with its tongue.
Then Vatanescu drank, too, and the water tasted better than his first bottle of Coca-Cola in the summer of 1990, with Maria on the bridge of the ancient ruined city of Stenea. Vatanescu splashed water on his face and dried his hands on the hem of his shirt. The whitecollared shirt had turned black with the juice of the berries, as had his hands. When he raised his eyes, on the other side of the brook he saw a small building. Bending down in front of it was a naked man built like a barrel.
Are there people here? What should I say to him?
What do people like? Be honest.
Vatanescu waved his hand, and shouted that he was an everyman.
Harri Pykström had just finished putting the logs in the basket when he saw someone gesturing to him from the other side of the brook. On his land, on one of his sauna evenings, it was hardly likely to be a surveyor. A man with black hair, wearing a quilted jacket. The man looked like a Sicilian, or maybe even a terrorist. At the stage of intoxication that Pykström had reached any kind of emotional reaction was possible, and he chose fear. It took the outward form of anger. Filthy invaders, he thought. He also reflected that if they were on one’s own private land it was all right to shoot them, and went to get his small-bore rifle from the sauna changing room. The rifle was meant for shooting willow grouse and other small game, but could also be used to repel attacks by foreign invaders.
The man was still waving on the other side of the brook when Pykström got down on one knee and took aim. The man was holding something white, and some creature was jumping around at his feet. Pykström pulled the trigger.
Vatanescu threw himself flat on his face at the edge of the brook. The water zipped around him four more times, and then there was silence. He kept his head underwater, like a small child who hides his eyes and thinks no one can see him.
Pykström stampeded across the rocky ground towards the brook and told Vatanescu to get up.
Though Vatanescu did not understand what Pykström said, he did understand the gestures. He got up, dripping with water, and put his hands in the air. In both of them there were plastic bags full of berries. His chest was red.
I died. I would have liked to live.
The red was from the lingonberries.
‘What man?!’ Pykström shouted in English. Then, in a mixture of English and Russian, ‘You mafia kriminal. Me finski soldat!’
Berry-picker,
Vatanescu explained in his own language and in a foreign one, showing him the bags.
Everyman.
Rights.
He’s lying, Pykström thought, the Sicilian is lying. Even if he was telling the truth, what could be worse than these people who pick berries on other people’s land, enriching themselves at their expense? Why the hell was it necessary to have a permit in order to dig a well, build a sewer or an annexe, but not to pick berries? Certainly no Sicilian had the right to pick those berries, though Harri Pykström had no intention of ever picking them himself. Even the kids from those Helsinki families made him nervous, getting lost on holiday weekends and filling their plastic cups with berries to make homemade pies.
Pykström and Vatanescu stood face to face. One was starting to feel cold because he was naked, the other because he was wet. But Pykström refused to give in, and Vatanescu did not dare to do or say anything.
The situation was resolved by Mrs Pykström, who ran down the slope and jumped on her husband’s back. It was like a scene from a pantomime, or Laurel andHardy with two Hardies. One of whom had a serious heart defect, and so was soon out of the running. Mrs Pykström managed to slacken her husband’s grip on his rifle, and it fell to the ground.
Harri Pykström sagged and collapsed on the stony bank. Vatanescu grabbed the weapon and threw it far into the brook.
Power belongs to the man who is strong.
Berries to the man with the rifle.
What was the likelihood that
Then Vatanescu drank, too, and the water tasted better than his first bottle of Coca-Cola in the summer of 1990, with Maria on the bridge of the ancient ruined city of Stenea. Vatanescu splashed water on his face and dried his hands on the hem of his shirt. The whitecollared shirt had turned black with the juice of the berries, as had his hands. When he raised his eyes, on the other side of the brook he saw a small building. Bending down in front of it was a naked man built like a barrel.
Are there people here? What should I say to him?
What do people like? Be honest.
Vatanescu waved his hand, and shouted that he was an everyman.
Harri Pykström had just finished putting the logs in the basket when he saw someone gesturing to him from the other side of the brook. On his land, on one of his sauna evenings, it was hardly likely to be a surveyor. A man with black hair, wearing a quilted jacket. The man looked like a Sicilian, or maybe even a terrorist. At the stage of intoxication that Pykström had reached any kind of emotional reaction was possible, and he chose fear. It took the outward form of anger. Filthy invaders, he thought. He also reflected that if they were on one’s own private land it was all right to shoot them, and went to get his small-bore rifle from the sauna changing room. The rifle was meant for shooting willow grouse and other small game, but could also be used to repel attacks by foreign invaders.
The man was still waving on the other side of the brook when Pykström got down on one knee and took aim. The man was holding something white, and some creature was jumping around at his feet. Pykström pulled the trigger.
Vatanescu threw himself flat on his face at the edge of the brook. The water zipped around him four more times, and then there was silence. He kept his head underwater, like a small child who hides his eyes and thinks no one can see him.
Pykström stampeded across the rocky ground towards the brook and told Vatanescu to get up.
Though Vatanescu did not understand what Pykström said, he did understand the gestures. He got up, dripping with water, and put his hands in the air. In both of them there were plastic bags full of berries. His chest was red.
I died. I would have liked to live.
The red was from the lingonberries.
‘What man?!’ Pykström shouted in English. Then, in a mixture of English and Russian, ‘You mafia kriminal. Me finski soldat!’
Berry-picker,
Vatanescu explained in his own language and in a foreign one, showing him the bags.
Everyman.
Rights.
He’s lying, Pykström thought, the Sicilian is lying. Even if he was telling the truth, what could be worse than these people who pick berries on other people’s land, enriching themselves at their expense? Why the hell was it necessary to have a permit in order to dig a well, build a sewer or an annexe, but not to pick berries? Certainly no Sicilian had the right to pick those berries, though Harri Pykström had no intention of ever picking them himself. Even the kids from those Helsinki families made him nervous, getting lost on holiday weekends and filling their plastic cups with berries to make homemade pies.
Pykström and Vatanescu stood face to face. One was starting to feel cold because he was naked, the other because he was wet. But Pykström refused to give in, and Vatanescu did not dare to do or say anything.
The situation was resolved by Mrs Pykström, who ran down the slope and jumped on her husband’s back. It was like a scene from a pantomime, or Laurel andHardy with two Hardies. One of whom had a serious heart defect, and so was soon out of the running. Mrs Pykström managed to slacken her husband’s grip on his rifle, and it fell to the ground.
Harri Pykström sagged and collapsed on the stony bank. Vatanescu grabbed the weapon and threw it far into the brook.
Power belongs to the man who is strong.
Berries to the man with the rifle.
What was the likelihood that
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