The Healer (13 page)

“Should I start accusing you of living in a fantasy world, of being ineffectual and directionless?” Laura said.

“Go ahead.” I laughed. “And I'll tell you how calculating you are, a backstabber, a social climber.”

Laura stopped laughing, but her smile still spilled all the way to her big brown eyes.

“I liked you,” she said. “In spite of everything.”

I looked at her.

“I liked you, too.”

She was still smiling.

“Maybe there's no point in wondering if things could have been different, on a big scale or a small scale,” she said.

“Things are what they are,” I said.

There was warmth in her eyes now, the kind I had wished for twenty years ago.

“The two of you are happy.”

“Extremely happy,” I agreed.

“I'm happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

When I said nothing more, she took a breath.

“So. Tarkiainen.”

She talked about Tarkiainen, and I listened without interrupting. The chronology of the story was familiar from what Elina had told me: first idealistic activism, then conversion to single-minded radicalism, and finally disillusioned withdrawal. Where to, she didn't know, and I couldn't tell her.

Laura had got to know Tarkiainen at the end of her student days when information about the severity of climate change temporarily united people and laid the framework for many fine and well-meaning organizations, associations, and political parties.

But now we know that unity was only momentary, Laura concluded, and I noticed her voice speeding up a little. That fight was won by big business—in other words, a few thousand people who were already superrich, who once again masked their own interests in the mantle of economic growth for the common good. The return to the old ways was echoed by the desire of a populace tired of momentary scarcity, of consuming less, to live like they had before: self-absorbed, greedy, and irresponsible—the way they'd always been taught to live.

So the vision of the long-term common good was once again defeated by ever larger houses, newer cars, wider television screens, homes renovated once a year, stereos, radios, toasters, mixers, filters, browsers, and, of course, new wardrobes every week or so. And you had to get everything cheaper than it had ever been before. Which sped up the cycle of destruction exponentially.

I didn't want to interrupt her to say that she was oversimplifying, exaggerating. I knew she knew it herself. Maybe she just needed to vent her frustration to someone, so why not me? I also selfishly hoped that she would soon get to the reason I came.

She did stop to take a breath and returned to Tarkiainen, the charismatic young man she remembered from fifteen years earlier. She talked about joining Tarkiainen to found an activist group for young academics. The original purpose of the group was to form a new people's movement independent of politics, but Tarkiainen had other ideas right away. That was when Tarkiainen started learning about fringe groups practicing direct action. She thought it was possible that he had participated in some of their attacks. In any case, he took up a radical, militant environmentalism—if you're even the slightest bit involved in consumption or nonecological activity, then you're 100 percent against us—and he quickly dropped out of the group Laura belonged to.

It sent a shiver down my spine when she mentioned Tarkiainen's girlfriend: a young, small, attractive woman with blue-green eyes, whose name she couldn't remember at the moment.

“Johanna,” I said quietly.

A flash of memory and recognition shone in her eyes, and she nodded.

“That's it,” she said. “How did you—”

“Johanna's my wife.”

The room fell silent. So silent that I could hear shreds of hallway conversation in an entirely different part of the building. The Laura I once knew wouldn't have felt comfortable going so long without speaking, but this Laura sat calmly in her chair, sunk once again in thought.

“What do you remember about Johanna?” I asked.

She shrugged.

“She was in the group for a while. I remember I thought that she was there sort of reluctantly. Maybe she realized before the rest of us did that Tarkiainen had changed his outlook.”

“So why did she stay, then?”

Now Laura looked me in the eye, raised her eyebrows, and snorted with amusement.

“Maybe she hoped she could change him, straighten him out, influence his thinking. People will believe all kinds of things. Even smart people.”

There was obviously no point in continuing in this vein. And in spite of the fact that I felt conflicted and uncomfortable asking my former girlfriend about my present wife, I continued: “What kind of relationship do you think they had—Johanna and Tarkiainen?”

