âWhat is it you want?'
âTo come with you.'
âCome with me where? I no longer have anywhere to go.'
âYou told me you'd take me fishing on the lake, you said you'd teach me how to hunt coot in the marshes with my new bow,' the child protested mournfully.
âTomorrow,' murmured Ivan, somewhat shamefaced. âIt's too late for that now.'
Ivan released the reindeer from the sledge and cracked the whip, urging them to move off. But they hadn't got anywhere to go to, any more than he had. They stayed in a huddle, a few steps away, tossing their heads. A lorry and trailer drew up on the quay and hooted loudly, frightening them off. Reversing on to the pontoon that led to the hold, it crushed Ivan's sledge beneath its spiked wheels and pushed it off the quay. The sledge floated briefly in the deep water before sinking into the foam whipped up by the ship's propellers. Ivan had crouched down by the wall of the harbour station. Through the bars of the gate he could see the sailors in the sentry box, the lighted pit of the hold where workers wearing big yellow gloves were pulling on ropes and chains. He looked at the guards in their red jackets, standing at the end of the gangway, and realised that he had no choice: he would have to give himself up. They might beat him, they might lock him up; they might bundle him on to a lorry and take him back to the mine, set him to breaking stones again. He should have died there twenty years ago, together with his father. It was wrong to try to avoid one's fate. Ivan felt in his pocket for his passport and set off for the gangway, utterly defeated.
The two Silja Line stewards conferred at length before allowing this strange passenger on board. He had a one-way ticket for Stockholm on the
Meloodia
, which had left some time ago, at 18.15. At that time of night the
Amorella
, en route from Tallinn to Stockholm, would not be picking up passengers, but only the odd lorry, and additional supplies of beer and fuel. But cabin 127 was empty, and in view of the fact that the stranger had a first-class ticket with meals, drinks and sauna thrown in, an exception could surely be made. In any case, neither steward felt like embarking on a lengthy argument with a Russian dressed in stinking skins. He had a ticket, he had a passport, and that was all that was required. They slipped a loop of coloured paper round his neck, gave him a leaflet about the duty-free goods obtainable on board and ushered him on to the upper deck, which was quiet and dimly lit. One of the stewards stopped to talk on the telephone, and Ivan took the opportunity to rub his numb hands and arms. Then a sleepy-looking stewardess appeared, to lead him along carpeted corridors, through saloons decorated with tropical plants and, finally, to his cabin. She turned on the light and then went out, shutting the door behind her. The Vostyach sat down on the edge of the bunk and waited for someone to come and question him, imagining the beating that would inevitably come his way: cracked ribs, no doubt, and blood-caked lips. The important thing was not to put up any resistance. The secret was to keep your head down and never look them in the eye.
Margareeta turned the key in the dashboard and blew on her hands, waiting for the engine to warm up. She felt for the bottle of vodka she had stuffed under the cushion of the seat beside her. Now safely in the car, she looked nervously up and down the street. Hurmo, sitting in the back, was also on tenterhooks, scrabbling around and whimpering. This wasn't a good time for a single woman to be wandering around alone near the station, let alone venturing out on to the frozen sea, but if Hyttynen wasn't going to help her, she would have to go back to Vasikkasaari on her own and have another look around the cottage. She was convinced that the key to the mystery lay somewhere on the island. The car made a creaking sound as it eased itself out of the ice in which it had been stuck, but the spiked wheels sank deeply into the snow. Margareeta drove carefully down to the goods yard. She had decided to make a thorough job of it. After all, she knew the state of the road, she'd been along it with Hyttynen just a few hours ago. But when she'd been through Tahvonlahti and found herself beside the sea, on the quay at Koirasaari, Margareeta took fright. She shone her headlights over the dark expanse that opened up before her, then took two gulps of vodka. But no, she simply didn't have the courage to drive out over that icy crust. She switched off the engine, leant her head wearily on the steering wheel and listened to Hurmo's laboured breathing. Then she got out of the car and walked to the end of the quay. Without really knowing what she was doing, she went down the steps and on to the beach. After a moment or two, Hurmo came bounding after her; he too was uneasy, and felt the need to keep within range of his mistress's reassuring scent. Margareeta looked towards Vasikkasaari, imagining her arrival in front of a darkened Villa Suvetar, and the strange animals that had been stalking around it. She ventured a few steps out on to the frozen sea, nervously feeling out the darker patches with her foot, exploring the projecting ridges hidden in the veins of shadow. Then, as though drawn by some irresistible attraction, she set out over the frozen waves towards the open sea, stopping every now and again to look behind her; then she would take a sip of vodka and carry on. Hurmo followed her, panting and sniffing out strange scents which distracted him from the smell of his mistress, causing him to make any number of pointless diversions