whirls in the air.

I lean the broom against the porch, open the door, step inside. I take off my coat and shoes, hang them in the closet, walk through the inner door, close it behind me and find myself in the hallway. I stop.

I am home.

It feels as though I’ve been away for years, as though the journey back here has stretched over thousands of kilometres. After all the adversity, I am finally home again. Home, the place where Krista is. This is my destination; this is where I want to be, more than any other place in the world.

For a moment I simply stand in the hallway. The living room is through to the left. On the right-hand side a set of wooden stairs winds its way upwards. Straight in front of me is the kitchen. The smell of home, the house’s own, distinctive air. No other place is quite like it. The silence is pristine. Krista is presumably still asleep in our bedroom upstairs. Recent events flash through my mind in a series of images. I survived. Providence allowed me to come home.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath. I do it again. I manage to grasp the gratefulness, the warmth, the brightness and certainty that I experienced in the petrol-station workshop.

I remember that I resolved to hug Krista as soon as I got home, but it can wait. I can simply rest and … be. There will be plenty of time to tell her how much I love her, to let her know that everything is forgiven. I can wait. I am home much earlier than planned, a few hours at least.

I busy myself in the kitchen. I’m hungry again, starving. I fry six eggs, put some bread in the toaster. Then I stack the eggs on two slices of toasted rye bread, sprinkle them with sea salt and black pepper and eat. I make some coffee. It tastes better than last-night’s coffee – and it wakes me up more effectively. Still, the coffee, eggs and bread cannot hide the fact that every muscle in my body aches and that so many matters are, to put it mildly, up in the air.

There’s a knock at the front door. Someone has rapped against the windowpane in the door, though there’s a doorbell right beside it and beneath that a small sign reading DOORBELL. Now whoever it is has started tapping the glass with their fingertips. There’s something familiar about it, something friendly. The tapping fingertips feel more intimate than a conventional ring on the doorbell or a simple rap of the knuckles against the glass.

I glance at the wall clock. Half past seven.

Why doesn’t whoever this is just ring the doorbell? I can see only a small section of the porch and cannot see the front door, at the right-hand side of the porch. I stand up from the table and move cautiously, walking round the kitchen and taking the other door into the living room. I crouch down, creep towards the window and peer out at the porch.

Looking from the street, our front door is technically at the back of the house, at the end of a short set of steps. At the top of the steps I see a man’s back. I recognise him. All the warmth I felt a moment ago disappears in an instant.

I straighten my back, quickly peer through the other living-room window, which looks out onto the street. I can’t see anything out of the ordinary: no movement, no other people, only the empty street and houses etched in snow standing along it. Then I walk to the door, my steps creaking on the wooden floorboards. I don’t give Jokinen the storekeeper any extra time to prepare for seeing me. I open the door quickly and concentrate on the expression I see on his face. The hiatus lasts perhaps only a few tenths of a second. Then he gives a broad smile, or at least tries to muster a smile.

‘Good morning,’ he says and holds up the paper carrier bag in his hand. ‘Home delivery.’

Jokinen is wearing a blue sporty jacket over his shirt. It’s a different shirt from the night before. This one has red stripes around the inside of the collar. Still, it’s as tight round him as all his other shirts. He smells of aftershave – lots of aftershave. His short blond hair is combed in a parting and patted down with a fresh layer of gel. His hair gleams; it might even still be damp.

‘Come in,’ I say.

‘What?’ he splutters before correcting his expression and posture. ‘No, no. I was just bringing…’

‘I’ve just made coffee,’ I say.

We look at each other. It’s obvious that he wants to be on his way as soon as possible. And that’s what makes this little visit so interesting. That and the fact that the bag of shopping he has brought isn’t even full but a small paper bag containing only a few items, or that the car outside is his own car and not the shop van usually used for home deliveries. Everything suggests this is no ordinary home delivery. But he can’t back out now without a decent reason.

‘Well, maybe one cup,’ he says eventually.

The paper bag crunches in the morning silence of the house as I show Jokinen to the kitchen table and take a cup and saucer from the cupboard. I am behind his back. The paper bag ends up by his feet. I tell him why I’m home already, though my shift on guard duty only officially ends at nine, as he well knows. I assure him I didn’t leave the museum unmanned. The security guard arrived earlier than planned, as did the maintenance man.