“That was fifteen years ago,” she said, shaking her head. “And I couldn't have told you even back then. But I think they had a relationship that began with a shared goal, and then one of them changed his goal to something the other couldn't care less about. That sort of thing happens. I think when your wife, I mean Johanna, finally noticed that Tarkiainen had risen to another sphere of his own, she tried to get into it as long as she could. Just like I would have done. Even though that was a risky thing to do.”

“What do you mean?”

“Men can't always grasp this concept,” Laura said, “but if a man is willing to use violence, he's willing to use violence. I'm sure you know what I mean.”

I told her I did know what she meant.

“If I had to guess—and this would only be a guess—I'd say that Johanna was waiting for the right moment to leave him. And maybe…”

I remained quiet. Laura shook her head.

“Now I'm just using my imagination,” she said.

“Go ahead. Anything at all might help.”

She shook her head again.

“This is going to sound crazy,” she said, not sounding the least bit crazy, “but maybe when she looked at him, or stood next to him, she felt self-conscious somehow, felt like she almost understood something about him—Tarkiainen, I mean—that she couldn't say at the time, even though she ought to say it, needed to say it. But that's pure speculation, of course. I can't really remember anything like that.”

“Thank you.”

“I don't know if that helps.”

“It helps a lot,” I said, as warmly and friendly as I knew how to be, which was easy, because I had a sincere desire to thank her. “It helps in a lot of ways. I'm glad I came to see you.”

I got up from my chair, as did she. I felt a fleeting confusion—like I was living in two different times, twenty years ago and today. Luckily the feeling quickly passed. I stepped toward her, took her hand, which felt surprisingly familiar in mine, and held it a moment. When I let go, I wrapped my arms around her.

Twenty years, and my arms didn't reach any farther than they ever had.

 

17

Hamid's taxi was around the corner with the motor running, just a hundred meters away. I sped up my steps so that I wouldn't get wet, but I got wet anyway. The rain was falling in sheets that the wind tossed where it would. A gust of rain hit me in the face with easily enough water to wash my hair. I got to the taxi, opened the door, and climbed in. Hamid turned nearly 180 degrees in the driver's seat and laughed out loud when he saw how wet I was.

“It's raining pretty hard,” he said cheerfully.

“It's raining pretty hard,” I agreed. I asked him to drive me home. On the way I explained that I would need his services for some time and that I would, of course, pay for them. This suited Hamid, and after a little dickering we agreed on a price. I leaned back in my seat, gave my wet hair a finger fluff, and, after some hesitation, tried Johanna's number. Not available.

Next I called Jaatinen. He didn't answer so I left a message asking him to get in touch with me as soon as possible. I reached Elina and asked her to have Ahti call me as soon as he was up and about.

Hamid wove his way down the Sörnäinen shore road looking for a faster lane, but not finding one. Every time he sped up to move into a promising-looking opening the traffic slowed to a nearly pedestrian pace again. Hamid was a young man and drove like young men always have, with no concern for saving gas or saving lives. Both were getting cheaper by the day.

The oil hadn't run out yet, although they'd been predicting it would for decades. The problem was, in fact, the opposite. There was enough oil to do everything that had accelerated the rise of the sea levels; enough to destroy the air, land, and water for good; enough to pollute all the lakes, rivers, and seas; enough to continue to manufacture all the same useless junk. Those who had been afraid we would run out of oil had the satisfaction of knowing that the supply just kept on coming. It wouldn't die. When the world ended one day we would still have tankers full of oil, ports full of it, billions of barrels of black gold, ample fuel for a trip to eternity.

Hamid found a lane that was moving. We drove onto Kulosaari bridge, and the traffic was nearly stopped again at the other end. The right lane, on the sea side, was closed, and we inched forward at a snail's pace. The flashing light of a fire truck dyed the rain blue like a scene from a horror story, and far up ahead we could see a truck with its cab still on the bridge and its trailer crashed through the side of an office building. From a distance it looked at first like nothing remarkable, as if the truck were somehow simply driving out of the building and onto the bridge.

