I light another cigarette, say nothing.
“Kari,” he says, “if you had to choose one word to describe the emotion that has predominantly defined your life thus far, what would it be?”
The use of my name to create false intimacy. I let it go and consider the question. “Remorse.”
He jots in his notebook.
“Would you care to explore that?”
“No.”
Torsten is smart enough to understand that I need time and distance from the school shooting in order to contextualize it. He changes the subject, asks how my head is, and if I saw Jari.
“Yeah,” I say. “He wants me to have tests to rule out tumors, disease and nerve damage in my face. I’m in the unusual position of hoping your theory is correct, and I’m only suffering from sublimated panic attacks.”
“How do you feel now?”
“He gave me narcotic painkillers, and I took one before I left the house. They work. I’m pain-free at the moment. I had a bad experience, though. I passed out while conducting an interview.”
I tell him about Arvid and the implications about Ukki.
“You seem to want to protect the memory of your grandfather,” he says.
I picture Ukki beating the hell out of a starving prisoner, tied to a chair, with a fire hose sap. It splits open and buckshot flies. I shudder. “Wouldn’t you?”
He shrugs. “Perhaps not. It would depend on the situation. Tell me about your grandparents on both sides.”
“I called Mom’s parents Ukki and Mummo. We didn’t go there often, but I loved being at their house. They were sweet to me, and my brothers and sister, too. After Suvi died, they doted on me, I guess because I was the youngest after she passed away. I didn’t get to know them that well, though, because they died when I was eleven and twelve, respectively. Ukki smoked like a train, and lung cancer killed him. I think Mummo died of loneliness. The only thing I remember odd about them was their intense hatred of Russians. Just the word ‘Russia’ could send them into tirades.”
“Because of the war?”
I nod.
“You told me your father’s parents were cruel.”
“Mean-spirited in the extreme. Really shitty people.”
“So you have no desire to protect their memories in a positive light, as you do your mother’s parents.”
“They were mean to kids. He was drunk on Midsummer’s Eve, stood up in a boat to take a piss, fell into the lake and drowned. Their sauna burned down. She died in the fire. Fitting deaths for both of them.”
“That’s serious acrimony.”
I shrug. “So.” I remember something. “They hated Germans like the plague, as much as Ukki and Mummo hated Russians.”
“The war affected people in deep ways,” he says. “Do you want to talk about the ways in which they were cruel?”
“Not at present.”
I light yet another cigarette. Just thinking about them makes me uncomfortable.
He switches gears. “How is the visit from your wife’s brother and sister going?”
“Not well. Mary seems to have a good heart, but she’s a religious fanatic and a right-wing political nut. Likewise, John seems like a decent sort, but he’s a drunk and drug abuser.”
I tell Torsten about the fiascos with John.
“This week,” he says, “you assaulted a mentally ill person to protect children. You became so intent on protecting your grandfather that you suffered some kind of episode, and you lied to your wife to protect her from her own family. Your desire to protect seems to have no bounds.”
“Is that a criticism?” I ask.
“No. An observation.” He asks, “Whom have you loved in your life?”
I’m afraid this is going in a silly boo-hoo-hoo direction, but I promised myself I’d try to work with Torsten. I think about it. “My parents, Ukki and Mummo, my brothers and sister, my ex-wife, when we were young, and Kate.”
“No one else?”