ARI PEKKA SORAJÄRVI was spared a charge of rape. When Kimmo Joentaa made another attempt to explain the formal course of events, the woman stood up, not in any hurry, more as if she were lost in thought, and said goodbye. She walked out, slowly but with firm footsteps, and closed the door almost without a sound.
Joentaa sat where he was for a while, looking at the empty form flickering on the screen. Name, address, date of birth.
Then he got to his feet, walked down the dimly lit corridor and through the driving snow to his car.
He drove to Lenganiemi. As the ferry made the crossing, he stood by the rail in the icy wind. He felt a vague sense of relief because the ferryman was sitting morosely in his little cabin as usual, in spite of the chain of fairy lights sticking to the window.
He went down the apparently endless woodland path until suddenly the church towered up to the sky, as if out of nowhere. The sound of the sea was a soft roar, and shadowy figures passed by as he entered the graveyard. Joentaa heard them talking to each other in muted tones. Heads bent, concentrating on the graves of their loved ones lying in the dark, but everyone knew where to look. Two of the shadows murmured a greeting, and Joentaa returned it as their paths crossed.
For a while he stood beside Sanna’s grave without thinking of anything in particular. Then he took the candle out of his rucksack, lit it, and carefully placed it on the centre of the grave. He stared at the light until it began to blur before his eyes; then he tore himself away and left. Singing and the monotonous, long-drawn-out chords of the organ came from the church.
The ferryman’s expression remained just the same on the return crossing; then Kimmo Joentaa drove home.