The car doesn’t belong to Juhani. A number of factors speak to this conclusion. It is exotic and expensive; we are sitting on the soft yet firm light-brown, leather upholstery in the backseat; and, what’s more, we have our own driver. Everything is smooth and efficient, and we reach the eastern ring road before either of us says a word.
‘Kuisma Lohi has invited us to lunch,’ says Juhani.
I’m sitting behind the driver, and all I can see is the back of his head. His hair is short and dark and combed tightly back over his scalp. The air inside the car is a mixture of two strong, distinct aftershaves. I assume the one Juhani is wearing is the more pungent of the two – and the cheaper. I have a lot to say to Juhani, but most of it is very much between us. I dismiss several subjects before reaching the most suitable one.
‘I don’t recall being invited,’ I say.
‘You’re a hard man to get hold of.’
I look at Juhani. He smiles somehow … knowingly. I don’t like the tone of his smile or what I think it must refer to. And I do not like the fact that he knows I’ve been out of reach, as it were, though he hasn’t tried to reach me. As I see it, there is only one simple explanation for this: Laura must have passed Juhani the information. But that is one topic I certainly don’t want to bring up in this fast-moving perfumery. I stick to what is happening right now.
‘I assume the subject of this meeting will be the same as the previous one,’ I say.
‘You assume almost right,’ Juhani replies. ‘The subject is the same, but if I’ve understood correctly, now there are a few added extras.’
The house in Marjaniemi is new and massive. The car pulls up outside the front door, and the driver opens my door before I’ve even managed to take off my seatbelt. It’s a cool morning, and I can sense the proximity of the sea, smell it on the wind. The white walls of the house stretch out in all directions. The front door is black and, just like the car door, it opens before we reach it. What’s most confusing is that it’s the same person who opens both doors: the driver. The man is around forty, impeccably dressed in a well-fitted suit, and utterly expressionless. In both his movements and his overall demeanour, he is like a successful cross between a flying superhero and a Merchant-Ivory manservant.
I am about to step inside when Juhani barges his way in front of me, meaning our entrance into the house isn’t quite as stylish as it might otherwise have been. I’m sure we look as though we’re vying for the affections of Kuisma Lohi, who is waiting to greet us. I surmise that this is certainly true of Juhani, because he praises everything in sight.
Notably the view, which is undeniably impressive: with its tall ceilings and a football pitch’s worth of space, the living room features a wall made entirely of glass, giving a view out over the green and black waters of the bay. Juhani admires the paintings and sculptures, items that are certainly praiseworthy and that I would very much like to examine with Laura Helanto. And Juhani praises the timing of our lunch and lauds himself as he explains how, just like Kuisma Lohi, he too has been in business for many years and has a certain … insight into these matters. And in his own topsy-turvy way, Juhani is absolutely right.
Without further ado, we sit down at the table. The driver appears out of nowhere, then disappears again just as quickly. Wine trickles beautifully and steadily into our glasses, even as the man is already moving away from the table.
Kuisma Lohi still hasn’t said a word – Juhani has been waxing lyrical from the moment the car pulled up in front of the house – but now he looks at Juhani in a manner that makes my brother add that if Kuisma Lohi still doesn’t have his own statue in downtown Helsinki, the council should erect one without delay. After this, Juhani finally falls silent, the same pained, grimace-like smile on his face as at our first meeting. The suggestion of a putative statue doesn’t seem to impress Kuisma Lohi.
‘I got some kind of food poisoning from that muffin of yours,’ he says, and adjusts the position of his glasses, though they were perfectly straight to begin with. ‘Besides, I thought it best we meet in more sophisticated surroundings this time.’
Yet again, I think, Johanna and her impeccably run café have been impugned most unjustly. So far, this morning has been full of surprises and deception, and Kuisma Lohi’s words are, as they say, the final straw.
‘Our muffins do not give anyone food poisoning,’ I say, and even I can hear how harsh my voice sounds.
‘I didn’t say I ate it,’ says Kuisma Lohi. ‘Once I got home, I just looked at it and started feeling queasy.’
I lean forwards, I’m about to say something, when the driver-cum-butler’s arm places a wide plate in front of me, its small inverted dome filled with steaming soup. Just then I hear Juhani’s voice.
‘We have lots of great things to talk about today,’ he begins. ‘As for Kuisma Lohi’s proposal—’
‘Perhaps I can present it myself,’ says Lohi.
‘That’s a much better idea,’ says Juhani.
I lean back in my chair and take a deep breath.
‘Your brother contacted me after our meeting and told me your feelings on the matter,’ says Kuisma Lohi. ‘And your concerns about these large, though still theoretical changes.’
‘Did he?’ I ask, and look at Juhani. Of course, none of the above is true. Juhani knows nothing about my feelings, and I haven’t shared any of my concerns with him. Once again, I think that if it weren’t for our endeavours at the pond that night, I would get up and walk away. But the fact of the matter is that Juhani is trying to blackmail me. Juhani, who is again either grimacing or smiling. Or doing both at once.
‘I appreciate you’re worried about your staff,’ Lohi continues, and from his voice I can tell that he doesn’t appreciate anything in the least. ‘You’re worried about the park and its future prosperity. Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough: I sincerely hope you will both continue running the park. And if it is what you both want, the current staff can remain in place too. Though everything will change, nothing will change. Not to the extent that there’s any need for concern, and assuming we reach certain targets.’
Kuisma Lohi tastes his soup, slurps it almost inaudibly. I try to make sense of what I’ve just heard, while still retaining my composure.
‘So, we would both continue running the park?’ I ask.
‘That’s right,’ Lohi nods. ‘Your brother told me you want to use our arrangement to establish a new management structure and that this should be written into the contract. That’s fine by me.’
I glance over at Juhani. He has ambushed me once again. He is looking out across the bay and sipping his soup. Then I look at Kuisma Lohi. Things have gone too far now, and it’s time I said so and put an end to this nonsense.
‘Then there’s the fact,’ Lohi continues, ‘that I’ve adjusted my offer upwards slightly. And your brother has already accepted it.’
I barely taste the venison, our main course. Juhani appears almost liberated. He talks a lot, gesticulates a lot, the way he does when he is very excited. He lauds Lohi’s business acumen and presents wholly unrealistic plans for the future of the adventure park. And the mere fact that Kuisma Lohi listens to these plans without commenting on them in the least, tells me more than enough. Kuisma Lohi has no intention of watching Juhani ruin his investment portfolio. My own assessment is that the minute the ink has dried on our contract, Juhani and every other member of staff will be made redundant and replaced, as is commonplace in such circumstances, with a brutal and hard-headed manager and new staff who are as poorly paid as possible, the Curly Cake Café will be replaced with a franchise pizzeria that will operate at its own risk, and all guided group activities in the park will be dispensed with. The park will lose its unique identity and people will lose their jobs. The park will be bled dry and eventually run into the ground.
I do not plan to sign anything or sell or give up anything either. I plan to keep my park, and I plan to save my employees’ jobs.
Ultimately, there’s only one obstacle in my path.
And that’s Juhani.
Who right now is munching on Sachertorte and explaining, perhaps drunk from the combined effects of the sugar and the apparent success of his scheming, how easy it will be to expand our activities first throughout the Nordic countries, then further into Europe and eventually to North America. Of course.
Juhani leans forwards a fraction, waves his dessert spoon first at me, then in Kuisma Lohi’s direction.
‘Disneyland is dead,’ he says.