The Year of the Hare - Arto Paasilinna [4]
But there was still no sign of the journalist.
Late into the night, he was still sitting in the hotel bar. He contemplated the black surface of the bar counter in a mood of angry regret. As the evening went by he had been mulling over what had happened. It had dawned on him that abandoning his companion in the forest, in an almost deserted neighborhood, had been a mistake. Suppose the journalist had broken his leg in the forest? Could he have gotten lost? Or stuck in a bog? Otherwise, surely, he’d have found his way back to Heinola by now, even on foot?
The photographer thought he’d better call the journalist’s wife in Helsinki.
She muttered sleepily that there’d been no sign of Vatanen and, when she realized the caller was drunk, banged the receiver down. The photographer tried the same number again, but there was no reply. Clearly, Vatanen’s wife had unplugged the telephone.
In the early hours, the photographer called for a taxi. He’d decided to go back to the site and see if Vatanen was still there. The taxi driver asked his drunken passenger where he wanted to go.
“Just drive along this road, nowhere in particular. I’ll tell you where to stop.”
The driver glanced back. They were heading out of town through the night forest and not going anywhere in particular, apparently. Furtively, the driver transferred a pistol from the glove compartment to the seat, between his legs. Uneasily, he studied his passenger.
At the top of a rise, the passenger said: “Stop here.”
The driver eased the pistol into his hand. The drunk, however, got out of the car peacefully and began shouting at the forest: “Vatanen! Vatanen!”
The night forest didn’t return even an echo.
“Vatanen! Hey, Vatanen! Are you there?”
He took off his shoes, rolled his trousers up to his knees, and set off into the forest, barefoot. Soon he’d vanished in the darkness. He could be heard yelling for Vatanen among the trees.
You get them all! the driver thought.
After about half an hour in the dark forest, the passenger returned to the road and asked for a rag. He wiped his muddy shanks and put his shoes on his bare feet; the socks seemed to be in his jacket pocket. They drove back to Heinola.
“You’ve lost this guy Vatanen, have you?”
“Right. Left him there on the hill this evening. No sign of him there now.”
“Didn’t see anything myself, either,” the driver said sympathetically.
The next morning, the photographer woke up in the hotel at about eleven. A nasty hangover was splitting his head, and he felt sick. He remembered Vatanen’s disappearance. Must get in touch with Vatanen’s wife at her job, he thought.
“He went off after a hare,” he told her. “On this hill. Then never came back. Of course I kept shouting, but not a squeak from him. So I left him there. Probably he wanted to stay there.”
To this, the wife said: “Was he drunk?”
“No.”
“So where is he, then? The man can’t just disappear like that.”
“He did just disappear like that. Hasn’t turned up there yet, I suppose?”
“No, definitely not. God, that man’ll drive me crazy. Let him figure this out on his own. The thing is, he’s got to get back home right away. Tell him that.”
“How can I tell him anything? I don’t even know where he is.”
“Well, ferret him out. Get him to call me at work, right away. And tell him this is the last time he takes off this way. Listen, I’ve got a customer, I have to go. Tell him to call me. Bye.”
The photographer called in to the magazine.
“Yes ... and one other thing: Vatanen’s disappeared.”
“Oh. Where’s he off to this time?” the editor asked.
The photographer told him the story.
“He’ll turn up in his own good time, won’t he? Anyway, this story of yours isn’t so drastic we can’t shelve it a day or two. We’ll run it when he gets back.”
“But what if he’s had an accident?”
The editor calmed him down: “Just get back here yourself. What d’you suppose could have happened to him? And, anyway, it’s his business.”
“Should I tell the