The Human Part

by Kari Hotakainen, Owen F. Witesman, Owen F. Witesman

Genres: City Life; Literary Fiction; Satire

Synopsis

An elderly woman agrees to sell her life story to an author with writer's block she meets at a book fair. She needs to talk - her husband has not spoken since a family tragedy some months ago, and seven thousand euros is a lot of money. She claims that her grown-up children are doing well, but the writer imagines less salubrious lives for them, as the downturn of Finland's economic boom begins to bite. Perhaps he's on to something. The Human Part lays bare the absurdities of modern society in the most vicious and precise manner imaginable. But it is also a wise novel of family life, rejoicing in the little white lies we tell one another and the way we pull together in times of tragedy.

Release date: May 17, 2016

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 224

Sample

My name is Salme Sinikka Malmikunnas, and everything that I say will be printed word for word in this book. The author promised me this. In alarm, he even suggested that my words be printed in italics, which apparently emphasizes the importance of words. When I saw what he meant by italics, I immediately said that I didn’t want it. I’m already bent over enough without calling any more attention to it. I admit that I gave the author a little bit of a tongue-lashing over this, so he promised me heaven and earth. I might have been a little overexcited, since it was the first time I had seen or met a person like him.

First of all, and in partial defence of myself, I should say that I do not like made-up books or the people who write them. It has always irritated me that they are taken seriously, that people get so immersed in them and listen so carefully to the people who write them. I am now referring to the novels and other things on the shelves labelled “fiction” or “translated fiction”. It irritated me even more when Paavo and I found out that people go all the way to other countries to find these made-up stories and that people who have studied languages transfer these obvious lies over into our language.

I will not speak evil of non-fiction though, because that includes books whose very titles inspire confidence: The Birth of the Solar System. The History of Finland. Birds, Past and Present. Mammals (Colour Illustrated).

And of course the encyclopedia.

We have that book too, and it has been a delight. We haven’t had to wonder if it’s true or if it might be some amateur’s clumsy fantasy or delusion. No matter what page you turn to, the mysteries of human life are revealed. Where do the starlings fly? What is the difference between a chimpanzee and an orangutan? How large and powerful a country was Sweden in bygone days, and from where do its prosperity, good humour and communal spirit come? Sometimes we forget about it, living right here next door, but you can check in the encyclopedia.

But no book tells what will happen next Tuesday or when Paavo and I go dark upstairs once and for all. What happens when the lights go out? In your head, I mean. Does some gateway open up, and what does it open on to? Since no-one knows, we have all these alternative theories, the religions I mean. Just to be safe, I believe in all of the gods that they recommend in books, in magazines, and on television. Or, of course, not in the ones that you worship with a tuft of feathers on your head and rings in your nose. Paavo doesn’t believe in any gods. He doesn’t believe in anything he hasn’t seen. He didn’t even believe in Onni Suuronen before he saw him. I had to take him to another county by bus to see Onni riding his motorcycle like a bat out of hell around that wooden track. “He does exist,” Paavo kept repeating to himself on the return trip. “But show me Our Lord Jesus Christ and God the Father. Show me. You can’t,” Paavo said over and over. I said, as I have a million times in my life, “Not so loud. People will hear.”

You are wondering how I could have met an author – me, who does not respect authors of made-up books. It was a complete coincidence. Life has thrown all sorts of things in front of me, even though I haven’t gone looking for anything. It happened that my eldest, my daughter Helena, invited me to visit the capital. Usually I don’t go anywhere, but I agreed to this invitation because of a certain very sad thing.

It was October when I came to the capital.

The name of the station was Pasila.

Helena lived right nearby but said first thing on the platform that we couldn’t go to her house because there she would be reminded of it immediately. Helena suggested that we go to the book fair to start with. I wasn’t at all eager when I found out that, in addition to books, the people who write them would also be there. Helena pleaded, and I couldn’t stand to hurt my daughter’s feelings. Let me interject here that Paavo had stayed home, because he was temporarily mute.

