The Year of the Hare (17 page)

If only I dared open my eyes, one of them at least, he suggested to himself, but opened neither. Even the thought seemed rash. He ought to try to go back to sleep: oh, to sleep, to sleep till he was dead. But perhaps he was dead already? The thought made him want to laugh, though the mirth died instantly. Bile had again flushed into his mouth; it had to be swallowed back manfully.

He made an effort to grasp where he was in his life at the moment.

He couldn’t grasp anything specific. Possibilities, images flashed by, quite a few, but the brain couldn’t get its teeth into them: not deep enough to call the result a thought.

At times this pursuit of thought struck him as a great joke. What was funny about it he couldn’t quite make out, but there was something completely hilarious. Yet, when he tried to concentrate on his weird hilarity, gloom took its place, and the gloom seemed only too well founded.

Everything was shifting around, everything slipping out of mind. For a second he thought of his head as a hand, withdrawing everything. My head’s gliding away, he thought. The idea tickled him again, only for a moment; then oblivion fell. He decided he’d better turn his mind to something practical.

For instance, what time of year was it? That was something to put your mind to. A question like that would be detached enough and yet practical. What season was it? Could you remember something like that if you made a big effort?

Without realizing it, he’d opened his eyes. Concentrating on the season of the year had done what he’d been guarding against, and no particular harm seemed to have occurred. His gunky eyes focused on the wall near the ceiling. There was a large window, with eight panes: four small ones at the bottom, two larger ones in the middle, and two round-topped ones higher up. Bright, though; he had to close his eyes. His eyelids were like the hatches of a diving bell, he decided, and he determined to go back to pondering what time of year it was.

Spring? Spring seemed to have some allure and rang a bell. But why not, just as well, autumn, or January . . . ? No, not January, that rang no bell. Not summer, either. Spring, though, made him think of a young hare, and that made him think of a bigger hare, his own . . . and that suggested autumn. Autumn made him think of Christmas; and now it felt almost like spring—March, most likely.

On further reflection, March didn’t feel right, either. More likely it was the bitter end of winter.

Nausea rushed back. He barricaded a disgusting fluid behind his teeth, burst out of the carpet, saw two other sleepers on the floor, realized that the bathroom door was straight in front of him, and rushed in.

He threw up violently; as he retched, the contents of his stomach poured into the toilet bowl; he dribbled slobber; his eyes popped; his stomach contracted like a cow’s after giving birth, then felt as if it might come out of his contorted mouth, with his heart banging his head off.

And then, suddenly, the nausea was gone; a delicious confidence in the indomitableness of his system came back like a refreshing shower. He raised a purple face to the mirror and stood looking.

It was a colored page torn from a porn magazine. He washed the sweat off it, bared his upper body, and washed his chest and armpits with a cold washcloth. He found a comb in his pocket and ran it through his thick, matted hair. The hairs stuck to the comb. Pulling them away, his stiff, awkward fingers pulled several teeth out of the comb. He threw it all into the toilet bowl, gargled several times, then flushed the whole mess. When he opened the bathroom door and returned to the other room, he remembered with astonishing clarity who he was, remembered it must be Christmas, but found recent happenings a complete haze.

The room was small, tidy, clearly a dentist’s office: chrome chairs and drills glistened in the sun flooding through the window. He sat down on a sofa by the wall, hands dangling between his knees like a farm laborer’s, and took a look at the two other people lodging here in this odd setup.

One of them was a young woman, the other a middle-aged man. They had woken and piled up by the wall the sofa cushions they’d been using as beds. Vatanen greeted them. Both seemed familiar, yet so unfamiliar. He couldn’t bring himself to ask where he was and who the other two were. He supposed time would clear up these mysteries.

The young woman, for she was more than a girl, clarified matters by saying the taxi ought to be paid off so the driver could finally leave: two hundred twenty-two dollars. Vatanen felt in his back pocket; his wallet was gone. The woman produced it from her handbag and handed it to him. The wallet contained a large wad, over nine hundred dollars. Vatanen counted out two hundred thirty dollars and gave it to the woman. She gave it to the man, who thanked her and handed back eight dollars. So the man was a taxi driver, Vatanen concluded.

