Tall steel receptacles, like gigantic potato pans, steel piping and some smaller vessels, some form of conveyor belt winding its way out of sight, an abundance of different smaller workstations, each sporting an array of meters and gauges. Steel, aluminium, rubber, plastic. The space smells of chemicals and only very faintly of berries. The name on the side of the building conjures up all the correct associations: this is a place in southern Finland where things are preserved and where something happens to some berries. One of the machines is currently running; I can hear a strong, low-pitched humming sound.
I glance behind me, and the big man points up ahead. I walk towards what I assume must be the middle of the complex, and because the big man says nothing and simply follows me, I presume I am walking in the right direction. The sound of machinery grows stronger.
‘We have a problem,’ he says.
‘What kind of…?’
Now I see the machine making the noise, and I see something else too. The machine is some kind of crusher, like an enormous, automated orange press, the kind many people use every morning. Attached to the machine is a man, his head inside the mechanism. He speaks.
‘You came back,’ he says from inside the machine. His voice booms as though it is coming from the bottom of a well. ‘Good. Like I said, last quarter was only a temporary blip, and once we move into cloudberry and lingonberry season, we’ll get the jam operation up and running again – I’ve got a German buyer lined up for the bilberries, he’s visiting next week. Together you and I are going to keep Germany in jam…’
The man is speaking so quickly that the echo makes his words unclear.
‘This kind of problem,’ says the big man and points at the man taped inside the berry crusher.
I tell him I don’t quite follow.
‘The scenario here is quite similar to yours. This factory is like a transit lounge for cash. Or, at least, that was the plan. This man here took my money, but the money didn’t find its way back into the company. He spent it all himself. And when I sent one of my freelancers to recoup the money, this guy made moose meat of him.’
‘All a big misunderstanding,’ comes the voice from the crusher. ‘Jam is the business of the future. It’s all about networking…’
‘And on top of this,’ the big man continues, ‘I’ve had to let my subordinates go. As you know.’
He looks at me in a way that suggests he knows what’s going on and he’s well aware of the drowning that occurred on the cycle path. I say nothing.
‘And that’s not all,’ he continues. ‘I need some cash. Now.’
I don’t plan on telling him I don’t understand for a second time. Besides, I do understand what he’s saying, every word.
‘That’s why you’re here,’ he says, and takes a few steps to the side. He grabs the control panel with gloved hands, turns something, pulls something, and the noise from the crusher grows stronger. Then he walks back in front of me.
‘I don’t understand how—’
‘You have money,’ he says, looking me in the eyes.
An icy current courses right through me, as though I had opened a freezer lid deep inside me.
‘As a matter of fact, the bank—’
‘Isn’t working,’ the big man says.
The crusher is still working though, I can hear its humming sound, but otherwise I am convinced everything has stopped, at least for a few seconds. I say nothing.
‘Nobody has paid back the money they borrowed,’ he says, and I recognise this tone as the same one he used in his home when he threatened me with a pistol and forced me to eat his cinnamon buns. The voice is similarly neutral, and as such all the worse suited to the situation and the matter at hand. ‘I’ll be surprised if anyone has even paid the interest. There’s no point lying; liars end up in the juicer.’
‘This is categorically not a juicer,’ says the muffled voice. ‘That’s a thing of the past. The juicing business is nothing compared to the growth potential in jam…’
The big man turns and kicks the side of the crusher. It’s a quick movement and reveals his irritation, though there is no sign of this in his body language. The jam entrepreneur seems to take the hint, and there is no more quibbling from the crusher.
‘I have a debt-collection operation up and ready to go,’ the big man says. ‘I own part of the company. It buys loans with cash.’
‘With a collection agency, interest rates will be many times higher,’ I say.
‘I estimate about ten times higher.’
‘I’m not sure about the legality of such operations…’
‘What were you thinking? All that nonsense about sensible loans, sensible interest rates.’
The big man’s expression remains impassive. I might never have seen anyone more serious. I remember what Laura told me about her own financial situation and that of the other park employees. They have all taken out loans – specifically because of the low interest rate because they wouldn’t be able to cope with higher rates, let alone a rate ten times higher. And now…
‘You will make the transfers within the next two days. The money will flow through the park and back to me. I know you can do this, I know you’ll find a way. I’ve been sure of that right from the start. Make sure everything in the park’s finances looks kosher. We’ll be taking out plenty of loans yet against that capital.’
The last sentence seems to slip from the big man’s lips. I’m convinced of it. He didn’t mean to say that out loud – at least, not at this stage. He turns quickly, looks at the confiture magnate.
‘And let this be a cautionary example to you,’ he says. ‘That’s another reason you’re here today.’
‘What’s going to happen to him?’ I ask.
‘The same thing that’ll happen to you, if you fail to uphold our agreement.’
I don’t remember agreeing to anything, but I get the impression there’s little sense in arguing the point. This meeting appears to be over. I take a few steps backwards and glance at the door. When I look back at the big man, he is holding the same pistol he had in his kitchen during our little coffee date.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘Back to work. This isn’t a simple matter. There’s a lot to think about.’
This is all true.
The big man nods. ‘Fair enough.’
I wait a moment longer.
‘And I thought,’ I say eventually, ‘that the meeting had ended.’
‘Of course,’ he says and moves back to the control panel, the pistol in his hand all the while. ‘The official part, that is. Now that I don’t have any subordinates, until I can source some effective workers, my own role is much more hands-on. It’s refreshing in a way. Salt-of-the-earth stuff.’
Now, I think to myself, he sounds like he did when he was talking about baking. His tone is gentle, almost maternal.
‘Speaking of subordinates,’ he says. ‘I had to relieve our mutual friend of his duties, and in a fit of, shall we say, mild agitation he told me that he knows what you did to his two henchmen. I imagine he feels a bit jealous that I’m doing business with you now.’
We look each other in the eyes. The big man turns his head and the noise from the crusher grows stronger again. I’m not sure whether I’ve been given permission to leave or not. The big man has turned his back to me, the muzzle of the pistol is pointing at the ground. I cautiously start to turn and take another few steps towards the door. Soon my steps become brisker, my eyes are focussed on the door’s square window. I can already see the dusky afternoon beyond it.
‘Remember. Two days.’
30