Raid and the Blackest Sheep (12 page)

life while you still can. That way you won’t have regrets.”

    
Nygren peeked inside the stove and added some wood.

    
“Strange. When I was your age, I couldn’t bear to listen to people’s moralizing or the rousing sermons of a bunch of reformed criminals. Now that I think of it, maybe they weren’t so fake after all.”

    
Nygren uncapped two bottles of beer and offered one to Raid.

    
“Maybe most of ’em actually wanted to turn us poor reprobates toward the strait gate and the narrow way.”

    
Nygren straightened up.

    
“Let’s go get something to eat and let the sauna warm up. It’s on the house.”

    
Nygren warmed the cabbage rolls in a frying pan and served them up with rye bread and beers. They ate, and by the time they were ready for the sauna, it was nearly dark outside. The electric bulb in the sauna was burnt out, but there was a lantern and some thick candles in the dressing room. Raid brought a candle to the sauna.

    
Nygren ran a rough sauna. He tossed water on the rocks like a lunatic. Raid wasn’t so enthusiastic, but he stayed on the top bench.

    
“Your father was relentless with the steam,” said Nygren. “I’m pretty tough too, but he was more so in that respect. As long as someone else was up there, his
sisu
never let him down… Too bad he was just as stubborn in so many other areas where he should’ve known enough to give in. He was probably a little too heavy handed with you kids.”

    
“Yeah.”

    
“Your mother was a true gem…in many ways too good for this world, or so it occurred to me on many occasions. There’s a lot of your mother in you, at least on the outside. Especially the eyes…”

    
When they returned to the house it was completely dark out. The light from Raid’s lantern lit the path. Nygren tripped over his own feet and fell into some berry bushes. Only after much flailing did he manage to regain his footing.

    
“Fucking feet are mismatched.”

    
The Cognac was gone and Nygren retrieved another bottle from the car—whiskey this time. He poured half a glass, swirled in some fresh well water and took a seat at the kitchen table. The window looked out onto the road. The nearest neighbor was a couple of hundred yards off. Raid was able to make out the blue glow of a distant television screen from behind the glass.

    
Nygren slid on his sunglasses and studied the yellow hue of the whiskey against the ceiling light in the kitchen.

    
“You know why I drink?”

    
“No.”

    
“Because I’m afraid. Guess what I’m afraid of.”

    
“I’m afraid to guess.”

    
Nygren lowered his voice.

    
“I’m afraid that someday I’ll end up face to face with the people I’ve wronged. You understand?”

    
Raid shrugged.

    
“But it’s inevitable. I couldn’t die in peace without a reckoning… You’ll have your own, sooner or later.”

    
“Right.”

    
“You don’t seem to like this subject.”

    
“It’s not relevant.”

    
“The sooner you face up to it, the easier for you.”

    
Nygren was so drunk that his head was bobbing.

    
“I’m gonna make my rounds.”

    
Raid took the shotgun and left.

    
“You’re running from yourself!” Nygren bellowed after him. “You hear me? You’re running from yourself!”

    
Only the light from the kitchen window illuminated the yard. Raid circled the house and stopped every so often to listen.

    
The branches on the apple tree drummed softly on the metal roof of the house. Raid went to the orchard and lay down on his back in the grass. The tall, dry reeds rustled in the wind on every side. The stars peeked out from behind fast-moving clouds and a half moon hung over the lake, occasionally waning as the clouds scudded past.

    
A sudden gust of wind shook the apple tree and bent the grass almost to the ground. The bowing blades flicked against Raid’s face.

    
Raid could feel the coolness of the earth through his thin clothing, but he didn’t want to get up yet.

    
He loved wind and storms. When he was a child and a tempest was brewing, he had wrapped himself in a blanket and gone out on the porch. The stronger the storm, the more he enjoyed it. Thunder and lightning only heightened the thrill.

    
Once, when the forecast had predicted thunderstorms from the south, he had made a pair of wings out of fertilizer sacks and some old lath. He had climbed to the top of a grassy hill that sloped steeply toward a lake and waited there with the wings on his back. When the storm broke, he ran down the hill, leaping as high as he could until the wind filled his wings, threw him to the ground and tore the fabric off the lath.

    
Another time he had built a tree house high in a dense birch, and when autumn storms arrived, he had crept secretly into the fort to sway in the branches with the wind howling all around.

    
The moisture in the earth had seeped through his clothes and Raid got up reluctantly.

    
A moped whined into the neighbor’s yard. Its headlight stretched across the field almost to the lake. The driver killed the engine and went inside.

    
It was quiet again.

    
Raid went back into the house. The whiskey bottle was on the kitchen table and Nygren lay face down on the living room sofa, breathing heavily. Exhaustion had evidently caught him by surprise.

    
Raid pulled off Nygren’s Mexican boots, lifted his dangling legs back onto the sofa, then tossed a blanket over him.

    
Afterwards, he locked the door and stacked two pots and a frying pan in front of it.

