KAI-PETTERI HÄMÄLÄINEN looked at the woman, at the mist caught in the spotlights behind her, and beyond that at the silhouettes of the people watching and listening while the two of them said nothing.
Instructions came through to him from time to time by way of his earpiece. The director’s rather hoarse but loud voice asking what the hell was going on. Hello? Hello, Kai-Petteri. Can you hear me?
He looked down and let his eyes move over the questions that he wasn’t going to ask. Questions resting on the dark, smooth wood, spellbound there in cues and transitions between subjects on yellow Post-It notes. Mrs Salonen, you yourself were a victim of the accident in Turku on 17 February this year. Do you have a clear memory of what happened? How do you live with it? How long were you in hospital? How are you today?
How much time had passed? He had no idea.
Tuula was gesticulating in the mist, waving her arms in an uncoordinated way; it was impossible to work out what her signals meant.
The woman on the other side of the desk was gazing past him into the far distance. She looked neither happy nor sad. He had never seen a more neutral face. He did not know this woman.
Perhaps it was her dress. The shadow of a dress that he had seen.
Perhaps it was the silence in her face.
The very tall man appeared, emerging from the mist. He looked relaxed, and smiled encouragingly both at Hämäläinen and at the woman. He picked up her handbag and sat down on the chair which was really meant for the firefighter. Lightly, barely perceptibly he placed his hand on the woman’s left arm. The woman didn’t seem to notice it.
‘Do you have any children yourself?’ Hämäläinen heard himself asking him.
The very tall man shook his head. ‘Unfortunately not,’ he said.
Hämäläinen nodded. Advertising break, said the voice in his ear, adding that the show would go on in three minutes and fifty-eight seconds’ time.