The Beggar and the Hare (21 page)

The other touchstone was Jesus Mähönen. In an interview for
Smile
magazine, Pahvi said that he knew Jesus personally and often consulted him when making decisions that affected his private and political life. This, too, the public and the media had accepted, because the statement was interpreted as metaphorical. When Pahvi was unable or unwilling to answer some question related to the budget, for example, he would say:

‘I’ll have to ask Jesus first.’

His supporters would burst into laughter. His political rivals were surprised at the way he always landed on his feet. If they said the same things, they would be viewed as symptoms of mental illness.

‘Three words are enough to change the world. The thing is to know what those three words are.’

This precept of Heikki Hamutta’s was one that Pahvi always remembered.

In the third round of the parliamentary elections the Ordinary People’s Party had won a so-called ‘tsunami’ victory. In their use of this term, the political correspondents wanted to emphasise that the landslide had gone far into the depths of the country, overturning and upsetting everything, but would also come crashing back, returning some of the ordinary people who had risen to become members of parliament to their original status of sawyers, postmen, unemployed paper mill workers, students, border guards, policemen and checkout assistants.

The party was aware of the risk, and for the next election campaign a group led by Pike Salomaa, a world arm wrestling champion, even wanted the Ordinary People’s Party to try an independent PR agency.

Simo Pahvi often said in public that he listened to and trusted all who were wiser than himself. But Pike Salomaa was not one of them. Even though he had brought in the votes of the women and arm wrestlers of south-west Finland. In reality Pahvi thought that no one was wiser than himself, and that only Jesus and his driver Esko Sirpale were on his level.

But he knew that no leader should ever become too powerful or irreplaceable. If you took all the power for yourself, you began to find enemies in your own kitchen.

The reason for Simo Pahvi’s success was Simo Pahvi. The reason for Simo Pahvi’s problems was Simo Pahvi.

Simo Pahvi went to the counter and got himself a refill of coffee.

Simo Pahvi took a bite of his doughnut, the fifth of the day, and slurped down some coffee after it. He told Esko Sirpale that he could see no one among the ranks of the Finnish people who would be capable of stepping up to stand before them as leader. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Esko Sirpale did the same. They threw the cigarettes into the rubbish bin and opened out the cardboard packs. A cigarette pack was Simo Pahvi’s laptop and drawing board. This was how he had designed his summer cottage, his career, his wedding, his campaign budget and his EU policy. Everything was planned according to the same principles. Foundations that were damp-proof. A solid structure and a well-aired loft. Proper sheet iron on the roof, no aluminium foil.

‘What are we designing?’ Esko Sirpale asked.

‘A strategy.’

‘We’re not going to use a PR agency?’ Sirpale asked. ‘We’re going to do it ourselves?’

‘It’s not the work that hurts your back, but the bending.’

Then Pahvi stirred his cup of coffee with his spoon, not saying a word.

‘Is there a problem?’ Sirpale asked.

‘A big one,’ Simo Pahvi sighed. ‘The problem is that I’ve got all I ever wanted.’

‘Yes, you have. Thumbs up, and congratulations.’

‘I’ve been made a minister,’ Pahvi said. ‘All my aims have been fulfilled.’

Simo Pahvi’s gaze wandered along the enclosure of the Eläintarha sports stadium and past a woman in blue
overalls who was filling a Ford Transit van.

‘Exactly,’ Esko Sirpale said. ‘Bloody hell. Let’s not mope about it.’

‘I’m empty.’

It took Jesus Mähönen three minutes to cycle from his apartment to the service station. As he didn’t drink coffee, he asked for a cup of hot water.

‘Please speak,’ Jesus asked.

‘I’m an old-fashioned man. I don’t do the vacuuming. I don’t count the calories. I support responsibility, not liberties.’

Jesus and Esko Sirpale nodded and asked him to continue.

‘I’ve lost faith. In the future.’

‘Has something happened?’

‘No. I’m going to win the presidential election.’

Jesus and Esko Sirpale nodded.

‘But when I get to the president’s office, someone will have to take orders. Who, damn it?’

They were silent. Behind them old Irma got three watermelons on the fruit machine and won a hundred euros.

‘I’m the Ordinary People’s Party.’ Pahvi said. ‘But this morning on the john I realised that an ordinary person can’t lead the Ordinary People. I thought that he could, but he can’t. An ordinary person wants power, not responsibility.’

‘It’s good that you’ve realised it,’ Sirpale said. ‘Like Hamutta.’

‘That’s what people are like,’ said Pahvi. ‘But if you give power to someone who covets it, you’re going to end up a very long way from the original idea of the Ordinary People’s Party. My successor must be the One, with a capital O.’

Simo Pahvi finished his coffee, and thought. He got another refill and drank that, too. He went on thinking, looked at his trusted men and listened to his innermost self.

