The Year of the Hare - Arto Paasilinna [20]
Suddenly he saw something by the thick grass on the riverbank: a man’s hand, hairy and sunburned. It stretched out of the grass and rested in the water up to the elbow.
Vatanen was shocked: it looked as if the hand belonged to a corpse. He swam up to it and took hold of it. It was not unattached: it belonged to a large man lying back in the riverbank bushes with his mouth open. Vatanen got out of the water and bent down over the prone figure. He felt the pulse; it was beating normally. He put his face close to the man’s mouth to see if he was breathing, and a foul reek of alcohol met him. Vatanen shook the man, who slowly began to come to. He turned onto his back and stared at Vatanen a moment, as if trying to recognize him; then he offered his hand.
“Salosensaari. Who are you?”
“Vatanen.”
After they’d shaken hands, Vatanen helped the other man to his feet.
“Listen—you’re looking at the man who’s been dealt the world’s worst hand.”
He went on to explain. For his vacation, he’d decided to spend a couple of weeks fishing and also brewing a little moonshine in a quiet spot where he could be absolutely sure not to be disturbed. So he’d slipped off into the wild with all his tackle and set up his modest still. Then, just as the first ten liters are cooked, what happens? A forest fire that incinerates his still. So he has to flee on foot with the fire after him and a ten-liter vat of hooch on his back. And now here he is: his knapsack and victuals are up in flames, everything’s kaput, fishing tackle, the works. All that’s left is this first batch of the stuff.
“So here I am, parked by the river. Second day of drinking, this is. Still quite a few liters left, but talk about rotten luck!”
Vatanen got a little campfire going on the riverbank and cooked some fish. Meanwhile, Salosensaari went for a dip, and then they both settled in. After the meal Salosensaari offered some of his moonshine.
And why not? Vatanen accepted and drank some. Blessed stuff! It warmed the stomach. Vatanen took another nip.
“I’ll tell you what, Salosensaari, you’re a dab hand at making hooch.”
All afternoon the two went on boozing. From time to time they cooked fish or went for a swim. The more they drank, the less interest they took in the whole forest-fire situation.
As evening approached, they were both so drunk it was with the greatest effort that they crawled out of the brook, which they were flopping into every now and then to refresh themselves. The brook was deep enough in places to reach their necks.
“Must watch out. Don’t want to drown by accident,” Salosensaari kept repeating.
During the night, the fire reached the brook.
It was a fairyland. Blazing trees illuminated the night on both sides of the brook—huge red fluttering flowers. The heat was so scorching that while the fire lasted they had to stand in the brook: only their heads baked in the blazing glow. They had the vat of moonshine with them and drank from it liberally, watching with keen interest the destructive show of this wild, natural superstar. The forest crashed, the fire thundered in the trees, hissing embers flew into the brook, the men’s faces shone red upon the water, they laughed and tippled.
In the early hours, the fire passed by; the men emerged from the brook exhausted and fell off to instant sleep on the charred riverbank.
They didn’t wake till noon. Then they went their separate ways, after shaking hands in farewell. Salonsensaari took the shortest route to Rautavaara, and Vatanen headed for the point by the lake where the evacuees were to congregate. The ashy road melted the rubber designs on the bottoms of Vatanen’s boots.
The fire had been brought to a halt a few miles away. Vatanen crossed the firebreak and entered green forest. Soon he was at the lake, where both people and animals were congregating. As for the people, probably their houses had been burned down. The children were rollicking on the lakeshore; the cattle were bellowing with fright in a meadow; the firefighters lay on the lakeshore like sooty