The Year of the Hare (3 page)

Vatanen got a reasonably good salary, but even so he was always in financial difficulties. His apartment cost hundreds a month: rents in Helsinki were so high. Because of the rent, he’d never be in a position to buy his own place. He had managed to get himself a boat, but for that, too, he was in debt. Apart from sailing, Vatanen had no particular pastimes. His wife sometimes suggested going to the theater, but he had no wish to go out with her: he got enough of her voice at home.

Vatanen sighed.

The summer morning was getting brighter and brighter, but his gloomy thoughts were getting darker and darker. Not till the hare had eaten and Vatanen had put it in his pocket did the wretched thoughts leave him. Purposefully, he set off westward, the direction he’d taken the evening before, shunning the road. The forest murmur gladdened him. He hummed a couple of snatches. The hare’s ears poked out of his jacket pocket.

After an hour or two, Vatanen came to a village. Walking along the main street, he found a red kiosk. A girl was bustling around it, just about to open her little business, apparently.

He went over to the kiosk, said good morning, and sat down on the bench. The girl opened the shutters, went in the kiosk, slid aside a glass partition, and said: “We’re open now. Can I help you?”

Vatanen bought some cigarettes and a bottle of lemonade. The girl studied him carefully and then said, “You’re not a criminal, are you?”

“No ... do I scare you?”

“No, that’s not it. It’s just that you came out of the forest.”

Vatanen took the hare out of his pocket and let it bumble around on the bench.

“Hey, a bunny!” the girl exclaimed.

“Not a bunny, it’s a hare. I found it.”

“Aw, poor thing! It’s got a sore leg. I’ll get it some carrots.”

She left her kiosk and ran into a nearby house. Soon she was back with a bunch of last season’s carrots. She washed off the soil with a dash of lemonade and eagerly offered them to the hare, but it didn’t eat. That made her a little disappointed.

“He doesn’t seem to take to them.”

“He’s a bit sick. You don’t have a vet in the village, do you?”

“Oh, yes, there’s Mattila. He’s not from around here, of course—from Helsinki. Always here in the summers, away in the winters. His villa’s over there, by the lakeshore. Climb on the roof, and I’ll show you which it is.”

Vatanen climbed on the kiosk roof, and from down below the girl told him which way to look, and what color the villa was. Vatanen looked toward where she said and spotted the villa, then climbed down as the girl supported his bottom with her hands.

The vet gave the hare a small injection and carefully bandaged its hind leg.

“It’s had a shock. The paw will heal all right. If you take it to town, get it some fresh lettuce. It’ll eat that. Don’t forget to rinse the lettuce well, or it might get the runs. For drinking, nothing but fresh water.”

When Vatanen got back to the kiosk, several men were sitting there with time on their hands. The girl introduced Vatanen: “Here he is, the man with the hare.”

The men were drinking lager. They were fascinated by the hare and asked a lot of questions. They tried to reckon how old it might be. One of them related how, whenever he was going haymaking, he first went around the hay-fields shouting, so that any young hares hidden there would run away.

“Otherwise the blades’ll get ’em. One summer there were three. One had its ears cut off, another lost its back legs, another was cut in two. The summers I’ve chased ’em off first, not one got caught in the machine.”

The village was so agreeable, Vatanen stayed on there several days, occupying an attic in one of the houses.

V
atanen took the bus bound for Heinola: even in an agreeable village, one can’t hang around doing nothing forever.

He sat on the rear seat of the bus, with the hare in a basket. Several countrymen were sitting at the back, so they could smoke. When they spotted the hare, they started building a conversation around it. There were, it was soon established, more young hares than usual this summer. They tried to guess: was it a doe or a buck? Did he intend to slaughter and eat the hare when it was fully grown? No, he had no such intention, he said. That led to a consensus: no one would kill his own dog; and it was sometimes easier to get attached to an animal than to a person.

Vatanen took a room in a hotel, washed, and went downstairs to eat. It was midday; the restaurant completely deserted. Vatanen sat the hare on the chair next to him.

The headwaiter observed it, menu in hand. “Strictly speaking, animals are not permitted in the restaurant.”

“It’s not dangerous.”

Vatanen ordered lunch for himself, and for the hare fresh lettuce, grated carrot, and pure water. The headwaiter gave a long look when Vatanen put the hare on the table to eat the lettuce out of the dish, but he didn’t go so far as to forbid it.

After the meal Vatanen called his wife from the hall telephone.

“So it’s you, is it?” she cried in a fury. “Where on earth are you? Get back here at once!”

“I’ve been thinking, I may not come back at all.”

“Oh, that’s what you’ve been thinking, is it? You’ve gone completely crazy. Now you
have
to come home. This lark’ll get you fired, too, that’s for certain. And besides, Antero and Kerttu are coming over tonight. What am I going to say to them?”

“Say I’ve skedaddled. Then at least you won’t have to lie.”

“How can I tell them something like that! What’ll they think? If you’re looking for a divorce, it won’t work, I can tell you! I’m not letting you off that way when you’ve ruined my life—eight years down the drain because of you! I was insane to marry you!”

She began to cry.

“Cry quicker, or the call’ll get too expensive.”

“If you don’t come back here at once, I’ll get the police. That’ll teach you to stay at home!”

“It’s hardly a case for the police.”

“Believe me, I’ll phone up Antti Ruuhonen straight-away. That’ll show you I’ve got company.”

Vatanen hung up.

Then he called his friend Yrjö.

