The Year of the Hare (4 page)

M
ikkeli in sunshine, total liberty. Vatanen was sitting on a bench in Central Park. The hare was nosing about in the grass for something to eat. On their way from the bus station, four Gypsy women dressed in bright multicolored skirts stopped to have a look at the hare and chat with Vatanen. They were in high spirits and wanted to buy the hare.

They knew where the South Savo Game Preservation Office was and directed him. One of them was very insistent on telling Vatanen’s fortune. “A great turning point in your life,” she explained: he’d been under great pressure and had made a big decision. His fate line, down the middle of his hand, was now showing a fabulous future ahead; many journeys in view, no need for anxiety. When Vatanen tried to give her money, she refused.

“Goodness gracious, darling, I don’t need money in the summer.”

The Game Preservation Office had a note on the door, announcing that the game warden, U. Kärkkäinen, was available at his home. Vatanen took a taxi to the address. In the yard a big dog started barking, and when it caught scent of the hare it took to howling. Vatanen didn’t want to risk going farther.

A heavy-set youngish man came out to control the dog, and Vatanen was able to go in. Then the game warden invited his visitor to sit down and asked how he could help.

“I want to know the kind of things an animal of this sort eats,” Vatanen began, and he pulled the hare out of the basket and onto the table between them. “A vet in Heinola said lettuce, but it’s not always convenient, and the creature doesn’t seem to go for grass.”

Kärkkäinen looked at the young hare with expert interest.

“A buck. Hardly even a month old, I’d say. Is this a pet, or what? That’s strictly forbidden, you know, by the game-protection laws.”

“Yes, but it would’ve died, you see—no question. Its leg was broken.”

“So I see. But we’d better make it legal. I’ll write you an official permit. Then you can hold on to it as a fostered pet.”

He began to type a few lines on a sheet of paper; he added an official stamp and signed his name at the bottom. It read:

“Feed it early clover. You’ll find a lot of that almost anywhere now. And for drinking, give it plain water; no point in forcing milk on it. Besides clover, fresh grass may do, and barley aftermath. . . . Bonnet-grass it likes, and meadow vetchling. In fact, it likes all the vetches, and Alsike clover, too. In the winter, you’d better give it the cambium of deciduous trees, and deep-frozen bilberry twigs as well, if you’re keeping it in town.”

“What sort of a plant is meadow vetchling? I don’t know it.”

“But the vetches you do know?”

“I think I do. They belong to the pea family, don’t they? They’ve got the same sort of clinging tendrils as peas.”

“Meadow vetchling’s very much like vetch. It’s got yellow flowers—they’re the easiest way to know it. I’ll draw a picture of it for you; then you’ll be able to spot it.”

Kärkkäinen took out a large sheet of paper and began to draw plants with a lead pencil. A skillful drawer he was not. The pencil advanced across the paper in his hefty fist. The lead dug deep into the paper, and a couple of times the lead snapped. After a long effort, an image began to form.

Vatanen was peeping at the developing image with keen interest. Kärkkäinen pulled the sheet away, showing a desire to bring his creative work to a conclusion undisturbed.

“And then there are these little yellow flowers.... Damnit. There should be some yellow, to give you a better idea. I’ll go and get my son’s watercolors.”

Kärkkäinen fetched some water and began coloring a thickset picture of a plant. He colored the stems and the leaves green, carefully cleaning the brush before he turned to coloring the flowers yellow.

“This paper’s a little on the thin side. The color spreads.”

When the flowers were tinted yellow, Kärkkäinen pushed his painting materials to one side and blew on the painting to dry it. He took a long look at his work, holding it far away, to assess the result.

“Don’t know if this picture’s going to be much use to you after all, but this is roughly how the plant looks. It’s something a hare’ll gladly take to. Those tendrils have come out a little thick. You’ll have to thin them down a bit mentally when you’re out looking for the real thing. Have you got a briefcase for this, so there’s no need to fold it?”

Vatanen shook his head. Kärkkäinen gave him a big gray envelope, large enough to enclose the picture unfolded.

Vatanen thanked him for all his advice. The game warden smiled, slightly embarrassed but pleased. In the yard, the men shook hands warmly.

The taxi driver had been waiting outside for half an hour. Vatanen asked him to drive to the outskirts of the town, to some place where there’d be luxuriant greenery. They found a suitable spot without too much trouble: a largish grove of birches, overgrown with dandelions on the roadside.

The taxi driver asked if he could get out and help to pick the flowers: time tended to drag when you were sitting alone in a hot car.

That was just fine.

Vatanen handed him Kärkkäinen’s watercolor. It wasn’t long before the taxi driver, snooping around in the grove, gave a whoop: he’d found some meadow vetchling. Several other of the game warden’s recommendations were growing nearby, too.

“I’ve always been fascinated by plants,” the taxi driver confessed to Vatanen.

