The Year of the Hare - Arto Paasilinna [52]
Vatanen began to recall the name Leila. ... Of course, this woman was Leila. But what Leila? That he didn’t dare ask just then, but said: “Well, it is coming back, don’t be angry. But I’ve got this awful hangover, it seems to be affecting my memory. I must have been drinking for days. I don’t usually, you know.”
“Alcohol poisoning. Now you’ve got to put the cork in.”
Vatanen was horribly ashamed. He avoided her look, which was all too frank and honest. He glanced down at the floor, letting his eyes wander, and then a completely new thought struck him: “Could we maybe go somewhere and have a glass of cold beer?”
Leila nodded, and they left.
The staircase was spiral, and they were three stories up—six landings. Vatanen supported himself on the curved banister—the steps were dancing—and Leila supported his other arm.
Outside, it was a glaringly bright, frosty day. The sunny street was white with clean new snow. The dazzle made his eyes ache, but the fresh air perked him up a little. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he said: “I’m an olm coming out of its cave.”
“A what?” Leila asked.
“Nothing. Take me somewhere nice.”
Leila led Vatanen across town. He observed the houses, the cars, trying to work out where he was. Vallila, was it? Katajanokka? Kruununhaka, anyway, it couldn’t possibly be. They came to a river. ... Was it the Porvoo? No, not the Porvoo. He knew the Porvoo well.
Vatanen was feebly watching the passersby, hoping, he realized, to see a face he knew, perhaps hear where they were, get himself back on the map.
They crossed a bridge; their destination was a little restaurant on the other side. It looked quite nice, and Vatanen didn’t believe it could be open so early in the morning. He said so, and Leila pointed out it was afternoon already: “You really are pretty out of it, aren’t you?”
Vatanen glanced dully through the menu; he didn’t dare think of eating. Leila ordered a frosted pilsener for him and a glass of fresh fruit juice for herself. He cautiously sipped the cold beer; its smell was sickening, but on the other hand it was stimulating. The first drop upset his stomach a little. He’d have to sit it out and see what happened.
Leila watched his silent struggle.
And then the power of the hangover was broken, thanks to the beer. Vatanen found himself able to eat. He became a new man, a new Vatanen.
He began to remember things, and even remembered leaving his hare in the professor’s apartment in Kruununhaka and then going off on a binge, after half a year’s abstinence. And he’d drunk in splendid style, drunk deeply and joyously. But he could remember only the early phases of the bender; events didn’t become clear till Leila outlined their main course.
Her tale was as long and winding as the trip itself, which had lasted eight days and meandered through various southern Finnish venues. Vatanen had been up to a thing or two, quite a thing or two.
Warily, he slipped in: “What town are we in now?”
“This is Turku,” she said.
“Ridiculous, my not knowing!” he said. “So that’s why the bridge seemed familiar. I’ve been here dozens of times, but the sun was blinding me.”
Bit by bit the trip began to piece together, as Leila’s story unfolded. Vatanen had binged in Helsinki for a couple days, had gotten into a fight, had been taken to the police station, but was released right away. He’d then met Leila, and they’d gone to Kerava, where one thing after another had happened, including Vatanen’s falling under a train. The train had pushed him twenty yards along the track at walking speed, and he’d gotten away with bruises.
At Kerava, Vatanen had bought a bicycle and pedaled off in a rage toward Riihimäki. Leila had followed in a taxi. Vatanen had not reached Riihimäki on his bicycle: a patrol car had stopped him. The bicycle had been loaded into the taxi’s trunk and driven to Riihimäki, where it was sold at a bargain price, and the money squandered on lottery tickets. Vatanen had won a hi-fi set, a leather briefcase and pencil case, cuff links, a set of fountain pens, and