They had built an enormous hall for their exhibitionism. There were at least three entrances. We went in through the biggest one and paid a total of twenty-four euros for two people. I thought that it would include at least lunch and coffee, but Helena said we didn’t get any food for that price, but that there was all the more nourishment for the soul.

The place was black with people.

It was an anthill.

Noise came from every direction.

Big platforms had been set up everywhere and on the platforms podiums to which the authors were led.

We stopped in front of one of the platforms. Above it was written in big letters “Katri Vala”. I don’t know that person, but soon some queen-bee-looking woman approached the podium and began oozing flattery, bumbling and buzzing around, practically rubbing up against the author sitting behind her on a chair. Doting and warbling. She sang his praises and blew him kisses. It was good she didn’t sit down on his lap. And in conclusion she reminded everyone about the discount they would get on the book at such-and-such a stand and on which stool this poor unfortunate soul would be sitting, happy to write his name in this unique work.

It was as good as a play, and after watching and listening to it without coffee and buns for an hour or two, I started longing for truth from the very bottom of my heart. Not that I’ve never lied in my life, but at least I haven’t put those lies between the covers of a book.

I talked Helena into going for coffee at a sort of little booth in the main hallway. I didn’t dare express my opinions to my daughter, even though I wanted to. Helena wanted to smoke. We were directed out through a large door, behind the building.

And there I saw him, the author, although I didn’t immediately recognize him as such with these eyes. He was just some man, sitting on a grit box, smoking a cigarette, glancing around nervously. I couldn’t guess his age because nowadays everyone is younger than I am. He looked like a maintenance man, and that’s probably why I started chatting him up. He answered my questions uncertainly, and I quickly realized that this was no maintenance man. They are energetic – this one was skittish.

Helena didn’t say anything. She was embarrassed by my talkativeness. Children are always ashamed of something in their parents. There’s no use being offended by it.

I said to the man that there wasn’t any need to play at being any smarter than he was. I could see he wasn’t a maintenance worker, but that didn’t matter. We could talk all we wanted since we were at a fair for lies, after all. Helena gave me the evil eye, but I stayed positive.

The man was a quiet sort, but that didn’t bother me, the wife of a mute. I said to him that if I were to write a book, I would start with non-fiction and write everything just as it is, not how it should be. I could write a book about crocheting or rug weaving or baking Boston cake any old day, but I don’t feel like it. And good books like that have already been written anyway. For example, Cooking for Every Home is the sort of book that there’s no reason to write all over again. I got it from my grandma and everything in it still holds true. I’ve bought a copy for each of my children, and they’ve never wanted for soups and roasts.

The man nodded. He was clearly a listener. Or he didn’t have anything to add. Helena was already trying to hustle me inside. Her cigarette was down to a stub. I found myself saying to Helena that she should go ahead, that I would catch up soon. Helena looked at me for a long time, gauging whether I was serious. I gave her a look that told her everything was O.K. I felt like talking to a complete stranger. It would give me a little vacation from Helena’s big thing.

When I was left alone there with the man, I had to introduce myself – I couldn’t be there otherwise. With a name, a person is at least connected to something. I gave the man mine, and he gave me his, which I’ve already forgotten. I said I was a retired yarn dealer. He was encouraged by this, and announced that he was an author. He followed this immediately by saying that he didn’t have anything to do at the fair this time, because he hadn’t published a new book.

I wondered why he had bothered to show up then. He said he had been given a free ticket. I asked if it wasn’t a little difficult to be at his workplace when he was unemployed. He didn’t reply.

It occurred to me to say what I thought about authors and made-up stories, but it didn’t feel necessary anymore. I asked when his next book would be coming – surely he was working on it. The author didn’t reply. He just quickly lit another cigarette. He held it with his thumb and forefinger, which told me he was not a regular smoker.

We observed a moment of silence. I had become used to that with Paavo, but silence with a stranger is different, loud almost.

I was already making to leave when he asked what sort of life I had lived. It isn’t proper to ask things like that of strangers, but somehow it didn’t feel intrusive just then. I said I had lived so much that I hadn’t had time to brush my teeth properly. I told him all sorts of things about this and that, jumping from one thing to another – I may have even used a couple of swear words – I just let it come at a sort of low boil, but I didn’t go into detail.