After an hour, the men had each gathered an armful of suitable eatables. The hare gobbled them eagerly. While he did, the driver went off to fetch some water from the hydrant. He brought it in a hubcap, first giving the cap a good rinse under the spigot. The hare took long drafts from the hubcap, and the taxi driver shared the rest with Vatanen. When the water was finished, the driver slammed the hubcap back on his front wheel.

“Why not take these grasses around to my place? They can stay in the hall closet while you’re looking for a hotel or something.”

Back in town, they drove to the driver’s apartment complex and into the yard. They gathered up their armfuls of plants and took the elevator to the fourth floor. The door of the apartment was opened by a diffident woman who looked a little astonished to see her husband and another man standing there with armfuls of sweet-smelling plants.

“Helvi, these plants belong to my passenger. We’re going to put them in the closet till he needs them.”

“Lord help us,” she groaned. “How’ll they all fit in?” But she stopped when she saw the look of annoyance on her husband’s face.

Vatanen paid the fare. Before leaving, he thanked the driver yet again.

“Just give me a call,” the man said, “and I’ll bring over the grasses.”

B
y mid-June, Vatanen’s travels had landed him on the road to Nurmes. It was raining; he was cold.

He’d jumped off the bus from Kuopio, which was now heading for Nurmes. And here he was, on a rainy road, getting soaked, because of a snap decision. The village of Nilsiä was miles away.

The hare’s hind leg had mended, and by now it was almost full-grown. Luckily, it still fit in the basket.

Suddenly, around a corner, he came upon a house: a bungalow with attic space—a prosperous-looking setup. Might as well stop in, Vatanen decided, and see if a night’s lodging was available. A woman in a raincoat was scraping away at the garden, hands black with soil: an older woman. A picture of his wife flashed through his mind. Something in this woman reminded him of her.

“Good evening.”

She rose from her crouch, gazed at the newcomer, and then at the wet hare, which was hopping at Vatanen’s feet.

“My name’s Vatanen. I’ve just come from Kuopio, and I got out here by mistake. I should have gone on to Nilsiä. It’s raining quite a bit, as one might expect around here, I suppose.”

The woman was still staring at the hare.

“What on earth is that?”

“Just a hare. From near Heinola. I adopted him as a sort of traveling companion—we’ve been doing the trip together.”

“So what’s your business?” she asked suspiciously.

“No special business, actually—I’m just touring around, visiting various places with the hare, passing the time ... and, as I said, I got off the bus, and I’m already getting tired. I suppose there’s no chance of your putting me up for the night?”

“I’ll have to ask Aarno.”

She went inside. The hare was hungry and started nibbling the plants in the garden. Vatanen stopped it, and finally picked it up in his arms.

A man appeared at the front door, small, middle-aged, slightly balding. “Beat it,” he said. “You can’t stay here. On your way, now.”

Vatanen felt a little vexed. He asked the man if he’d at least call for a taxi.

The man repeated his injunction to beat it, looking slightly scared now. Vatanen went over to the front door to clear things up with him, but the man slipped inside and slammed the door in his face. Funny ones, Vatanen thought.

“Call now; he’s completely nuts,” came the woman’s voice through the window.

Vatanen assumed they were phoning for a taxi.

“Hello, Laurila speaking. Get down here fast, quick as you can. He’s at the door, tried to break in, completely crazy. Got a hare with him.”

The call ended. Vatanen tried the front door: locked. The rain was coming down. An angry face appeared at the window, yelling, “Stop beating on the door—I’ve got a weapon.”

Vatanen went and sat on the garden swing, which had an awning. The woman called from the window, “Don’t you try to get in!”

After a while a black police car turned into the drive. Two uniformed constables emerged from the car and approached Vatanen. The people of the house now appeared at their door, pointing at Vatanen and saying: “Take him away! He’s the one.”

“Okay,” the constables said. “What’ve you been up to?”

“I asked them to call for a taxi, but they’ve called for you instead.”

“And am I right in thinking you’ve got a hare with you?”

Vatanen opened the lid of the basket; the hare had just crept into it, out of the rain. The hare peered nervously out of the basket, looking somehow guilty.

The constables gave each other a look, nodding, and one of them said: “Okay, sir; better come along with us. Hand over that basket.”

T
he police sat in front, with the hare. Vatanen was in the back, alone. At first they traveled in silence, but just before they reached the village, the constable holding the basket said, “Do you mind if I have a look?”

“Not at all, but don’t lift him up by the ears.”

The constable opened the basket and looked at the hare, which stretched its head over the top. The constable at the wheel craned around to look. He downshifted and slowed up to see better.

“This year’s,” the driver said. “Could be a March hare, perhaps?”

“Hardly. A week or two ago he was still very small. Probably born in June.”

“It’s a buck,” the other constable said.

They arrived at the village of Nilsiä, and the car drove into the police-station forecourt. The basket lid was put on again. Vatanen was taken inside.

The constable on duty was sitting there looking sleepy, his uniform shirt unbuttoned. He visibly perked up on seeing company.

Vatanen was offered a chair. He dug some cigarettes out of his pocket and offered them to the police. They glanced at each other first, and then each took a cigarette. The telephone rang; the duty officer answered it.