“This feels great,” he says. “You know Kari, I had my doubts about you, but you’re all right.”
“Wow,” I say. “Thanks. I was worried you didn’t like me.”
I wet the vihta and start smacking my back with it. It occurs to me that I’m employing much the same motion that Iisa Filippov’s murderer used while torturing her with a riding crop.
“What’s that for?” John asks.
“Being hit with the branches makes you sweat more, and the birch leaves are curatives, help get the toxins out of you.”
“Finns must be chock-full of poisons,” he says. “You go to a lot of work to get them out of you.”
“Believe me,” I say, “we are. Try it. I’ll help you, teach you the technique.”
He smiles. “Okay.”
There’s no technique. I take the opportunity to whack the hell out of him. It doesn’t hurt, just stings a little. The guys in the sauna heard us speaking English and realize I’m teasing a foreigner. They chuckle. John gets it, takes it in stride and laughs with them. He has problems, that’s apparent, but he also has a good side. I want to like him, but he’s done his best to make it hard for me.
We sit for a while until he gets too hot, then go outside and sit in the snow and cold air for a bit, go back to the sauna, repeat the process. An old man I know offers me a beer and asks me to play a game of speed chess at the table in the dressing room. He and I pass a Koskenkorva bottle back and forth a couple times. The sauna and vodka dull my headache. John looks at the bottle but knows better than to ask for a drink. Despite John, I’m enjoying myself.
We go back to the sauna a third time. John says he would like to try it hotter and asks how to do it. I say the valve on the stove releases water and creates more steam. Before I can instruct him further, John hops up and moves toward it.
This sauna is holy ground, a place for aficionados. Many are older men who’ve practiced the art of sauna for a lifetime. The rules of Kotiharjun sauna are as sacrosanct as those of a church service. A major rule is that only men sitting in the hottest area of the sauna may throw water without asking permission. Too much steam turns the hot corner into an oven.
Exuberant John yanks the valve open and lets water fly. Way too much. Even in our cool corner, the steam burns my lungs and the inside of my nose. The guys in the hot seats get scalded and turn furious, start screaming at John and calling him names. He doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. They come out of their corner after him. The floor is slick. He can’t move fast enough to get away from them. Plus he’s naked and has nowhere to escape to. Four men grab him and force him across the room.
“Kari!” he yells. “Help me!”
I might if I could, for Kate’s sake, but I can’t. I consider that John has come halfway around the world and, within a day, has managed to almost get himself thrown in jail, and now finds himself attacked by four naked men. I can’t help but laugh. Welcome to Finland. Three men force him to sit down. Another comes back and throws the valve open. He yells at John, “Let’s see how you like it, you stupid cunt.”
“Just sit still for a minute,” I say. “You won’t die. Try not to breathe too deep.”
The four men stand in the middle of the room with their arms folded and stare at John while he cooks. They don’t want to hurt him, just teach him a lesson. They go outside to cool off. He creeps out of the hot seat over to me. “Can we go now?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, “let’s get something to eat.”
I get a Taxi and take John to Juttutupa, a favorite restaurant. I figure if I have to babysit Kate’s brother, I might as well enjoy myself as best I can. The building sits opposite the water and resembles a small castle constructed from granite blocks. It’s been around for better than a century. Juttutupa is next door to the offices of SDP, the Social Democratic Party, and has a reputation for politicos hanging out and making deals over food and drink.
A couple of nights a week, Juttutupa offers live jazz. I like good jazz, and Kate has picked up my appreciation of it, so we sometimes come here together. I reflect that I’ve offered John an ultimate introduction to classic Helsinki culture this evening, even if only for my own benefit.
A waitress comes to our table. I ask her to speak English, for John’s sake. She asks what we want to drink. I order kossu and beer. John looks sad, like a little kid, asks if he can have a beer. I feel sorry for him, revert to Finnish and order an ykkosolut -a weak beer-for him. He won’t be able to taste the difference. John was shit-drunk when I rescued him earlier. He’s better now, but no way he can pass for sober. If I have a few drinks, too, to make it seem like we were drinking together, it will help maintain the pretense for Kate that he’s not a fucked-up drunk doper. I’m drinking to spare my wife’s feelings. A strange day.
The waitress brings our drinks and menus. I say we don’t need them and order for both of us. Snails in garlic butter as an appetizer to share. Liver and onions with mashed potatoes for him and a big horse steak for me. Bloody rare.
Still drunk, John protests. “What the hell is wrong with you? I hate liver, and no one should eat slimy things or horses. You’re blackmailing me because the credit card machine at a bar was broken.”
He won’t eat snails, but has no problem with caviar. I guess the price of caviar makes its texture more appealing to him. “No, John, you’re wrong. I’m doing what it takes to hide whatever is wrong with you from Kate. When we go home, you’re going to be in presentable condition. You’re going to tell Kate what a wonderful time we had, and starting tomorrow, you’re going to behave yourself. Don’t eat the snails if you don’t like them, but you’re going to eat the liver, because it’s the best sobering-up food I know.”
The speed or coke he ingested is wearing off, only booze is left in his system. He starts to slur. “Kari, you’re wrong about me. You think I’m some kind of loser. It’s not my fault if a credit card machine in a goddamn bar doesn’t work with American cards.”
We stare at each other for a minute.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he says, “I’m going to the bathroom.”
I take a sip of Koskenkorva, see the longing in his face. “If you come back high,” I say, “I’m going to be more than pissed off.”
“So now you’re accusing me of taking drugs.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Screw you.”
“I covered your bar tab. You forgot to thank me.”
He huffs and gets up. When he comes back, he’s not stoned. I eat the snails by myself. Our main courses come. He looks at the liver with distaste but digs in. He must be hungry. His indignation disappears. “It’s good,” he says.
“I know.”
“What’s the red jelly for?”
“It’s lingonberry jam. Take tastes of it with the liver. It’s traditional.”
We eat in silence. He cleans his plate. I pay our bill and order a taxi to take us home. On the way, he stares straight ahead. After a few minutes, he says, “Thanks for paying my bar tab.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I won’t upset Kate.”
“Good.” I take out a notepad, scribble my number on it and give it to him. “Stay out of trouble, but if you don’t, call me, not Kate.”
He nods.
As an afterthought, I take his number and put it in my cell phone, in case he disappears and I need to find him.
My impression is that John is a decent person when he’s sober, but those moments are few and far between. He needs help, and because he’s Kate’s brother, I’d like to get it for him, but our baby is on the way. John frightens me. I’m scared he’ll upset Kate and cause her to lose our child. I can’t let that happen. I want him to go back where he came from.
