Is that what I’m doing here? Is this my reason for sitting in the adventure park’s Renault on this dark November evening: taking my greetings to the campsite in Rastila?
I step out of the car and start walking. The evening is cool – cold in fact. Late November has so many different faces: it can still sometimes be crisp and autumnal during the daytime, but the evenings already feel like winter. I wrap my scarf tighter to protect my bare neck and zip up my jacket. I walk through the campsite gates and turn left. The campsite actually looks quite homely. Warm light glows in the caravan windows, and the air carries the smell of sauna and barbecue. The seagulls have fallen silent, I can hear the distant rumble of traffic, and a little closer the rush of the sea wind.
I arrive at the penultimate crossing in the wide pathway, and I’m about to turn right onto a smaller path. But before I even realise it myself, I walk right past the crossing and continue straight ahead, without turning.
Once I am out of sight behind the caravan at the plot on the corner, I quicken my pace.
I walk briskly, and this time I do turn when I reach the final intersection and set off along a smaller path running parallel to the one where Juhani keeps his caravan. A moment later, I slow down again and keep my eyes fixed on the now-familiar caravan. I see flickers and glimmers; the lights are on. And what I see next tells me I was right to continue at the crossing and take the roundabout route to the caravan.
I would recognise the man anywhere, anytime.
I can hear my heart thumping like a pounding bass in the distance, but not from exertion. If I hadn’t turned off the path when I did, just a few fractions of a second later I would quite literally have stepped on the heels of those small, brown leather shoes. I get a sense of what the encounter might have felt like in a series of rapid, fragmented images that come together to form some kind of warning sign: the largest blazer I’ve ever seen, the small shoes (given the size of the man in question), the slow, heavy but purposeful gait, the sloth that somehow always follows him around and that is either real or part of a deliberately cultivated image. Either way, I knew what I was seeing before I actually registered it. Juhani’s caravan shudders as though an earthquake were underway as Osmala climbs inside it.
Then Osmala sits down.
This I can tell from the way the caravan wobbles, then seems to settle into place again. And for twenty-two minutes, the caravan looks like any other run-of-the-mill caravan: miniature in size, but normal all the same. The cold wind whips in across the sea, but I barely notice it. Luckily, the caravan next to me is dark, so I won’t need to explain what I’m doing on their plot, lurking behind a tree, blowing on my hands to keep warm and craning my neck to see into the next row of caravans. I think of a lot in twenty-two minutes. Some of my thoughts are a result of agitation, some are genuine questions.
The caravan starts shuddering again. Either the earth is trembling or Osmala is on the move again.
The door opens, and Osmala steps down into the garden. And he wouldn’t be Osmala if he didn’t turn again and address whoever is inside the caravan. I can hear their voices but can’t make out the words. I assume this is all part of Osmala’s regular strategy, his final roll of the die, designed to throw his opponent off balance and perhaps to leave him as confused as possible. But then something happens, something that isn’t part of the script. Juhani appears in the doorway, steps out of the caravan and walks up to Osmala. I hear Osmala’s voice again, then Juhani’s. Then they courteously shake hands.
I wait a further eight minutes before making my move.
My first steps are brisk and agitated, then my speed steadies and I start to regain the sense of why I came here in the first place. And in this light, as the wind chills my thoughts all the more, I start to see alternative theories for everything that has happened. Maybe Osmala was here making further enquiries. The man who attacked me lived right here. Juhani works at the adventure park. Osmala is interested in both of them. But none of these scenarios explains that respectful handshake, the agreeable voices.
I’ve almost reached Juhani’s caravan when I realise that one small detail might solve the whole equation. The crucial question is: will Juhani mention Osmala’s visit? If he doesn’t, that handshake will obviously take on new significance; I can safely assume something has passed between them.
In a matter of moments, I have walked along the row of caravans and arrived at Juhani’s place. I walk right up to the door and can’t hear any other voices from inside. I knock and wait. The door opens, and I can see from Juhani’s expression that he wasn’t expecting to see me. It’s only a brief moment, then he quickly manages to wipe the confusion from his face.
‘I’m still not ready for a mathematical lecture,’ he says. ‘And I don’t want to hear how I should have done things differently.’
Warm indoor air wafts out into the garden. It feels somehow inviting as I stand there in the November evening. But Juhani doesn’t look like he is about to ask me in.
‘I’m not here to lecture you—’
‘And I don’t want to hear any more of your ten- or hundred-year plans for the park,’ he continues, ‘or how in the year 3151 we can conclude that the entrance tickets have grown enough interest that we can buy some extra lemonade from the sales.’
Juhani is holding on to the doorframe as though he were in danger of toppling out of the caravan.
‘I’ve come to talk…’
‘Talk,’ he scoffs.
‘I don’t have a simple solution to our many and varied problems, Juhani. Perhaps there isn’t one. We need to—’
‘We don’t need to do anything,’ says Juhani. ‘As you know, I don’t make the decisions. And you’re not interested in anybody else’s suggestions.’
It’s obvious that Juhani is in no mood to negotiate. But in what he has said, I see the possibility of moving forwards.
‘What kind of suggestions do you have?’
Juhani looks at me. ‘You know,’ he says.
‘Kuisma Lohi has made a proposal, but who else? You said “suggestions” in the plural.’
‘I meant in general,’ he says. ‘Toy of Finland, for instance. They’ve made a proposal as well, but you’ve said no to them too.’
The moment feels longer than is factually possible. Right now, I don’t plan on going into the details of the relationship between me and Toy of Finland. In fact, it doesn’t really have anything to do with this conversation. I remind myself of what I came here to do this evening: to try and forge unity, to give Juhani one last chance. To give myself one too.
‘I’ve been busy and a little preoccupied,’ I tell him, honestly. ‘I might have missed something important. Is there something else I should know? Have you received any other proposals or spoken about the park’s business with anyone else?’
Juhani pauses before answering.
‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘Not since we met Kuisma Lohi this morning. I spent the afternoon walking around the park thinking about things, then I came back here. Quiet evening in.’