forty-three, second mayor, town councillor. Or something along those lines. It makes no difference now.
Lassi Anttila, fifty-seven, cleaner and store detective in a shopping centre in Raisio near Naantali. Another interesting combination. He was hard to find . . . Nothing about him on the Internet, not listed in the phone book. Lives quietly and more or less alone.
Jarkko Miettinen, sixty-four, pensioner. Lives near Lappeenranta, in a care home specialising in the treatment of those with Parkinson’s disease. They slow down, suffer from stiff muscles, tremors. The disease develops slowly. At first its progress is hardly perceptible.
There’s one still missing. Risto.
When I got home Leea’s friend Henna and her baby were visiting. Leea had baked a cake; it was very good. The baby laughed at me, and Henna was so pleased that she gave me a hug before they left.
Olli is in a phase where he gets cross when he loses. He had terrible luck throwing the dice all evening.
It’s snowing outside, big flakes.
I bought the costume today. It looks convincing, presumably because it’s real. Or at least, so the boy behind the counter claimed. He seemed almost proud of it.
Leea stands in the doorway and says she’s going to bed.
‘The velocity of its fall is about 4 kilometres per hour,’ I say, without taking my eyes off the window.
‘Velocity of what fall?’ she asks.
‘The falling snow. A speed of about 4 kph.’
She says nothing for a few seconds, and then asks how I’m feeling.
‘I’m going away,’ I say.
She asks where to.
‘Only for a few days,’ I tell her.
34
IN THE NIGHT he switched on his laptop, put it on the sofa and wrote to veryhotlarissa .
Dear Larissa
It snowed for the first time today. Did it snow with you? Where are you? You’re not getting in touch, so I can tell you what’s up here. At the moment we’re trying to explain the death of a woman who hasn’t yet been identified. Maybe you’ve heard or read about it. It’s as if she didn’t live anywhere. As if she’d fallen from the sky and straight into a coma. Sorry, what I’m writing is nonsense, but I’ll send it anyway.
See you soon.
Love from Kimmo
He sent the message, put the laptop on the table, opened the glass door and ran down the slope to the lake where Larissa had played ice hockey and Sanna used to swim.
In the last weeks of her life, before he had to take her to the hospital, she would sit on the landing stage wrapped in rugs. She had told him not to worry when he asked if she hadn’t better come into the warm house.
He remembered that. And his absurd hope that the illness would go away because he wanted it to. And the clumsy prayers he had sent up to a God in whom he couldn’t believe.
He decided to visit Sanna’s grave and call her parents. It was a long time since he had heard from them. Some while ago Merja, Sanna’s mother, had spoken to his answering machine and asked how he was. Her voice had sounded clear and calm, stronger than the last time. He had been glad of that. And maybe it was the reason that he hadn’t called back. He didn’t want to find out that he had only imagined Merja’s strength.
He went a few steps out on the ice and thought it seemed fragile. Although the children had been playing ice hockey on it that evening; he had watched them for a while. They had been shooting at an empty goal. As if they were waiting for the woman who had parried their shots last winter, protected by a cycling helmet.
The goal was still standing on the ice, with a pair of gloves and a forgotten stick. Kimmo Joentaa sat down in the goal and thought that he was seeing what Larissa had seen. Only the pucks flying around her ears were missing.
In the distance, he saw someone slowly moving towards him, running over the snow-covered grass, the snow-covered sand and the frozen water. Joentaa felt a pang, and thought for long seconds that it was Larissa.
Then he saw the boy coming closer. Roope, from one of the neighbouring
Lassi Anttila, fifty-seven, cleaner and store detective in a shopping centre in Raisio near Naantali. Another interesting combination. He was hard to find . . . Nothing about him on the Internet, not listed in the phone book. Lives quietly and more or less alone.
Jarkko Miettinen, sixty-four, pensioner. Lives near Lappeenranta, in a care home specialising in the treatment of those with Parkinson’s disease. They slow down, suffer from stiff muscles, tremors. The disease develops slowly. At first its progress is hardly perceptible.
There’s one still missing. Risto.
When I got home Leea’s friend Henna and her baby were visiting. Leea had baked a cake; it was very good. The baby laughed at me, and Henna was so pleased that she gave me a hug before they left.
Olli is in a phase where he gets cross when he loses. He had terrible luck throwing the dice all evening.
It’s snowing outside, big flakes.
I bought the costume today. It looks convincing, presumably because it’s real. Or at least, so the boy behind the counter claimed. He seemed almost proud of it.
Leea stands in the doorway and says she’s going to bed.
‘The velocity of its fall is about 4 kilometres per hour,’ I say, without taking my eyes off the window.
‘Velocity of what fall?’ she asks.
‘The falling snow. A speed of about 4 kph.’
She says nothing for a few seconds, and then asks how I’m feeling.
‘I’m going away,’ I say.
She asks where to.
‘Only for a few days,’ I tell her.
34
IN THE NIGHT he switched on his laptop, put it on the sofa and wrote to veryhotlarissa .
Dear Larissa
It snowed for the first time today. Did it snow with you? Where are you? You’re not getting in touch, so I can tell you what’s up here. At the moment we’re trying to explain the death of a woman who hasn’t yet been identified. Maybe you’ve heard or read about it. It’s as if she didn’t live anywhere. As if she’d fallen from the sky and straight into a coma. Sorry, what I’m writing is nonsense, but I’ll send it anyway.
See you soon.
Love from Kimmo
He sent the message, put the laptop on the table, opened the glass door and ran down the slope to the lake where Larissa had played ice hockey and Sanna used to swim.
In the last weeks of her life, before he had to take her to the hospital, she would sit on the landing stage wrapped in rugs. She had told him not to worry when he asked if she hadn’t better come into the warm house.
He remembered that. And his absurd hope that the illness would go away because he wanted it to. And the clumsy prayers he had sent up to a God in whom he couldn’t believe.
He decided to visit Sanna’s grave and call her parents. It was a long time since he had heard from them. Some while ago Merja, Sanna’s mother, had spoken to his answering machine and asked how he was. Her voice had sounded clear and calm, stronger than the last time. He had been glad of that. And maybe it was the reason that he hadn’t called back. He didn’t want to find out that he had only imagined Merja’s strength.
He went a few steps out on the ice and thought it seemed fragile. Although the children had been playing ice hockey on it that evening; he had watched them for a while. They had been shooting at an empty goal. As if they were waiting for the woman who had parried their shots last winter, protected by a cycling helmet.
The goal was still standing on the ice, with a pair of gloves and a forgotten stick. Kimmo Joentaa sat down in the goal and thought that he was seeing what Larissa had seen. Only the pucks flying around her ears were missing.
In the distance, he saw someone slowly moving towards him, running over the snow-covered grass, the snow-covered sand and the frozen water. Joentaa felt a pang, and thought for long seconds that it was Larissa.
Then he saw the boy coming closer. Roope, from one of the neighbouring
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