over the ice. Margareeta wasn't sure if she was drunk or not. Her whole body felt strangely light. She didn't know whether she would ever get as far as Vasikkasaari, nor what she would find there if she did. Possibly nothing. But she felt that something was definitely coming to an end that night; even the stars in the sky were no longer quite the same. Some that she had never seen before were rising to the east, bringing a new wind with them, a new age in which life could begin afresh. The long illness that had been her marriage was being purged by the fever of the strange hours she was living through, which would leave her drained, but cured at last. But she would have to pass every station of that mysterious Calvary in order to ensure that the bitter memory of fifteen wasted years was well and truly wiped away. She might die in the attempt, she might fall through some crack in the ice or be torn limb from limb by the wild beasts she'd seen wandering the streets of Helsinki. It no longer mattered. She had to put herself through this ordeal in order to be cleansed.
Margareeta walked on, drunk and happy, raising her face to the cold wind now coming from the east. She felt she was being pursued by her wretched memories, by all those days she had wasted with that egotistical Jarmo, but that they would relinquish her somewhere out in the open sea, becoming transformed into so many monstrous icy hulks, never able to catch up with her again. She turned to look at Hurmo as he trudged behind her, and suddenly felt that he himself was the past from which she had to free herself. The fifteen years of her rotten marriage were all there, beneath his dirty coat and in his yellow eyes. She felt, even more strongly, that the new day must not dawn before she had rid herself of that loathsome creature. She walked on faster, clenching her fists in her pockets, seized with a sudden desire to sing. Then, equally suddenly, there in the open sea she found herself before a strange catafalque: taller than herself, it was made of birch branches and decorated with foliage and scraps of skin. When she saw what was on it she took a hasty step backwards, trembling with fear; then she ran off, unable even to utter a cry.
The chief of police himself had come to view the bodies of the two women found on the catafalque just off the island of Tahvonlahti. Seated in the back of the police van, Hyttynen was yawning as he sipped at the cup of coffee handed him by a colleague. His eyelids were swollen with tiredness and his windcheater was stained with blood. Recapturing all the animals which had escaped from the zoo had taken several hours. By the time the last Siberian tiger had been brought down by means of a dart containing a sleeping draught, the first trams were already running. People stared out of the windows in amazement at the sight of policemen going about the streets like hunters in the savanna, carrying mangled antelopes strung from a pole. Now dozens of police cars were flashing along the quays at Tahvonlahti, then setting off again for the city, sirens blaring. Margareeta, together with a nurse from the first-aid station, was waiting near the catafalque. She was still crying, and clearly very shaken, and the policeman who was questioning her was repeating his questions patiently, taking notes as he did so. Seated at her feet, whimpering anxiously from time to time, Hurmo appeared to be frowning, as though he too were trying to remember exactly what had happened. Dawn was now coming up, and the eastern sky was throbbing with pink light. The stars were drowning in the pale glow of morning, and long delicate lines of shadow were appearing on the snow. It was going to be a clear day. In the distance, Helsinki was coming back to life. Thick clouds of white smoke were rising from the buildings, one by one the blue streets were emerging from the dazzle of the lamplight; but banks of shadow still lingered above the sea, coming together towards the horizon to form one single leaden mass. In the harsh light of the floodlights, the faces of the corpses looked hacked clean of flesh, as gaunt as skulls; the women had feathers in their hair, and coloured stones had been laid on their chests. A policeman removed a bit of ice from one of Olga's eyes, covered up Katia's naked thighs and nodded towards the waiting ambulance. Two nurses came forward with stretchers. They spread red and yellow ribbons around the catafalque, then set up pickets with numbered pennants on the ice. One policeman was busy taking measurements, while others swept away the snow. Comment was offered in hushed tones. Flashbulbs went off, a radio croaked from a distant car. Engines were started, and the chief of police went back to the dark car from which he had emerged, chilled to the bone. Nobody paid any attention to Hurmo, who had approached the bodies and was now sniffing at them cautiously. Then he let out a sudden bark and started scratching away at Olga's body, seeming to rummage through her clothing. The chief of police was called back, and the floodlights were again trained on to the bodies. Hurmo was jumping around, barking playfully: now he was straddling the body, now throwing himself against it, tail wagging furiously, shaking his head from side to side as he tugged doggedly at a scrap of fabric protruding from her jacket. A policeman came forward and freed a pair of blue silk men's pyjamas from the ice. Through her tears, Margareeta recognised the monogram J. A. embroidered on the pocket. This was the last birthday gift she'd given him: a special offer from the great firm of Marimekko.
