Antti Tuomainen: The Healer

Then he pointed at a steel revolver above them, and he didn’t look the slightest bit like a salesman. He looked like a man who had made a decision.

“The Smith and Wesson is for me.”

I took down the nearest pistol, the Heckler and Koch.

“That’s a nice piece. Made in Germany, back when they still made things in Germany.”

The gun was surprisingly light.

“Six hundred sixty-seven grams,” Ahti said, before I could ask. “Holds eighteen shots in the clip.”

He took out a box from the lower shelf. It clinked as he picked it up.

“You can have these, too, of course. Fifty rounds.”

I looked at the box and at the gun in my hand. They both seemed completely out of place in this ordinary bedroom. I had to act fast, before I changed my mind.

“Do you have a backpack?” I asked.

He found a small black backpack in one of the jumbled closets. Its ordinariness, its plain old gymbagness, contrasted shockingly with its intended contents.

“No extra charge. Least I can do.”

I gave him the money. He put it in his pocket without counting it and without looking at me. I looked again at the pistol in my right hand and the box of cartridges in my left. Ahti saw my befuddlement.

“I’ll show you,” he laughed, and took the gun from me.

With quick, practiced movements he dropped open the clip, filled it from the box, and pushed it back into place. He seemed to be in his element.

“Ready,” he said. “This is the safety and this is the trigger. Don’t aim it at anyone you don’t intend to shoot. Or maybe that doesn’t matter anymore.”

He tried to smile, but there was no energy in it. His smile congealed on his lips and gave his face a helpless look. He realized it himself.

“The coffee’s getting cold,” he said quickly. “Let’s go drink it.”

I thought about how suddenly things had changed. How long ago was it that we had spent dinners together, drank wine, planned our futures? We were going to take trips, I was going to write books, Johanna would write better articles than ever, and Ahti was going to start his own law office and—of course, naturally—a family, with Elina.

The change had crept into our lives gradually, but now it was all coming to an end suddenly, in one great crash.

Elina sat in her chair, not touching her coffee. I sank into the sofa and tried to think of something appropriate to say. It wasn’t easy because I had only one thing to talk about. Ahti must have sensed it: “I hope you find Johanna,” he said.

I realized that that was my only hope in the world. I understood it with a clarity that penetrated me like warmth or cold and made me remember everything good that I might lose. A lump rose in my throat. I had to get out of there.

“I hope you like it up north,” I said. “I hope everything works out for you up there. I’m sure it will. A year’s a long time. You’ll find some work, earn some money. It’ll be fine.”

There was something missing from my words. But words weren’t the biggest thing missing. It felt like we all heard it and—above all—felt it. And I didn’t really know how long I could continue speaking, so I got up from the sofa without looking at either of them.

“Elina, Johanna will call you as soon as she can.”

I went into the foyer. Ahti followed me and stood in the darkest corner of the room. I heard Elina’s steps on the wood floor and then she was standing in front of me, tears in her eyes again. She came to me and gave me a hug.

“Tell Johanna everything will be OK,” she said, her arms still around me. “And tell her that we never meant any harm.”

I wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but I didn’t want to linger so I didn’t ask for an explanation.

The rain had gained in strength. It came down from the sky in broad swaths of fat, heavy drops that fell to the asphalt and splattered as if in a tantrum, turning the surrounding city shiny, black, and wet. There was something sour in the smell of it, almost rancid. I stood for a moment in the arch of the entryway trying to decide what my next step should be, thinking about where I was and where I was going. It was nine-thirty. I’d lost my wife and drunk who knows how many cups of black coffee. There was no way I was going to be able to get to sleep.

I could hear a fight coming from where the laughter had been before, the sound of shattered glass followed a moment later by the laughing woman’s shrieking, cursing protests. I pulled the hood of my parka up, tightened the straps of the backpack, and set out.

I kept my eyes focused straight ahead. The rain stung cold on my skin. I turned into Fredrikinkatu and had taken a few steps when I heard a car horn toot once, then twice. The sound was coming from across the street. I pulled my hood aside enough to see who was honking: the same young North African man who had driven me here from Herttoniemi.

The taxi was sitting in the center of the dark block with the motor on, and it looked significantly drier and warmer inside than it was on the sidewalk. In a few seconds I was sitting firmly in the backseat and asking him to take me south this time.

He had a name and a history: Hamid. Been in Finland for six months. Why had he waited for me? Because I was a paying customer. I couldn’t blame him. Not many people want to work for free.

Hamid liked Finland. Here, at least, there was some possibility of making good—he might even be able to start a family here.

I listened to his fast-flowing, broken English and watched him in profile. A narrow, light-brown face, alert, nut-brown eyes in the rearview mirror; quick hands on the steering wheel. Then I looked at the city flashing by, the flooded streets glistening, puddles the size of ponds, shattered windows, doors pried from their hinges, cars burned black, and people wandering in the rain. Where I saw doom, Hamid saw hope.

We came to the end of Lönnrotinkatu, crossed the shore road, and headed for Jätkäsaari.

Hamid drove slowly now. He had stopped talking and turned the stereo up. The music thudding and twitching from the speakers was some sort of combination of hip-hop and North African music. A man’s voice, speaking a thousand words a minute in an unknown language, moved rhythmically over it.

When Hamid asked me where to go, I said straight ahead. I couldn’t think what else to do. I opened Johanna’s documents on my phone again and went quickly through her memos. I opened the sound file, too, with Johanna and me edited out, and asked Hamid to hook my phone up to his speakers. He said it would cost extra. I said I’d pay extra. He said in advance. I handed him the phone and some money. He smiled broadly, folded the bill and put it in his pocket, then plugged the phone into the speakers.

The thousand-words-a-minute man fell silent, replaced by the murmur.

Hamid looked at me curiously, obviously reassessing me.

I nodded: this was what I wanted to hear.

We came to the end of the road—ahead on the right was the bridge to Lauttasaari, ahead on the left darkness, and behind us, apartment buildings. Hamid asked where next. I pointed to the closed waterfront café and the parking lot behind it.

The café was dark on the inside and lit up on the outside. Its large rectangular windows were intact and clean, and there wasn’t much trash around the place, either. It was as if we’d driven into another world in just fifteen minutes.

I told Hamid this was a good spot and asked him to turn off the motor so I could listen. I passed him another bill. He turned off the motor and let the murmur drift through the car and disappear into the darkness. I opened the window and asked him to slowly lower the volume.

One murmur faded, another took its place.