    
He took another blanket from the closet, went into the bedroom and turned off the lights. He took off his shoes, but didn’t bother with his clothes. Then he watched out the window for a while. The sky was clear, the lake glinting in the moonlight.

    
Raid lowered himself onto the cot and pulled the covers up to his shoulders.

    
The television antenna on the roof plinked in the wind like a loose-strung harp. The steel roof rattled.

    
Raid listened for a moment to the sounds of the night before falling asleep.

8.

On Friday, Jansson resolved to put down his own rebellion. If he wasn’t going to participate in the rehabilitation, he may as well just leave. But after Anna’s visit, he didn’t want to anymore.

    
Jansson resolved to keep his foot on the brake, but still wanted to see what might come of things.

    
He had been married for thirty years and had never once strayed. On a few occasions, however, he had come close. Most recently
a
few
years prior,
when Huusko had coaxed a couple of dozen nursing students into attending the homicide unit’s Christmas party. One of the ladies would have readily ravished Jansson if he hadn’t fled the scene.

    
As far as Jansson was concerned, his wife had performed her role so well that he had no reason to complain or prowl.

    
Up until a few years ago, his wife had been the only woman that he had had sexual dreams about.

    
Jansson had even bragged to his wife that he was unquestionably the only man in town who had only had sexual dreams about his own wife.

    
But last night, Jansson had had a sexual dream about Anna. In the dream, Jansson had shed thirty pounds, and his hair was as thick as it was twenty years earlier.

    
He was on a boat, which he had sold years ago after growing tired of its upkeep. On the boat, he had prepared a glorious dinner, complete with champagne and candles. Anna had stepped in naked. She poured champagne over her head and Jansson had licked it off of her soft skin. The parts he remembered were so prudish that he figured he’d forgotten the more sordid details. They must have been hot, though, as Jansson was full of erotic charge and tender longing when he awoke.

    
It took a long time before he let go of the dream’s satisfying aftermath and fell back asleep.

    
Before breakfast, Jansson forced himself to consider the situation in the cold light of reason. He knew he was in danger of falling in love. He reminded himself of the unpleasantries that would spawn if he failed to restrain his emotions. In addition to these sensible arguments he cooled himself off by making light of the situation.

    
In his dream he might be slim, but in reality he was not. In his dream he might be young and virile, but the reality was otherwise. He stood in front of the mirror and forced himself to admit that he couldn’t possibly interest a woman of Anna’s caliber. With her assets, it would be a simple matter for her to snare one of the local bigwigs.

    
Jansson swore to himself that, even if for some strange reason Anna had a lust for aging, overweight, balding men with a dry sense of humor, he would not yield to her enticements.

    
He tracked down his room key and left for breakfast. As he stepped into the hallway, the door to Huusko’s room opened and the woman he had been with the previous evening came out putting on an earring. She was wearing the same skirt and scoop-neck blouse as she had the previous evening, and evidently felt guilty, as she startled upon seeing Jansson and hurried downstairs.

    
Huusko heard Jansson’s door shut and peeked into the hallway.

    
“Boycott’s over, huh? Grab a window seat, I’ll be right there.”

    
Jansson had wanted to dine in peace and ruminate on his own issues. He knew from experience that Huusko wouldn’t give him the opportunity.

    
Jansson had been advised to eat a light breakfast, but he still hadn’t entirely given up on his rebellion. He served himself plenty of ham, cheese and two boiled eggs.

    
Huusko came to the table and glanced at Jansson’s portions.

    
“Better eat that cholesterol bomb before the guards see you and confiscate it.”

    
Huusko dished himself the same as Jansson and carried it back to the table. He attacked his plate hungrily. Chomping on half an egg, he noted, “I don’t have a cholesterol problem. My blood is like a vegan’s.”

    
Huusko’s bed partner came in, glanced his way, then turned and started to load her tray with food. She had changed into a track suit.

    
“Whereabouts is she from?” asked Jansson.

    
“Lappeenranta.”

    
“And what does she do?”

    
Huusko bit into an open-faced toasted ham sandwich.

    
“She’s a respectable woman… No need to interrogate her… Works at the Lappeenranta District Customs office.”

    
“You given up on Anna?”

    
“I’ve still got a week here. A lot can happen in a week.”

    
Huusko’s girl went to a table where three other women were already sitting. The others glanced in Huusko’s direction and said something to her. She answered and all four began to laugh.

    
“Your wife coming on Saturday?”

    
“She promised to think about it.”

    
“If she doesn’t, let’s go to town.”

    
“Too old for that.”

    
Huusko glanced back at the group of women, who were still tittering in the corner.

    
“Women are strange. One night together and they want to wash your clothes and knit you a sweater.”

* * *

Jansson had been directed to spend an hour in the gym after breakfast. He shifted from one machine to the next with the trainer at his side.

    
“Keep it smooth, no jerky movements,” the trainer instructed. “Back pain is almost always due to poor muscle tone in your stomach and back. Strong muscles support your spine and keep strains from happening.”

    
Jansson lay on the bench, struggled through five sit-ups and flopped back down, wheezing heavily.