The Healer (4 page)

We arrived at Temppeliaukio in twenty minutes. I shoved a bill through the narrow opening in the Plexiglas and got out of the car.

The modern dome of Temppeliaukio Church was gone; what was left of the building resembled ancient stone ruins perched high on a rock. The fragments of wall cast long shadows all the way to Lutherinkatu. Surrounded by the yellowish light of the street lamps, the shadows were black as pitch, as if painted on the ground. Someone had taken a
PARKING PROHIBITED
sign from its pole and thrown it into the middle of the street. The sign looked like it had finally given up on prohibiting anything.

The night was as cold in Töölö as it had been at home in Herttoniemi, but not as quiet. Cars could be heard here and there, the honk of horns, Finnish rock, people shouting, even people having fun. Above all the noise a woman's bright laugh sounded carefree, and stranger than anything I'd heard in a long time.

Ahti and Elina Kallio were friends of ours—it was Johanna and Elina's friendship that first brought us together. And no, Elina hadn't heard from Johanna.

I stood in the foyer of their apartment, took off my rain-soaked jacket and shoes, and listened to Elina and Ahti ask questions in turn:

“Where do you think she might be?”

“She hasn't called you at all?”

“And no one knows where she is?”

Finally Ahti asked a question that I knew how to answer.

“Yes, I'd like some coffee. Thanks.”

Ahti disappeared into the kitchen, and Elina and I went into the living room, where two floor lamps in opposite corners and one calmly fluttering candle on the dark wood table in the middle of the room gave the place a softer light than was perhaps desirable. Somehow I felt that at that moment I needed a different atmosphere, more light, something decisively brighter.

I sat on the sofa. Elina was in the armchair across from me. She pulled a light brown wool shawl onto her lap, not spreading it out but not leaving it folded, either. It sat in her lap like a living, waiting creature. I told her the basic outline of what I knew: Johanna hadn't been heard from in twenty-four hours, and the photographer couldn't be reached, either. I also told her what Johanna had been writing about.

“Johanna would have called,” Elina said when I'd finished. She spoke so quietly that I had to repeat the sentence in my mind.

I nodded and looked up at Ahti, who had just come into the room. He was a short, wiry man, a lawyer by trade, meticulous to the point of being comical, but just as likely to surprise you in some situations. A thought occurred to me, and as it did I saw a trace of uncertainty in Ahti's blue, penetrating eyes that disappeared as quickly as it had come.

He looked quickly at me, then gave Elina a longer, more meaningful look. They held each other's gaze for an unusually long time and then, almost in unison, turned their gazes back to me. Elina's brown eyes welled with tears. I'd never seen her cry before, but it didn't surprise me for some reason. Maybe the exaggerated homeyness of the room was a sign that surprises were in the offing.

“We should have told you about this before,” Ahti said. He stood with his hands in his pockets behind Elina's chair. Tears glistened on her face.

“What?” I asked.

Elina quickly wiped her eyes as if the tears were in her way.

“We're leaving,” she said. “We're going north.”

“We have a year's lease on an apartment in a little town up there,” Ahti said.

“A year?” I said. “What about when the year's over?”

Elina's eyes filled with tears again. Ahti stroked her hair, she lifted her hand and held his. The eyes of both wandered the room, unable to latch onto anything. A more paranoid person might have thought that they were being evasive about something, but what could they have to be evasive about?

“We don't know,” Ahti said. “But it can't be any worse than living here. I lost my job for good six months ago. Elina hasn't had regular teaching work for a couple of years now.”

“You haven't said anything about it,” I remarked quietly.

“We didn't want to because we thought things would get better.”

We sat for a moment in silence. The smell of fresh coffee floated into the room. I wasn't the only one who noticed it.

“I'll go see if the coffee's done brewing,” Ahti said with audible relief.

Elina wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. The loose sleeve wrapped around her wrist and she had to straighten it with her other hand.

