The sound of my phone’s alarm clock comes as a relief. Not because I’d been resting or sleeping particularly deeply; the relief is a response to my dreams being brought to an abrupt end. In recent days, my dreams have been restless, to say the least. One of them is still whirring through my mind, as I shave and see that my forehead looks to have healed a little.
I dreamt that I was trying to explain the current situation to a variety of different people: Laura Helanto, Detective Inspector Osmala, my brother Juhani and – for some reason that even by the machinations of the subconscious doesn’t immediately feel logical – to Otto Härkä from Toy of Finland. In light of recent events, perhaps this is hardly surprising. But in this dream, all the characters seemed to have switched places, and I wasn’t talking as myself but had instead taken on the characteristics of all the people above, characteristics that had become mixed with my own. The result was that in this dream I confessed my love for Otto Härkä and praised his artwork, I confounded Juhani with longwinded nonsense I’d learnt from Härkä, I pressed Osmala with an endless stream of police-like questions and ended up accusing Laura Helanto of short-sighted skulduggery.
I wash the remnants of shaving foam from my face, let the cool water wake me and freshen me up, and only then realise that there is something about the audio-visual cavalcade that played out in my subconscious during the night that can’t be washed away. I quickly get dressed, leave Schopenhauer a snack and walk through the light drizzle to the train station.
The train journey is pleasingly predictable: the train arrives on time, stops at each station according to the timetable and leaves me at Aviapolis at the appointed time so that I can walk the 640 metres to the bus stop at a brisk but relaxed speed of seven kilometres per hour. It’s only a few stops, so I stand in my wet coat; I don’t want to get the seat wet.
I am about to cross the road towards the car park at the adventure park when I see something that takes me by surprise. Well, it’s only surprising because it’s happening right now. In other conditions, at another time, a delivery van belonging to Toy of Finland wouldn’t seem out of the ordinary. The van is heading away from the park: at the intersection, it turns left, away from me, so all I can see is the passenger seat. I’m not entirely sure of the matter, but the man sitting there looks distinctly like Jeppe Sauvonen, the third, and clearly youngest, of Toy of Finland’s new owners, the one who, when we first met, wore a sweatshirt declaring himself to be a FUN MACHINE. I look right, I look left, then right again, and though I usually resist and deplore such behaviour, I cross the road on a red light.
The entrance hall is empty, which is only to be expected. The park won’t open its doors for another forty minutes. Perhaps I imagined I would bump into Kristian, who usually prepares the ticket desk long before the doors open. Now, however, the lights at the desk still aren’t switched on and Kristian is nowhere to be seen. I hurry from the entrance into the main hall and stop in my tracks on the flying carpet in the doorway. It takes a moment before I locate the sounds I can hear. They are coming from far off, behind the Strawberry Maze. I walk closer. The Strawberry Maze effectively blocks my view. Behind it there is an area I have reserved for the Moose Chute. I’ve asked Kristian to dismantle the mini tennis court in preparation, and it sounds as though this is what he is doing. I pass the Strawberry Maze and expect to see Kristian taking the equipment down and clearing the area but…
Instead I see…
The Crocodile Canyon.
Bright-green crocodile-shaped canoes made of rubber and plastic allowing the children to row along a short, bendy stretch of river. The river is in fact a carpet of bright-blue rubber brush-heads that look like hedgehog spikes along which the sturdy canoes are supposed to glide smoothly. In theory, that is. In practice, almost everything about the Crocodile Canyon is wrong. The canoes are too heavy for the children and don’t glide properly. The oars aren’t proper oars, but sharp lances that the nimblest customers will quickly start using for improvised hand-to-hand combat. On top of all this, it is actually possible to drown in the river. After a fashion. The blue brush-heads are positioned so tightly and at such an angle that if you step into the river, getting your leg out again is a lengthy, painful operation, and usually requires the help of one or more adults. I know all this because I’ve read up on the matter and checked the security details with Esa, who claims to have worked in the adventure-park sector since the nineties. Which, of course, makes me doubt the veracity of his story about the US Marine Corps all the more. But that’s another matter. The most acute matter is right in front of me.
The Crocodile Canyon.
And Kristian.
Who appears to be working with great gusto. As I step closer, he notices me and beams.
‘The Crocodile Canyon,’ he says and stretches out his hands as though he were presenting the unit to me personally.
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘When did it arrive?’
Kristian’s smile narrows a little but doesn’t completely disappear.
‘We started putting it together before six. They asked specifically. They came by here last night when I was closing up and asked when I could start work. You know I like to get to work early. The early business bird catches the business worm. That’s my new motto.’
I have nothing to say about Kristian’s motto. It’s nonsensical, that goes without saying, but it isn’t the only nonsensical thing in front of me right now and isn’t a device the customers dislike, taking up room in the park. That would be the Crocodile Canyon.
‘I don’t understand,’ I say. ‘How did they just … come into the park and start building—?’
‘I helped,’ says Kristian. He sounds both happy and sincere.
‘How … Why did you start building it?’
‘They said they’d agreed the details with you, they showed me an order slip and a delivery notice and everything. Oh, and they left the invoice too.’