He wanted to know more.

I said that I wasn’t going to go telling any more just like that. I wasn’t going to make that mistake a second time. Once, sitting on a bench at the hospital waiting for Paavo’s test results, I told a stranger about my life. My burden was lightened, but in the wrong way. I was overcome by the feeling that something of my own life had remained with that other person.

Then the author made his proposal.

If I would tell him about my life, he would give me five thousand euros.

I had to sit down.

I was a little afraid.

Helena was somewhere in the crowd, and I didn’t have a mobile phone – I had left it with Paavo. I had never been offered five thousand euros for anything. The author said that I could think it over for an hour, perhaps with my daughter. I asked what on earth the author would do with my life. He said he didn’t have any life of his own and that he wanted to write one more book.

I was more afraid. I felt like saying, “Come on, everyone has their own life.”

I stood up. I didn’t dare stay sitting down to think about something so outlandish. The display designer Alfred Supinen always said that a person should think about difficult things standing up, and that for the most difficult things you should go out walking.

I thought the author was clearly insane, but there was no point in going and telling that to an insane person. They don’t have the same understanding of human nature as the rest of us, who know full well that we go insane now and then. A truly insane person lives inside his insanity like a pearl inside an oyster.

I said I wasn’t going to start selling my life, the only thing I truly owned, and that the author would be best off writing what he knew the most about – his own life. He claimed that there wasn’t anything to write about, that nothing had ever happened to him. I pressed him about how he had managed to write up until then if he didn’t have anything to tell and nothing had happened. The author claimed that it was perfectly reasonable to write ten books out of nothing, but no more than that.

It wasn’t my fault if he didn’t have anything to write, I thought – there wasn’t any sense in dumping it on me.

The author said that I could get all sorts of things in this world for five thousand euros, and my own life in hardcover into the bargain.

After that I had to say that I hated made-up books, and the worst thing would be for someone to make up my life all over again for some book. He practically flew into raptures over this, saying that was exactly what he had planned to do. He needed a good life as a foundation, and on top of it he would invent more, and the final result would be an even better life than what the one on the bottom had been originally.

To hell with that! Putting my life on the bottom, as if it were worse than the made-up one. And paying me five thousand euros for this disgrace. Suddenly if felt like a very small sum.

The author thought I was taking everything the wrong way now. My life wouldn’t be lost – it would be there underneath, a little like the soil under a beautiful planting. Truth and fiction would intertwine and together be more than they would have been separately.

His explanation just confused this old woman even more.

So that I would not become completely confused, I started thinking about the money. It’s a good thing to think about. It gives you a scale. People speak far too much evil of money. Sometimes it’s the only thing that clearly delineates people’s intentions.

I ordered the author to be quiet while I thought.

I counted in my mind all the good things I could get with that much money. The first things that occurred to me were new curtains, fixing up our old car, garden furniture, a winter fur coat, and perhaps a spa vacation. I didn’t beat myself up over all of the things that would bring me pleasure that came to mind before the most important thing, the thing that was weighing on my heart.

Suddenly everything was completely clear. I knew exactly what I would do with the money.

At the same time I decided that I wouldn’t tell Helena or Paavo anything about this.

As a former button merchant, I knew the value of money and understood that this was a seller’s market. There was only one life for sale here behind this building, so I decided to raise the price. I said it would cost him seven thousand euros. I calculated that with that much I could get all the good I wouldn’t have any possibility of getting otherwise.

The author became uneasy, saying he had already sold everything he owned to get the five thousand together. He raised his hands at his sides, claiming there was nowhere he could get two thousand euros more from. I knew from experience that a person could dig that kind of money from the frozen ground with his bare hands if he really wanted something badly enough. I remembered how Helena had squatted in a strawberry field for three sweltering weeks with a sore back to get to go see some filthy-looking singer at a hippie festival in Turku.