From up close, the situation was different, of course. The ambulances that had been hidden a moment earlier by the fire trucks were waiting with their doors open so that at least some of the pedestrians and office workers hit by the truck could be placed onto stretchers and receive some kind of treatment. We passed the scene of the accident in silence, neither of us speaking. Soon we had sped up again and passed through Kulosaari and into Herttoniemi.

When we got to my building I dug the payment we'd agreed on out of my pocket, and Hamid backed out of the driveway and pulled away. He had promised to be there within fifteen minutes if and when I called.

The quiet, empty apartment seemed even sadder now, as if it, too, were tense and worried, and no longer knew how to be cozy, warm, and safe. I took off my shoes and put my wet coat on a hook before I had to sit down on the swivel stool next to the door. I just barely managed to grab hold of the seat of the stool before the tears came. Tears, the first I'd shed in years, flooding from my eyes, hot and heavy on my cheeks.

I was worn out. It felt like everything was pointless, like every effort to take hold of something was just futile groping. I had disappointed myself and betrayed Johanna's trust. I replayed all the promises I'd made to her—I'll always help you, I'll always love you, I'll do anything to make things easier for you.

Calm down, Tapani, I told myself. You can keep your promises, even if you can't deliver right now.

I let the tears come—let the worry and grief swell and then subside again. I don't really know how long I sat there. It seemed like a long time.

When I could finally move again, I tried not to look around me. Everything in the apartment reminded me of Johanna and made me wonder why I couldn't figure out where she could be.

I took off my clothes and got in the shower. I noticed that I was doing everything hurriedly, in swift swipes—shampoo, shower gel, shaving. I tried to count to ten as I shaved. I got to three.

I wasn't all that ready for what I might find in the clothes closet. As I was taking a clean pair of socks out of the wardrobe, my eye fell on a bit of red and gold wrapping paper. My Christmas gift for Johanna. I took the package out of the closet, laid it on the bed, and looked at it. I stood there with a sock on one foot, unable to decide what to do next. It's strange how the meanings of things can change. It wasn't a handwritten, hand-bound book of poems and a modest amount of mad money lying there on the bed, it was our whole life. Everything that makes a life out of each day. I felt the tears rising to my eyes again, then hot, large tears rolling down my face to my lips and chin.

I turned, put a sock on my other foot, and walked out of the bedroom, leaving the gift where it lay.

I made some coffee, took Johanna's cup from the counter and put it in the cupboard, got out my own, and sat down with it at the computer. I went through everything again but didn't find anything new or useful. I looked at the surveillance footage from the corner of Fredrikinkatu and Urho Kekkosen katu and still didn't see anything that caught my attention.

I poured myself some more coffee, had an idea, and used Johanna's password to search through archives for articles she'd written for various papers and magazines. I looked through them all as thoroughly as I had the Healer memos until I was out of coffee and had to get up and walk around. My ribs didn't ache constantly anymore. The clubbing I'd got made itself known only when I sat in certain positions.

I tried to call Chief Inspector Jaatinen again, but he still wasn't answering. I went back to the computer to read some more of Johanna's articles.

Johanna wrote for many different publications and had always been a diligent writer, particularly when she was a young freelancer. She wrote quickly and clearly and built up people's trust, including the people she interviewed—all the characteristics of a good journalist. But her real talent lay in finding little connections, or big ones, amid all the details, and summing them up. I wished I had that quality.

Amid all the uncertainty and searching, I had progressed in my investigation, such as it was. What Laura had told me, for instance, had confirmed my idea of Johanna and Pasi Tarkiainen's youthful relationship. And what I'd learned from Elina about Johanna's complete silence on the subject told me that she had been afraid, and she'd had good reason to be afraid, from what I could tell.