“Good-bye, then,” the man said as he left. “Quite a time we had. Cheers.”

“Take these,” the woman said, handing Vatanen some red vitamins from her handbag. “They’ll do you good. Just swallow them whole.”

Vatanen managed to ask where the hare was.

“No need to worry. It’s safe in Helsinki, with some professor. It was left there before Christmas and can stay till the New Year. It’s all fixed up.”

“Before Christmas? Is it after Christmas?”

“Yes, yes, don’t you remember?”

“I’ve gotten a bit vague about things. I must have been drinking a little.”

“A little more than a little,” she said matter-of-factly.

“It feels like that. Who are you?”

“Leila. You could at least remember that!”

Vatanen began to recall the name Leila. ... Of course, this woman was Leila. But what Leila? That he didn’t dare ask just then, but said: “Well, it
is
coming back, don’t be angry. But I’ve got this awful hangover, it seems to be affecting my memory. I must have been drinking for days. I don’t usually, you know.”

“Alcohol poisoning. Now you’ve got to put the cork in.”

Vatanen was horribly ashamed. He avoided her look, which was all too frank and honest. He glanced down at the floor, letting his eyes wander, and then a completely new thought struck him: “Could we maybe go somewhere and have a glass of cold beer?”

Leila nodded, and they left.

The staircase was spiral, and they were three stories up—six landings. Vatanen supported himself on the curved banister—the steps were dancing—and Leila supported his other arm.

Outside, it was a glaringly bright, frosty day. The sunny street was white with clean new snow. The dazzle made his eyes ache, but the fresh air perked him up a little. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he said: “I’m an olm coming out of its cave.”

“A what?” Leila asked.

“Nothing. Take me somewhere nice.”

Leila led Vatanen across town. He observed the houses, the cars, trying to work out where he was. Vallila, was it? Katajanokka? Kruununhaka, anyway, it couldn’t possibly be. They came to a river. ... Was it the Porvoo? No, not the Porvoo. He knew the Porvoo well.

Vatanen was feebly watching the passersby, hoping, he realized, to see a face he knew, perhaps hear where they were, get himself back on the map.

They crossed a bridge; their destination was a little restaurant on the other side. It looked quite nice, and Vatanen didn’t believe it could be open so early in the morning. He said so, and Leila pointed out it was afternoon already: “You really are pretty out of it, aren’t you?”

Vatanen glanced dully through the menu; he didn’t dare think of eating. Leila ordered a frosted pilsener for him and a glass of fresh fruit juice for herself. He cautiously sipped the cold beer; its smell was sickening, but on the other hand it was stimulating. The first drop upset his stomach a little. He’d have to sit it out and see what happened.

Leila watched his silent struggle.

And then the power of the hangover was broken, thanks to the beer. Vatanen found himself able to eat. He became a new man, a new Vatanen.

He began to remember things, and even remembered leaving his hare in the professor’s apartment in Kruununhaka and then going off on a binge, after half a year’s abstinence. And he’d drunk in splendid style, drunk deeply and joyously. But he could remember only the early phases of the bender; events didn’t become clear till Leila outlined their main course.

Her tale was as long and winding as the trip itself, which had lasted eight days and meandered through various southern Finnish venues. Vatanen had been up to a thing or two, quite a thing or two.

Warily, he slipped in: “What town are we in now?”

“This is Turku,” she said.

“Ridiculous, my not knowing!” he said. “So that’s why the bridge seemed familiar. I’ve been here dozens of times, but the sun was blinding me.”

Bit by bit the trip began to piece together, as Leila’s story unfolded. Vatanen had binged in Helsinki for a couple days, had gotten into a fight, had been taken to the police station, but was released right away. He’d then met Leila, and they’d gone to Kerava, where one thing after another had happened, including Vatanen’s falling under a train. The train had pushed him twenty yards along the track at walking speed, and he’d gotten away with bruises.