“We really believed we would think of something,” she said, again so quietly that I had to lean forward to make out the words that fell from her lips, “that there was some solution, that this had all been some kind of horrible, sudden crisis that would work itself out and life would go on like before.”

I didn't know if she was talking about their situation or the whole world's, but it probably didn't make any difference.

Ahti came back with the coffeepot. His movements were as smooth and precise as always as he poured the coffee into cups painted with flowers like mementos of a time forever lost. Which, of course, they were.

“Have you sold this place?” I asked, waving a hand and looking around to indicate the apartment. Ahti shook his head.

“No,” he said quietly.

“Tell him the truth, Ahti,” Elina said, wiping away the two or three more tears trickling down her cheeks with her sweatshirt sleeve.

Ahti sat at the other end of the sofa and pulled his cup closer, obviously going over the matter in his mind before speaking.

“Who would buy this place?” he said, sitting up straighter. “There are holes in the roof, there's water in the basement, mold everywhere, rats and cockroaches. The electricity goes out all the time, and so does the water. The city's about to collapse. No one has any money, and the ones who do sure don't want to move in here. There are no more investors, and even if there were, why pay rent when you can live someplace for free? And who really believes things are going to get better?”

Elina stared straight ahead, not crying anymore.

“We believed,” she said quietly, looking at Ahti.

“We believed for a really long time,” he agreed.

I couldn't think of anything to say. I drank my coffee, watching the steam rise from it, warming my hands on the cup.

“Johanna's certain to turn up,” Elina said suddenly, waking me from my thoughts.

I looked up at Elina, then at Ahti. He was nodding to her, as if to confirm what she'd said, and stopped suddenly when he noticed me staring at him. I didn't let that, or the trace of uncertainty I saw again in his eyes, trip me up. I knew that if I didn't ask, I might regret it.

“Ahti, I could help you out with a little money and buy something from you at the same time.”

He hesitated a second. He was obviously searching for words.

“I don't know what we could have that you—”

“You like to go shooting sometimes,” I said.

He looked almost surprised. He glanced at Elina, who didn't say anything, but nodded. Ahti leaned forward.

“Why not?” he said, getting up. “I don't need both of the shotguns, and I only need one pistol. And I doubt there's anyone who'd turn me in if I sold you a gun.”

I followed him into the bedroom. Large, nearly full duffel bags stood in front of the open, ransacked closets. There were clothes on the bed, headboard, and two chairs, and piled on the floor in front of the bags. Ahti went around the bed, stopped in front of a freestanding dark wood cabinet, and opened the door with a key. In the cabinet were two shotguns, a small rifle, and three pistols.

“Take your pick,” he said, pointing at one pistol and then the other. There was a touch of the salesman in the gesture, which seemed unnecessary under the circumstances. “A ninemillimeter Heckler and Koch USP or a Glock seventeen, also nine millimeters.”

Then he pointed at a steel revolver above them, and he didn't look the slightest bit like a salesman. He looked like a man who had made a decision.

“The Smith and Wesson is for me.”

I took down the nearest pistol, the Heckler and Koch.

“That's a nice piece. Made in Germany, back when they still made things in Germany.”

The gun was surprisingly light.

“Six hundred sixty-seven grams,” Ahti said, before I could ask. “Holds eighteen shots in the clip.”

He took out a box from the lower shelf. It clinked as he picked it up.

“You can have these, too, of course. Fifty rounds.”

I looked at the box and at the gun in my hand. They both seemed completely out of place in this ordinary bedroom. I had to act fast, before I changed my mind.

“Do you have a backpack?” I asked.

He found a small black backpack in one of the jumbled closets. Its ordinariness, its plain old gymbagness, contrasted shockingly with its intended contents.

“No extra charge. Least I can do.”

I gave him the money. He put it in his pocket without counting it and without looking at me. I looked again at the pistol in my right hand and the box of cartridges in my left. Ahti saw my befuddlement.

“I'll show you,” he laughed, and took the gun from me.

With quick, practiced movements he dropped open the clip, filled it from the box, and pushed it back into place. He seemed to be in his element.