‘The invoice?’
Kristian points to one of the canoes. I walk up to it and look inside. There is a pile of papers on the seat. I pick them up and read through them. The order looks legitimate, though I know I haven’t filled out any papers like this; the quality of the forgery is impressive. Delivery has been carried out as per the timetable stipulated in the documents, a timetable I have never agreed to. And as for the invoice…
It could have been for a space shuttle. And it doesn’t end at the bottom of the page, as I imagine at first. The list of costed items continues on the other side of the paper. In addition to the Crocodile Canyon, a number of extra charges have been added, itemised below: storage, delivery out of business hours, installation, guidance and instruction, spare parts, and finally the most expensive item of all: membership of an exclusive online forum for Crocodile Canyon owners. When everything is added up, the total price is over three hundred percent more than I originally feared. The payment is scheduled for today.
And this isn’t our biggest problem, by any means.
That would be Toy of Finland.
My assumption – that they must have sent the man who attacked me – has been partially confirmed. This kind of action – the forced selling and installation of an old piece of equipment at a ridiculously inflated price – is something you do only if you think your opponent can’t do anything about it, that he will have to swallow the rubber canoes with the lance oars and keep quiet.
I fold the papers and place them in my pocket, then look at Kristian, who is continuing to install the Crocodile Canyon. It’s only now that I realise his behaviour is different from in recent weeks. He didn’t seem nervous when I approached him, and he no longer seems to watch every word he says. In fact, it’s now the opposite. I walk up to him. He is half inside one of the canoes, whistling as he works, though he is crouched into what looks like an especially uncomfortable position. It’s baffling, as is the final result of his whistle. There is no discernible pitch or melody, and the cacophony of sound echoes around inside the confined space.
‘Kristian,’ I whisper. ‘How do you enjoy your work?’
The whistling stops. Kristian backs out of the canoe and stands up straight. His face is bright red.
‘Best feeling ever,’ he says.
‘You took part in a strike not long ago,’ I remind him. ‘And if memory serves me, you were quite unhappy.’
Now he looks as though something is finally bothering him.
‘It just felt like … you weren’t really listening to us.’
I wonder whether there’s any point explaining once again that we are in a particularly difficult financial situation and that we will have to do everything we can just to survive. I decide against it.
‘But apparently now I’m listening?’ I ask.
Kristian nods with his usual enthusiasm.
‘You and Juhani are looking in the same direction now,’ he replies. ‘Juhani told me you and he make the decisions together. I’ve been going to business college these last few months, taking courses, just like you said, and let me tell you, that’s a recipe for success. I call you guys the two-headed adventure-park eagle.’
‘When did—?’
‘This morning,’ he says. ‘I came up with it at about seven this morning while I was attaching that river to the floor.’
‘I don’t mean that,’ I say. ‘When did Juhani tell you that we … make the decisions together?’
Kristian looks suddenly unsure of himself.
‘I’m not sure exactly. And I know how exactly you like everything to—’
‘Give or take a day, that’ll be fine,’ I encourage him.
‘It was Monday or Tuesday,’ he says, and I can see he is really thinking about it. ‘Yes, it was Tuesday. Because it was on Tuesday that I had my new introductory course on self-leadership and method-networking and—’
‘Thank you, Kristian,’ I say and return my attention to the hall.
Amid the lack of clarity, the lack of knowledge and lack of certainty, there are now a few things I know with utter confidence. Juhani has been preparing for Kuisma Lohi’s appearance for some time, and he’s been planning it on a number of fronts. Meanwhile, Toy of Finland has obviously escalated from the theoretical to the concrete, from threats, intimidation and blackmail to criminal direct action. And I suspect them of being behind my nocturnal tenpin-bowling experience, though right now I can’t prove it. Kristian is obviously expecting something from me. His expression and his body language tell me he is waiting for me to tell him something positive, something along the lines of now that the two of us have got this much done already, the morning will continue in a similar upwardly mobile vein. But I’ve been thinking of my options, and I sense that what I have to tell him might be a little upsetting.
‘I want you to start dismantling the Crocodile Canyon,’ I say. ‘We’re sending it back.’
Kristian looks as though he hasn’t understood – which is very likely the case. But I have to get him on side.
‘There’s been a misunderstanding,’ I say. ‘Correcting that misunderstanding will require some delicacy and a lot of responsibility, in short it’s going to need what I believe is called soft leadership. We have to dismantle the device cleanly and smoothly, and without drawing too much attention. This operation will need a leader who can take the reins, and I hereby appoint you as that leader. But, you understand, this is completely confidential.’
‘I don’t understand,’ he says.
‘You mustn’t tell anybody else about this new appointment,’ I say. ‘And you’ll be working alone. This is your responsibility now.’
Kristian seems to be thinking it through.
‘What’s my new title?’
‘Between you and me,’ I begin, ‘it could be leading—’
‘Operational manager,’ Kristian nods. ‘That’s good. Leading operational manager.’
I decide not to get bogged down in the element of tautology and tell him instead that I think the new title suits him excellently. Kristian tells me he will provide me with interim reports on how things are progressing, and I thank him again. Then I walk to my office.
