The Year of the Hare - Arto Paasilinna [55]
Around noon, things began to stir again. Crapulous voices moaned for a sauna: they had to get it going again or they’d never be able to face the day.
The wood must have been used up the night before, and the finished as well, for two men called at Vatanen’s door, asking to borrow some wood.
“We’ve come to get some sauna wood off you.”
“And a drop of the hard stuff if you have some.”
Vatanen had neither sauna wood nor alcohol, and anyway he was in no mood to be friendly to the ravers of the night before. He pointed to the oil stove and told them there was no wood: the sauna was being repaired.
“But listen, pal. We’ve got to have that wood. We’re having a sauna, you see, we’ve made up our minds. Here’s fifty dollars. Now, how about that wood?”
Vatanen shook his head.
“Oh, a bit high and mighty, are you?” the other said. He threw some more bills on the table. “Now! Let’s have that wood, okay? You could chop a bit off those veranda railings, for instance. You’ve got a saw. So what are you shaking your head for? The money’s there on the table.”
Vatanen had no intention of chopping up the house to please them, and they had no intention of leaving it at that. Slamming some more bills on the table, they returned to the point: he’d better find some wood. Vatanen wadded up the bills, pushed them into the nearest man’s breast pocket, and ordered them out.
“Christ, what next? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Vatanen was steering the men outside and closing the door. They started hammering on the door. When Vatanen didn’t open it, one of them kicked the veranda rail and dislodged it. The other, eager to have a go, tore it completely loose, and it dropped into the yard. They grabbed hold of the wood and dragged it exultantly off to their own compound. Vatanen ran out to stop them, but they were already there.
“It’s a cooperative!” one of the men yelled. “We’ve created a cooperative!”
“Or put it this way,” the other gloated. “It’s good business—if you can’t buy it, take it.”
Standing at the edge of his compound, in a black rage, Vatanen watched the veranda rail turning to firewood. A dozen other morning-after-the-night-befores came out to laugh and jeer. Someone set off in a car; someone else shouted: “Get enough of the stuff this time! We don’t want to run out!”
Rigid with rage, Vatanen stalked into the neighboring compound and asked whom the house belonged to.
The chopping stopped. A fat, mulberry-faced man, who’d been busy splitting the railing, stretched up to his full height.
“Listen, pal, it belongs to some big fish. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll make tracks while you still can. I’m in charge here, and if you don’t get out I’ll have the boys bustling your ass.”
“I’m going nowhere till this is settled,” Vatanen said, without any urgency.
The man bounced into the house and reappeared a moment later with a shotgun. He loaded both barrels on the steps and leveled the gun at Vatanen’s chest. The nauseating stink of stale alcohol wafted on the air.
Suddenly one of the men who’d gathered around Vatanen kicked his backside so hard he was knocked flying onto his belly. An explosion of laughter broke out, and someone kicked him in the ribs.
He got to his feet. The women threw dirty sand-laden slush in his eyes; someone punched him in the back.
There was nothing to do but retreat to his own territory. Raucous laughter pursued him as he withdrew into the villa. Maybe, someone said, they’d gone a bit too far; but the others disagreed.
“Shit! A bastard like that? He won’t risk calling the police. I tell you what we’ll do. We’ll threaten him. You won’t hear another squeak after that. But first, sauna! To work, men!”
Easy to imagine how sore Vatanen was. He took the hare in his arms and went out onto the ice, thinking he’d take a walk across the bay, sort out his thoughts, and calm down. It was about half a mile to the farther shore.
When he was halfway across, the ravers sicced a couple of large hounds on him. They’d spotted the hare