“Listen, Yrjö. I’m willing to sell you the boat.”

“You don’t mean it! Where are you calling from?”

“I’m in the country, Heinola. I’m not planning to come back to Helsinki for the moment, and I need some cash. Do you still want it?”

“Definitely. How much? Seven grand, was it?”

“Okay, let’s say that. You can get the keys from the office. Bottom left-hand drawer of my desk—two keys on a blue plastic ring. Ask Leena. You know her, she can give them to you. Say I said so. Do you have the money?”

“Yes, I do. Are you including the mooring?”

“Yes, that’s included. Do it this way: go straight to my bank and pay off the rest of my loan.” Vatanen gave him his account number. “Then go to my wife. Give her two and a half thousand. Then send the remaining three thousand two hundred express to the bank in Heinola—same bank. Is that all right?”

“And your charts come with the deal as well?”

“They do. They’re at home, you can get them from my wife. Listen. Don’t land that boat on a rock. Take it easy for starters and you won’t get into trouble.”

“Tell me, how do you have the heart to sell it? Have you lost your nerve?”

“You could say that.”

The following day, Vatanen was off to the Heinola bank, carrying his hare. His step was light, his manner carefree, as might be expected.

Much has been said about the sixth sense, and the closer he got to the bank, the more distinctly he began to feel that matters weren’t quite as they should be. He was already on his guard when he got to the bank, though he had no idea what was awaiting him. He supposed that even a few days of freedom had sharpened his senses, an amusing thought that made him smile as he entered the bank.

His intuition had been right.

In the lobby, back to the door, sat his wife. His heart leaped; anger and fear flooded his body. Even the hare jumped.

He dashed out again and ran down the street as fast as his legs would carry him. Oncomers stopped in astonishment to see a man bolting out of a bank with a basket and two small hare’s ears poking out of it. He tore to the end of the block, ducked down a side street, found a little tavern door, and slipped straight into the restaurant. He was out of breath.

“If I’m not mistaken, sir, you’re Mr. Vatanen,” the headwaiter said, looking at the hare as if he recognized it. “You’re expected.”

At the other end of the restaurant sat the photographer and the chief editor. They were drinking beer together and hadn’t noticed Vatanen. The headwaiter explained that the gentlemen had asked him to direct a person looking like Mr. Vatanen to their table, and that he might have a hare with him.

Again Vatanen had been trapped.

He slipped out, sneaked back to his hotel, and tried to think. What had gone wrong with his arrangements? Of course, goddamned Yrjö was behind it.

He phoned Yrjö—the nitwit had told Vatanen’s wife where he was sending the remainder of the money. The rest could be imagined: his wife had ganged up with the office, and they’d come to Heinola to grab him. She was sitting in the bank waiting for him to collect his cash.

The money had been sent to the bank, but how could he get hold of it without a scene? This needed thinking through.

He hit on what to do. He phoned down to the receptionist and asked her to make out his bill, but added that three people would soon be coming to meet him in his room, a woman and two men. Then he wrote a few words on a sheet of the hotel stationery and left the note on the table. This done, he looked up the number of the restaurant where he’d just been dancing like a cat on hot bricks, grabbed the telephone, and called; the headwaiter replied.

“This is Vatanen. Could you get me one or the other of the two men who’re expecting me?”

“Is that Vatanen?” came a voice shortly. It was the editor.

“Speaking. Morning.”

“You’ve had it. Guess what: your old woman’s sitting in the bank, and we’re right here. Get over here fast, and then we can all get back to Helsinki. Enough of this.”

“Listen, I can’t get there this minute. Come here, all three of you, to my hotel room. It’s number 312. I’ve got to make these two long-distance calls. Pick up my wife from the bank, and we’ll sort the whole thing out together, the four of us.”

“Right, okay. We’ll be there. Stay where you are, though!”

“Of course. Bye.”

This said, Vatanen rushed out to the elevator with the hare and paid the receptionist for the room and his calls. He told her, though, that he’d like her to let in three people who were coming to meet him. Still on the run, he slipped out into the street.

He took a side-street route to the bank. Peeping through the glass doors, he saw that his wife had not gone, damnit! He retreated and lurked around the corner.

Soon two men emerged from the tavern nearby, the editor and the photographer. They entered the bank. Shortly they appeared again, accompanied by Vatanen’s wife. All three set off in the direction of the hotel. Vatanen could hear his wife: “I told you this was the only way we’d get him, didn’t I?”

When the three were out of sight, Vatanen went quietly into the bank, approached the cashier, and produced his identification. Looking at his name on the card, the cashier said: “Your wife was here a minute ago, looking for you. She’s just left.”

“Yes, I know. I’ll catch up with her in a moment.”

There had been quite a hefty express charge on Vatanen’s money, but he’d been left with the equivalent of just over three thousand dollars. He signed for it and collected the notes: quite a bit to count. The hare crouched on the glass-plated counter. The women of the bank had all dropped what they were doing and gathered around to admire the handsome creature; they were eager to stroke it.

“But please don’t touch the hind paw, it’s broken,” Vatanen warned gently.

“Oh, it’s adorable,” they said. The bank was filled with a heartwarming atmosphere of joy.

When he finally managed to get away, Vatanen hastened to the taxi stand, climbed into a big black limousine, and said: “Mikkeli, please—and as fast as you can.”

In Vatanen’s hotel room a vehement discussion was in progress, over the note Vatanen had left on the table:
Leave me in peace. Vatanen.