“Ready,” he said. “This is the safety and this is the trigger. Don't aim it at anyone you don't intend to shoot. Or maybe that doesn't matter anymore.”

He tried to smile, but there was no energy in it. His smile congealed on his lips and gave his face a helpless look. He realized it himself.

“The coffee's getting cold,” he said quickly. “Let's go drink it.”

I thought about how suddenly things had changed. How long ago was it that we had spent dinners together, drank wine, planned our futures? We were going to take trips, I was going to write books, Johanna would write better articles than ever, and Ahti was going to start his own law office and—of course, naturally—a family, with Elina.

The change had crept into our lives gradually, but now it was all coming to an end suddenly, in one great crash.

Elina sat in her chair, not touching her coffee. I sank into the sofa and tried to think of something appropriate to say. It wasn't easy because I had only one thing to talk about. Ahti must have sensed it: “I hope you find Johanna,” he said.

I realized that that was my only hope in the world. I understood it with a clarity that penetrated me like warmth or cold and made me remember everything good that I might lose. A lump rose in my throat. I had to get out of there.

“I hope you like it up north,” I said. “I hope everything works out for you up there. I'm sure it will. A year's a long time. You'll find some work, earn some money. It'll be fine.”

There was something missing from my words. But words weren't the biggest thing missing. It felt like we all heard it and—above all—felt it. And I didn't really know how long I could continue speaking, so I got up from the sofa without looking at either of them.

“Elina, Johanna will call you as soon as she can.”

I went into the foyer. Ahti followed me and stood in the darkest corner of the room. I heard Elina's steps on the wood floor and then she was standing in front of me, tears in her eyes again. She came to me and gave me a hug.

“Tell Johanna everything will be OK,” she said, her arms still around me. “And tell her that we never meant any harm.”

I wasn't sure what she meant by that, but I didn't want to linger so I didn't ask for an explanation.

 

6

The rain had gained in strength. It came down from the sky in broad swaths of fat, heavy drops that fell to the asphalt and splattered as if in a tantrum, turning the surrounding city shiny, black, and wet. There was something sour in the smell of it, almost rancid. I stood for a moment in the arch of the entryway trying to decide what my next step should be, thinking about where I was and where I was going. It was nine-thirty. I'd lost my wife and drunk who knows how many cups of black coffee. There was no way I was going to be able to get to sleep.

I could hear a fight coming from where the laughter had been before, the sound of shattered glass followed a moment later by the laughing woman's shrieking, cursing protests. I pulled the hood of my parka up, tightened the straps of the backpack, and set out.

I kept my eyes focused straight ahead. The rain stung cold on my skin. I turned into Fredrikinkatu and had taken a few steps when I heard a car horn toot once, then twice. The sound was coming from across the street. I pulled my hood aside enough to see who was honking: the same young North African man who had driven me here from Herttoniemi.

The taxi was sitting in the center of the dark block with the motor on, and it looked significantly drier and warmer inside than it was on the sidewalk. In a few seconds I was sitting firmly in the backseat and asking him to take me south this time.

He had a name and a history: Hamid. Been in Finland for six months. Why had he waited for me? Because I was a paying customer. I couldn't blame him. Not many people want to work for free.

Hamid liked Finland. Here, at least, there was some possibility of making good—he might even be able to start a family here.

I listened to his fast-flowing, broken English and watched him in profile. A narrow, light-brown face, alert, nut-brown eyes in the rearview mirror; quick hands on the steering wheel. Then I looked at the city flashing by, the flooded streets glistening, puddles the size of ponds, shattered windows, doors pried from their hinges, cars burned black, and people wandering in the rain. Where I saw doom, Hamid saw hope.

We came to the end of Lönnrotinkatu, crossed the shore road, and headed for Jätkäsaari.

Hamid drove slowly now. He had stopped talking and turned the stereo up. The music thudding and twitching from the speakers was some sort of combination of hip-hop and North African music. A man's voice, speaking a thousand words a minute in an unknown language, moved rhythmically over it.