‘Right,’ says Jokinen. The fate of the museum clearly wasn’t his primary concern.

‘What’s in the bag?’

‘Where?’

‘Your home-delivery bag?’

Jokinen looks down at his feet as if he’s just remembered he’d brought something with him. ‘Right, this one. Some Belgian chocolates and Italian biscuits.’

‘That sounds nice. I always thought home deliveries were a bit bigger and maybe contained more … actual groceries.’

Jokinen says nothing. The coffee is ready. I pick up the pot, sit down at the table and pour us both a cup. Jokinen’s eyes flit between the window to his left and the folded newspaper on the table.

‘You’re out early,’ I say.

‘Service is everything these days,’ he nods as he pours milk into his coffee. His hand is almost steady. I only notice a slight trembling once he’s almost finished pouring. ‘Customer focus. If you’re going to stay afloat, service is what’ll do it. Things are tight as it is, we’re just scraping by. You need to go to the customer. Like the mountain going to … like Moses … I can’t remember which way round it was.’

Jokinen is clearly surprised at his words bursting forth like this. There’s something on his mind, on his heart. I’ve seen and heard the same thing thousands of times.

‘The story goes that Mohammed went to the mountain,’ I explain. ‘How are you doing otherwise? Still ice fishing?’

Jokinen looks at me. It might be a look of surprise. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Lake Hurmevaara is full of pike perch at this time of year. We’ve made a few holes in the ice, put down some nets. A slightly bigger net, you know.’

‘I could join you some time.’

‘Ice fishing?’

‘Ice fishing, net fishing, whatever’s going.’

He doesn’t look too enthusiastic. And he says nothing, simply raises his coffee cup to his lips.

‘I thought it might make your lives easier if I take all the night shifts.’

My words seem to take him off-guard. He looks at me across the brim of his cup, then lowers the cup to the saucer. Nothing is as quiet as a wooden house on a winter’s morning. The clink of the cup against the saucer is like an orchestra right next to my ear.

‘But last night I got the impression that you find the idea somehow unpleasant. Can you tell me why?’

‘I didn’t notice.’ Jokinen adjusts his legs, positions himself better in the chair.

‘I truly hope it’s not because you doubt my ability to look after the meteorite,’ I say.

‘No.’ Jokinen shakes his head. Then he nods. ‘I mean, yes. We do trust you. I’m sure it’s … perfectly safe.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ I say, then prop my elbows against the table and lean towards him. The meteorite is only one matter, and there’s no need to talk about it anymore. At the same time I realise a now familiar cold, slimy feeling within me is gaining in strength. Who brings someone chocolates and biscuits before daybreak? And above all, why?

‘I always make sure there are staff at the museum before I leave. As I said, today I could leave a bit earlier than planned. Two hours earlier, to be precise. I haven’t even woken Krista yet…’

I leave the last sentence hanging. Jokinen is either thinking about how to answer or simply concentrating on stirring the milk into his coffee. He is silent, staring at the swirls in the cup.

‘Would you like me to wake her now?’ I ask.

Jokinen looks up. ‘No need,’ he says quickly.

‘But you brought her Belgian chocolates and Italian biscuits.’ I’m not proud of my cold tone of voice, of the way I stress every single word. It’s not normally my style.

‘I can leave them here,’ he says, nodding at the paper bag. ‘They’re nothing special, just a little … Something she might like. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

You don’t mean to disturb us? Is that why you’re drumming on the front door with your goody-bag at seven-thirty in the morning? I need to control myself.

‘Shall I give her a message?’ I ask.

Jokinen takes a last sip of coffee. He makes to leave; starts to stand up from his chair without actually standing up.

‘Greetings…’ he stammers, ‘from the grocer.’

The foreplay is over. Jokinen gets up.

‘What kind?’

By now he is almost upright. ‘What?’

‘What kind of greetings? She’ll know they’re from the grocer.’

I’m not in a good mood, far from it. Jokinen doubtless notices it. He seems to hesitate.

‘Tasty greetings?’

We look at each other.

‘Right, I’ll give Krista tasty greetings from the grocer,’ I say.

Jokinen blinks first. He turns and walks towards the front door. The floor creaks. He doesn’t look behind him. I hear him on the front steps, hear his car starting outside, hear it drive away.