I told the author the price was determined by what I had seen and experienced and that for the price mentioned he would get a marketable, truthful life, the authenticity of which nobody would have any reason to doubt. I found myself falling into the pattern of speech of my old life, as if I were selling yarn, needles and buttons.

I was ashamed to raise the price, but I didn’t regret it, because the more I thought about my life, the more precious it felt. It was a result of my age and everything that had happened recently.

As a twenty-something just graduated from business school, I would have sold my life for a few hundred.

The author said I was taking advantage of his desperate situation by raising the price. I reminded him of our roles. He wanted to buy something that I wasn’t selling. I also emphasized that I didn’t know a single thing about his situation in life, but I told him there were bigger emergencies in this world than one author’s lack of inspiration. I also said that if the price felt too high, he could feel free to visit another shop. This time our price was firm – there wasn’t any wiggle room.

The author went quiet. As a former saleswoman, I recognized what was happening. The customer was playing for time. He knew he was going to buy, but was resisting finally giving in. He hated the salesperson, who had set a firm price for a product he had to have. He had to buy, but had to not buy. He had to want, but had to resist. In a situation like this, the salesperson’s job is to help the shy customer over the stream with dry feet. I didn’t have time.

The author said he was going to accept the price, but that he needed extra time for the two thousand. I didn’t want to wait for the money for long, so I asked him a very personal question. “Have you really and truly sold all of your property? Isn’t there something left sitting in a corner that you could bear to give up? An old chest of drawers or a lumpy glass vase designed by some celebrity?”

The author denied owning anything anymore that he could give up for two thousand euros, but he thought his publisher might give him an advance on the upcoming book if the content seemed promising.

I agreed to the delay, and we made an oral agreement for the payment of the five thousand. I put out my hand. His handshake was firm. Just as I had extracted my hand, Helena walked up.

I felt guilty, as if I’d just committed a sin, even though I had made an agreement that would end up benefiting Helena. Helena asked why on earth I had stayed outside for more than half an hour. She had had time to start thinking all sorts of horrible things. I felt like saying I’ve just made a big sale, all for your good, but I just said my how time had flown chatting with this craftsman about the stairway renovation we’ve talked about so many times at home. I shot a glance at the author to tell him not a word now about the agreement we just made.

Helena tried to hustle me inside. I said I would be there in two minutes. Helena asked what I needed the two minutes for. I said that this carpenter here is from a village near ours, and I still have to work out the details of the remodel with him.

Helena said she would wait in front of the Mikael Agricola platform.

The whole train ride home I thought about selling my life. Did I do right or wrong? At the yarn shop I never needed to think about questions like that, because I knew that the customer would get a sweater out of the yarn, and that we were getting the difference between the wholesale price and the retail price. Everyone stayed warm.

Now all sorts of dark thoughts were running through my mind. They have a name: “moral questions”. God left them to us, since he doesn’t have time to be everywhere. I wasn’t used to thinking about such things, because Paavo and I had lived a rather straightforward, simple life. Sitting there in the window seat, I thought, now, Salme, you’ve taken what they talk about so much in the business papers, a “risk”.

But turning back wasn’t an option – it would have been against my nature. I remembered how once Paavo and I bought a big lot of violet and orange yarn at wholesale on the risk that people might not be ready for a whimsical colour palette. We were selling that batch for a long time, but I never once thought about returning the yarn or selling at a loss. That would have been a mortifying concession to drab colours.

I bought a coffee and the most expensive pastry in the restaurant car. I wanted to celebrate that for the first time in my life I had sold something that could not be touched. I knew from my children and having watched this new world from the sidelines that there were many invisible goods for sale, but I could never have imagined that I would be charging for such a thing myself.

You always want to tell the people closest to you about big things that happen to you, but this time I couldn’t. After returning home, I told Paavo that given the circumstances Helena was doing well and that I had come up with a way to improve her situation. Paavo nodded and disappeared into the shed.

I felt like crying. I didn’t have the nerve to weep indoors, so I went into the back yard. Water came from my eyes, but I didn’t make any sound. In five minutes I was back in dry, working order.

I called the author from our shared mobile and we arranged a meeting for the following week at a certain out-of-the-way service. . .