‘I’ve never had any doubts. Now I do. I don’t want to lose my life’s work.’

‘But you want to be president?’

‘If I don’t run, I will always regret it. But the party needs a good man to lead it. Someone who won’t let us down. Who won’t fire guns when he’s drunk. Who won’t line his own pockets. Who won’t come out with stupid statements on TV. Who won’t say openly what he thinks about blacks, homosexuals and abortion. Who won’t support the death penalty until the time is ripe. Who can talk about the bosses, the waste-water reform and the EU. He must be a new man, a man who is wise. Yet close to ordinary folk. Able to understand them. Aware of current trends. Not out for his own success.’

Simo Pahvi said nothing for a long time. Jesus Mähönen said nothing for a long time. Esko Sirpale whistled to himself and put his hands behind his head.

‘You see,’ Pahvi said. ‘There isn’t anyone like that.’

‘Of course there is,’ Sirpale said. ‘If history has taught us anything, it’s that no job remains vacant for long.’

Jesus Mähönen nodded in agreement.

‘Show me the way,’ Pahvi demanded. ‘Tell me where I can find a man like that.’

And Jesus told him.

H
is perpetual motion stopped on the seventh floor of Meilahti Hospital, in an intensive care ward with special surveillance

I can feel the stitches in my side.

I’m full of holes.

So this is the end of a wonderful life, then?

I don’t know if it’s daytime or night-time, I’m being fed through a tube.

The policemen took three shifts in turn. There was always someone on guard.

To watch me?

To protect me?

From whom?

It was Yegor.

Did they arrest him?

The medication gives me strange dreams.

I dream about Harri Pykström picking mushrooms in the forest with Arto the writer.

They’re waving to me from the other side of the river.

I go to join them. To a quad bike, a boat, a bottle, a sauna, to float logs, to build factories, hurl lightning, give the Son of Man a brotherly pat on the back. Men’s work. Real jobs.

A man.

Am I a man?

Is that what I am?

What sort of man is it who can’t get a pair of football boots for his son?

W
hen Vatanescu was able to speak, he asked first about the rabbit. No one had any firm information, but the policeman said he was afraid it might have ended up as tiger food at Korkeasaari Zoo. He promised to investigate the matter.

If the rabbit dies, I will die.

‘Now, don’t let’s exaggerate. Everything will be all right.’

If I die, the rabbit will die.

If I’m deported, they’ll kill me.

The medication kept the pain at bay, but it also affected Vatanescu’s mind, which swayed and undulated. He had lost all sense of time and place, and grey specks and graphic elements swam before his eyes. He asked if there was any news of Sanna Pommakka, but the name was not familiar to the hospital staff.

Did she never exist at all?

Do I?

Each day a doctor checked his condition to see if he could now be interrogated and the process of deportation begun.

At last the day came when Vatanescu was able to eat unaided. Raised up in his hospital bed, broth and sour milk.

‘You’re in trouble with the taxman. You had a wild animal with you, which you took into restaurants, an employment agency and a hospital. You performed magic tricks on a train without an entertainment licence. You took part in an unsanctioned demonstration…’

As a punishment Vatanescu received day-fines and was told he would be deported back to where he had come from. He could take with him only what he had arrived with.

Nothing.

I had nothing.

The football boots would have been enough.

‘Perhaps there’s an alternative.’

I haven’t any money. I can’t offer any bribes.

‘Your crimes are worth peanuts. There’s one thing that is important.’

The rabbit.

‘Kugar. You’re our only witness against him. What was your connection with him?’

If I tell them I may get off lightly.

If I tell them I may die.

‘What do you mean, Vatanescu?’

Even if Yegor goes to prison, there are others like him who will continue his activities. His post won’t stay vacant. It will be filled in the blink of an eye.

To that gang I will always be a stool pigeon.

‘How long have you known Kugar, Vatanescu?’

A dead stool pigeon.

‘He’s a human trafficker, a drugs trafficker and an arms trafficker. You’ve no reason to protect a man like that.’

No, but I must protect myself.

And my child. And my mother.

‘We know that… your sister…’

My sister?

‘…is safe. In a refuge. A clandestine brothel was uncovered in Poland; all the girls are safe. But she left Romania in the same group as you, and her testimony will also be useful to us. We can guarantee to protect your family.’

You?

You personally?

A Finn? You can protect my family in Romania?

‘Yes. Or here. As you wish.’

Y
egor Kugar was driven to a cell at Pasila police station and from there to a maximum-security prison somewhere in the wilds of Finland. Captivity did not dismay Yegor Kugar; he was calm, had obtained his revenge, accomplished his mission. The handcuffs did not hurt him, the Finnish prison system had the softness of the womb. In Finland, prison was an easier and more decent
option than freedom in most other countries. So everything had worked out fine for Yegor Kugar – or had it?