‘I decided to start with Frankenthaler instead,’ says Laura Helanto and indicates a point on the concrete floor where I am to attach the end of a length of tape.
Laura’s appearance at the park takes me a little by surprise, in that she hasn’t sent me a text message telling me in advance when to expect her. At first I found this manner of agreeing a meeting, whereby we first agree a meeting, then send text messages a few moments before the meeting to confirm where and when we will meet, quite cumbersome, but now I realise this practice can have its benefits, especially in my current predicament. I pull the roll of tape across the floor and stop at the tip of Laura’s shoe.
‘I’m more familiar with this one,’ she continues. ‘And this morning, it just seemed to come to life. I want to give this one a physical dimension, a sense of what I experienced at my first Frankenthaler exhibition – that the work seems to leap out of the wall, sweeps me up and takes me somewhere, shows me something I’ve never seen before.’
I tear off the tape, stand up and look at the mural.
I think I like it more than ever before. This isn’t an entirely unexpected phenomenon. Laura Helanto’s works do this to me: I see something new in them every time, something that has been at once hidden and right in front of my eyes all the time; I experience a mixture of discovery and ecstasy, a heightened sensory perception. On a few occasions, I’ve tried to unpack the uncontrolled movements in my mind, in order to understand the phenomenon and myself better, but without success. Even my visit to the Ateneum Art Gallery didn’t provide the great mathematical breakthrough I had hoped for. The beginning was promising: I could easily split the realistic works from the early twentieth century into their constituent parts (peasants + bales of hay + evening sunshine) and come up with what I thought was the essence of these paintings (southern German local agriculture before the Industrial Revolution). But cubism and abstract art made any attempts to understand them futile. Though they fascinated me, I didn’t know how to process the different streaks, smears and splodges, and I found myself standing, staring at them for some time.
And right now, as I stand next to Laura Helanto and inhale her familiar scent – a combination of forest-flower shampoo and a pleasant perfume with perhaps a hint of the sea, citrus fruit and a few darker undertones – and look at her murals, I think I understand what she means when she says a painting can sweep her up and take her somewhere else. I notice I’m thinking that Laura’s artwork may have the same origin as she does herself, that it springs from the same energy as the big bang that first set the universe in motion, the explosion before the explosion. And at the same time I realise that my thoughts have again lost their focus and usefulness; they have run away and are now floating far off, somewhere they shouldn’t—
‘Henri?’
Laura Helanto might have said something that I haven’t heard. I glance at her and quickly realise this must indeed be the case. She is looking towards the Strawberry Maze, and naturally she can see the same as I can: in the foreground the Strawberry Maze, and inside it a cluster of customers colliding and bumping into one another. One of the customers is lying in front of the entrance to the Maze, either as a protest at the others or simply from exhaustion. And immediately behind the Strawberry Maze, the bright-green heads of giant plastic crocodiles. This is a pile of canoes from the Crocodile Canyon. The canoes that Kristian didn’t have a chance to set afloat.
‘I asked if that’s the … Crocodile Canyon?’
‘Yes,’ I tell her.
Laura Helanto turns to look at me.
‘I’ve heard the kids don’t much like it,’ she says. ‘And it doesn’t even work very well.’
‘Both statements are true,’ I say with a faint sense of discomfort as I look at Laura’s blue-green, always curious eyes. My discomfort is heightened by the fact that her experience of the adventure-park business is considerably longer than mine. ‘We’re sending it back.’
‘Didn’t Toy of Finland mention any of this when you placed the order? I remember it was always great doing business with them. They were really open about what worked and what didn’t.’
This is not a conversation I want to be having. Of course, Laura is referring to Toy of Finland’s previous owner and his previous way of doing business. I’m more acquainted with their current business model.
‘A misunderstanding,’ I say. ‘It’s only a temporary problem.’
At first, it’s hard to read Laura Helanto’s expression. Then she smiles.
‘It’s your park,’ she says. ‘For a moment, I thought I was still working here.’
All of a sudden, she leans forwards, kisses me quickly on the lips and pulls away again. An underground train rattles through my mind.
‘Why go to the storeroom?’ she says.
‘I don’t know,’ I say, perfectly honestly. ‘One generally goes there to fetch something – tools, materials…’
Laura laughs, I don’t know why, then points at the roll of tape in my hand.
‘Can you give me a hand measuring the de Lempicka too?’
The day doesn’t turn out too badly after all – if we disregard the fact that almost everything to do with the park is either in danger, dangerous or simply wrong. Of course, I don’t and can’t dismiss these matters, but Laura Helanto’s company pushes everything else into the background, so that none of it bothers me nearly as much as I might have expected, considering the number of problems yet to be solved.
One of my problems is, of course, Juhani, whom we don’t see all day, for some reason. This is curious, but today of all days it feels right and appropriate. I don’t mention the matter to Laura, and she doesn’t bring it up either. When later that afternoon we are taping measurements on the floor in front of the O’Keeffe wall and I find myself measuring lengths of aluminium beams with characteristic precision, Laura smiles again and says we make a good couple.
I assume she means in the mathematical-artistical sense.
Five hours and twenty-two minutes later we are making love.