Diego Marani - The Last of the Vostyachs

Outside the conference centre, small vans were skidding over the ice in their attempts to reach the open space in front of the main entrance. Well muffled-up, workmen were unloading rolls of red carpet and laying them on the steps, fixing them in place with gleaming brass rods. In the main hall, which smelt of glue and paint, electricians were installing the microphones, testing the projectors and putting the finishing touches to switchboards full of coloured cables, like costly jewel boxes. Margareeta picked her way between men in green aprons arranging flowers and plants at the foot of the podium, cast her eye over the entrance hall, went to the floor above and tried the door handles of the various offices, to no avail, then peered through the glass spyholes. There was no one in any of the rooms; desks and hatstands were empty, cupboard doors closed. In the silent corridors, all that could be detected was the stale smell of a cigarette long since abandoned in a distant ashtray. Margareeta went back wearily down the stairs. Almost stock-still for once, Hurmo was waiting for her, well out of the way of the bustling workmen. He was panting, a gobbet of slobber permanently suspended from his tongue. He lifted his gaze to his uneasy mistress, who once again snatched up his lead bad-temperedly and dragged him after her, causing him to yelp. In the main hall, beneath a large panel depicting a Proto-Uralian rock carving, a cleaner was giving the last seats a half-hearted wipe.

‘I think something has happened to my husband,’ said Margareeta anxiously to the policeman who was putting the lid back on his coffee thermos.

Rauno Hyttynen had heard that phrase before. He pulled a form out of a drawer and started where he always started from: name, surname, address. Margareeta answered his questions patiently.

‘To tell the truth, he’s actually my ex-husband,’ she added for further accuracy after some hesitation, fixing the policeman with a trusting look. But when Rauno Hyttynen handed her a copy of the report about the disappearance of the Finnish citizen Jarmo Aurtova and turned his back on her, to go and sit down in front of the television, Margareeta looked at him blankly.

‘But…what are you doing? We must go straight to my husband’s flat! I’ve been looking for him all day. I found the windows open in his office, and paper and glass strewn all over the carpet. Does that strike you as normal?’

‘Madam, the first patrol to get here will take care of things. I’m on my own, and I can’t budge,’ he told her, tuning in to channel 1. The hockey match between Helsingfors Idrottsföreningen Kamraterna and Lokerit wasn’t due to begin for fifteen minutes, but preliminaries at the rink were already under way.

‘And when will the first patrol be here?’

‘Ah, that depends on where they’ve gone to watch the match,’ said Rauno Hyttynen with a snigger.

‘But something serious might have happened to my husband,’ objected Margareeta fretfully.

‘Madam, if whatever it is has already happened, it’s too late. If whatever it is hasn’t already happened, I can assure you that for the next two hours nothing at all is going to happen anywhere in Helsinki. Come back in two hours, and we’ll find whatever it is that’s gone astray: husband, stolen car radio, drunken grandfather or missing cat,’ the policeman shot back wearily without taking his eyes off the line-ups of the teams which were now appearing in double exposure over the image of the pitch.

‘But he might have had an accident! He might have been taken ill at home! He might have fallen into the sea! He might have been killed!’ protested Margareeta, who in her heart of hearts hoped that all four of these disasters might somehow have befallen him in one fell swoop.

‘He might also be at the rink, watching the match. And anyway, didn’t you say he was your ex-husband?’ the policeman retorted brusquely, turning up the volume.

Margareeta gave a sharp tug on the lead and stomped up to Hyttynen behind his desk.

‘Officer! You see this dog?’ she shouted, lifting Hurmo up by his collar and hurling him clumsily in the policeman’s direction. Hurmo squealed, dug his claws into Hyttynen’s thighs and brushed against them with his snout, leaving a trail of slaver on his trousers.

‘Have a good look. He’s just like my ex-husband.’ Margareeta had taken Hurmo by the snout and was shaking him by the jaws, pressing him up against the horrified policeman. ‘He walks like him, he sighs like him, at night I can hear him snore like him, even the stench of his wet fur smells like my husband’s wet socks! Do you know how much longer an animal like this can live? Another ten years, that’s how long! And I don’t intend to spend another ten years taking my ex-husband to the park each evening for a pee, washing him in anti-flea shampoo every two weeks, taking him to the vet when he’s on heat, buying him Pappy at the supermarket and giving him worming powder when — well, I’ll say no more. So, kindly get up from that chair, because by this evening I intend to be rid of this animal, of my husband and of fifteen years thrown down the drain!’ concluded Margareeta, beside herself with rage. Hurmo snarled half-heartedly and went to take refuge under the table.

Rauno Hyttynen saw that he was dealing with a troublemaker; one of those busybodies who write indignant letters to the papers, complaining about police negligence. She might also be hysterical, and if things got worse he might have to take her to the accident and emergency department and give all manner of explanations. He dried his spittle-flecked hands on his trousers and walked backwards to take his jacket from the hatstand. He gave a last regretful glance in the direction of the television; at that moment it was showing advertisements, then there would be a newsflash; then the match would start.

‘All right, all right. Let’s go and see where your ex-husband has got to. But I can’t do more than open the door to his flat,’ said the policeman, tightening his belt. If he got a move on, with luck he might be able to see at least half of the hockey match he’d been looking forward to for a whole month.

Sirens blaring, they arrived in Liisankatu. Alarmed by the unaccustomed commotion, the neighbours peeked through their curtains at the blue flashes slithering over the façades of the houses.

The neighbour who had opened the main door to Margareeta that afternoon now appeared on the landing: ‘No one’s at home. I haven’t seen the professor since yesterday. The only person I’ve seen today is Noora,’ she volunteered, giving her a sideways look as she noticed the policeman, and warding off an intrusive Hurmo with her foot.

‘Police!’ announced Hyttynen brutally, knocking loudly before turning the lock to Aurtova’s flat with a skeleton key. When the door swung open, Hurmo rushed in, barking excitedly. Everything was in perfect order: the bed was made, the washing-up had been done. The cleaner had evidently been, because the shower mat had been hung up neatly, a pile of ironed shirts lay at the foot of the bed and a pair of slippers had been placed side by side in the shoe cupboard.

‘I told you so. Your ex-husband has gone to a bar to watch the match!’ said Hyttynen with a smile, raising his arms to propel woman and dog towards the balcony. Biting her nails in her anxiety, Margareeta thrust the policeman aside and proceeded to scrutinise every corner of the flat in search of some sign, some clue that might put her on Jarmo’s trail. It was the first time she’d been into the furnished flat her husband had gone to live in after their divorce. She walked heavily through the sparsely furnished rooms, inspected the anonymous furniture, the slightly sagging sofa, the Ikea table with the price tag still around one leg, the faded poster of an old view of Helsinki. Then she went back into the hall and gathered herself together with a weary sigh. She pressed the button on the answerphone, which told her that there had been twelve messages, but they were all the unanswered ones that she herself had made. She opened the drawer in the small table below the mirror in the entrance hall, where she knew he kept the key to the garage. Hyttynen pulled a wry face, nodded impatiently and set off for the stairs.