At Kerava, Vatanen had bought a bicycle and pedaled off in a rage toward Riihimäki. Leila had followed in a taxi. Vatanen had not reached Riihimäki on his bicycle: a patrol car had stopped him. The bicycle had been loaded into the taxi’s trunk and driven to Riihimäki, where it was sold at a bargain price, and the money squandered on lottery tickets. Vatanen had won a hi-fi set, a leather briefcase and pencil case, cuff links, a set of fountain pens, and three leather memo pads. He took the money instead and got it into his head to take a bus to Turenki, which they did.

In Turenki they spent the night at a farm. Vatanen whooped it up with cheerful abandon—even if it looked physically and spiritually wearing to Leila—and he was one of the village sights for three days.

On the day before Christmas Eve, they left Turenki for Janakkala to spend Christmas with Leila’s parents. Vatanen bought fine presents for her whole family: a barometer for her mother, a selection of pipes for her father, a bracelet for her sister, and a xylophone for the youngest girl. On Christmas Eve, Vatanen was charming: the family listened fascinated to his stories; Daddy produced his best brandy from the liquor cabinet, and it went down well. Vatanen tended to drone on during the night and kissed Leila and her mother on their cleavage, but no one had been offended.

Christmas night, they left Janakkala unexpectedly, supposedly for the hospital, but they didn’t go there. Instead, they took a taxi to Tammisaari, where Vatanen tried to take a Christmas dip in the sea, without success. They spent Christmas night sleeping in a taxi, which turned out to be expensive.

They also went to Hanko and Salo, where nothing particularly unusual happened. And now they were in Turku. They’d arrived in the middle of the night; Vatanen had gone through the list of dentists in the directory, asking for an appointment, and one had accepted. The Hanko taxi driver had spent the night in Turku. Throughout all this, Leila had been with him, and that astonished Vatanen.

“How on earth could you put up with it?”

“It was my Christmas vacation, darling.”

Darling? Vatanen gave the young woman a second look. That put a different spin on things. Had they been having some sort of liaison? If so, what exactly?

She was certainly attractive, no question. Or, rather, that very fact raised a question: how could a young woman as attractive as Leila endure this crazy trail of tomfoolery for so long? Surely, as a foul-smelling drunk, he hadn’t had the indecency to seduce her? But that would be difficult to believe, because, judging from her account, his behavior had been revolting from beginning to end.

Besides, she was apparently engaged, he observed. A ring glinted on her finger: cheap and nasty, a sort he personally wouldn’t want to buy for any woman, let alone a woman of this quality. For a moment he had managed to think something lovely might have happened, something inconceivable, between this traveling companion and himself; but the hideous ring put a stop to that.

He was overwhelmed by a feeling of loneliness: even his hare was in Helsinki. He suddenly felt an unbearable yearning for his hare.

“I must go and get that hare,” he said sadly, looking at the ring. “You’re engaged, I see, and I can’t help saying I don’t think much of the ring.” He sighed deeply.

“Guess who I’m engaged to,” she said, looking him gravely in the eye.

“Oh, some high-flying young accountant, I suppose. Forgive me, but it doesn’t interest me.”

“Wrong ... Guess again.”

“You could try and guess who I’m engaged to instead,” he retorted.

“I know already,” she said. “You have to guess who I’m engaged to.”

“I don’t have the energy at the moment,” he said. “We’d better get our stuff together, I think, and go. You wouldn’t mind phoning the station for me, would you? I need to know the train times. Do me that favor, please. I’m so tired.”

“I’ll give you the answer, then,” she said. “I’m engaged to you.”

He heard what she said—he heard it word by word—but didn’t grasp the meaning. He looked her in the eye, he looked at the tablecloth, he looked out of the window, he looked at the restaurant floor, and then he looked at the hovering waiter. He managed to give the waiter an order: two glasses, the same as before.

The waiter brought their drinks. They drank them in silence.

“Is it true?” Vatanen asked after a long interval.

Yes indeed, she affirmed. Vatanen had proposed in Kerava, and she had accepted in Turenki. The ring had been bought in Hanko. Since the shops were closed, nothing better was obtainable. He’d bought it from a Hanko taxi driver’s daughter, a girl of eleven. Nickel, gold-plated nickel, Leila said.

“Really.”

“Yes.”