Ivan woke up in a sweat. He sat up in his bunk not knowing where he was, and gazed around him in bewilderment at the dimly-lit cabin. He was hungry and thirsty. He felt around on the shelves, in the drawers of the bedside locker, among the covers. He pulled on a handle and found himself faced by a row of bottles; there were also bars of chocolate and packets of crisps and nuts. He ate everything in sight, sampled each of the bottles and polished off the one with the blue label with the figure of a stag. He liked the sweet, fresh flavour: it reminded him of berries. His head was spinning, and his limbs, tense for so long with weariness and fear, were now at last relaxing. He undid his leather jacket and took it off. Now he was stripped to the waist, but the little low room was horribly stuffy, and he needed air. He picked up his sack, slung his drum round his neck and went out into the corridor. He came to a gangway with a glassed-in parapet, overlooking a thronged saloon. Dazzlingly elaborate chandeliers cast light on men with polished shoes, sinking their moustaches into tankards of beer and clutching half-naked women clasping glasses of brightly coloured liquid. A sweet scent hovered over everything, not unlike the one that pervaded the refectory in the mine on feast days, when lorry-loads of soldiers would come over from the barracks, singing and waving red flags. Beyond the glass door there was a wider corridor, walled with glass and mirrors. This led into another saloon, where the light came from panels set into the floor, causing Ivan to proceed with caution. The sight of a group of guards, in red jackets and white gloves, caused him to panic, but they simply smiled at him and moved off in the wake of the noisy throng. A staircase with small lamps on the handrail led up to a round dance-floor, roofed by a black dome studded with little lights, like a night sky but with a tangle of wires and steel pipes hanging down from it. Beyond the dance-floor was a raised platform on which Ivan could make out two drums similar to his own, as well as a much larger one, standing on a tripod, its skin kept taut by four iron pegs. People were swarming into the saloon and sitting down on the soft carpet which covered the staircase steps. Ivan did the same, partly because his head was swimming and his vision was becoming blurred. The lights went out, and a spotlight picked out four figures seated on the stage, dressed in multicoloured fabrics and strange pointed hats. Enthralled, Ivan gazed at the cymbals flashing in the darkness, listened to the electric guitars spitting out volleys of metallic sound worthy of submachine-guns. He listened enchanted as the saxophone let out its solitary wail, sending out flashes which lit up the faces of the audience. But when the awesome wave of sound of the big drum set the air throbbing, and the sound of deep singing rose up from the stage, Ivan leapt to his feet. That was his music! That was the rhythm the hunters of Tajmyr beat out on their drums to lure the bears out of their dens! Without thinking, without realising he was doing so, the Vostyach began to dance, stamping his right foot twice, his left three times, then both feet together, arms raised. He let go of his sack and raised his drum to his chest; then he too started playing the song of the maddened bear. The spotlight swerved away from the stage and settled on to him. The musicians abandoned their scores and matched their rhythm to his own demonic beat, while the audience clapped enthusiastically, thinking that the dishevelled individual in the tattered skins was a member of the Estonian folk group âNeli Sardelli' performing for them there that evening.