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Bertel curses as his knee slams into the sharp corner of a hot tub, secured to its pallet with generous amounts of shrink wrap. By the time the shipment arrived he had completely forgotten about the tax free bag full of booze he'd stashed on the shelf at the other end of the garage, and now the way there is all but blocked. It's not like there was anywhere else to store those pallets, though: by now, the goods that make up the inventory of his various business enterprises fill up not only the garage, but also the shed, the laundry room, most of the basement, and the guest room upstairs.
(They had fought over that as well, towards the end. Bertel had tried to explain that as a small business owner depending on maintaining good customer relations in the local community, it was absolutely crucial that he have his products close at hand at all times, and anyway renting a warehouse wasn't exactly free either. Besides, the house was too large for just two people anyway - particularly two people who somehow never seemed to be at home at the same time anymore. Helen, for her part, had congratulated him on the fact that from now on he would have twice the storage space at his disposal at no additional cost, and furthermore suggested that perhaps his next marriage would be happier if he married one of his fucking jacuzzis. And then she'd left.)
Wriggling like an eel, he squeezes between two giant boxes (sauna heaters, going by the logotype), finally reaching the shelf. In a pile on the workbench are the timers he had considered setting up while he was away, before ultimately deciding not to bother. During this last year the neighbours have heard the shouting matches and watched as two cars on the driveway became one car, and now finally, during the biggest family holiday of the year, no cars. It would take more than a couple of flickering Advent stars to convince them that everything is normal at the Bäck residence. (On the other hand, he can also trust them to immediately notice any trespassers on the property. Rural good-neighborliness: a double-edged sword, if ever there was one.)
So he's decided not to bother. Whenever he's run into an acquaintance around town during the weeks leading up to Christmas, he's simply flashed his patented smile and told them that unfortunately he will be away on business over the holidays.
It's the same thing he's told Dan-Ole and Eva-Lisa when he visited them for Christmas lunch last week. Neither of them were exactly what you'd call a gourmet chef, but it's hard to fail at boiling potatoes, and the herring comes ouf ot a glass jar from the store anyway. Dan-Ole's mother Damaris had taken pity on them and dropped off a perfectly nice swede casserole, ensuring that her son's Christmas fare would measure up to certain standards. Bertel hoped that the enormous gift box of chocolates he'd bought would be enough to placate her. After all, her being ousted from the position as the woman in her son's life had been partially his fault.
"What a pity, you having to work on Christmas Eve!" Eva-Lisa had said. While the old coffeemaker gurgled away in the kitchen, Bertel was admiring the Christmas tree. "One of a kind" were the words that came to mind. Every single branch was covered in ornaments of birds: birds made of glass, china, plastic, cardboard and glitter. Some of them he remembered from Christmas crafts in elementary school (and he could still hear the young Dan-Ole carefully explain the difference between breeding plumage and non-breeding plumage to their bemused teacher), many of them seemed new. The topper was an impressive papier-mâché piece representing two white swans, their necks entwined to form a heart ("not exactly realistic, but we thought it had something, didn't we?").
"One has to do ones duty in life, you know," he'd said, as Eva-Lisa went to get the coffee. "I'm getting a lot of international orders these days - the US, Hong Kong, New Zealand even - and apparently their Christmas doesn't really kick off until Christmas Day." He peered at a fluffy yellow pipecleaner chicken with googly eyes that was clearly living its best life nestled among the green needles. "On Christmas Eve they're still out there buying barrel sauna kits for each other, which means little old moi needs to be in the office and answer the order phone."
"Wait, New Zealand?" Dan-Ole looked puzzled. "That's on the other side of the world. And it's eastward, which means they're one day ahead of us, so when it's Christmas Eve here..." He counted on his fingers, trying to make sense of the timezones.
"Are we talking about New Zealand?" Eva-Lisa appeared with the coffee pot. "Oh my goodness, did I show you that clip of the kiwi bird dressed as Santa?"
To Bertel's relief, the time zone puzzle was quickly forgotten as discussion turned to funny animal videos, whether making a flightless bird wear a Santa cap was animal abuse or harmless fun, and exactly how silly said bird would look delivering Christmas presents in a flying sleigh.
Having finally escaped the hot tub maze, Bertel shuts the garage door behind himself. He puts the bag on the passenger seat, checks his phone one last time (giving a "like" to his mom's Facebook post from the restaurant in Las Palmas), and starts the long drive south.
The problem with driving alone for six hours is that it gives you time to think.
Think about whether maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all.
About whether maybe the alternatives weren't all that bad.
Maybe he should have just stayed at home, hiding from the neighbours in his basement office and going over his VAT return again, while the timers switched the Christmas lights on and off upstairs.
Maybe he should haved settled for playing third wheel to Dan-Ole and Eva-Lisa, who had told him they'd love to have him over, should his plans change. But even Damaris had had the good sense to butt out this time, and Bertel would be damned if he was going to be the one to ruin their first Christmas together.
He finds a radio station that isn't playing Christmas songs and cranks up the volume.
"Heeeey! Bertel! Come on in!"
Timo opens the door with a wide grin on his face and a beer in one hand. He pulls Bertel into a one-armed hug that is bigger than most people manage with two arms, tangling him up in his big grey hoodie. Something that may have been a sloppy kiss lands in his hair.
It should be easy to just respond in kind, but at the last second his courage fails him. Instead he holds the tax free bag up between them, shaking it slightly as if he's creating a diversion.
"Have you been good this year?"
Timo laughs. "Not for a second. Come on in, I'll just put these away. You want a beer?"
Timo disappears into the kitchen. Bertel hangs up his coat, peeks into the living room. It looks much the same as it did on his last visit here, except the clothes draped over the barbell stand are gone, and the back of the sofa is lined up perfectly with the edge of the IKEA carpet. A couple of LED tea lights on the table, a string of Christmas lights blinking in the window. Eurosport is showing some kind of snooker championship.
"Was the drive alright? No accidents?" Timo shouts from the kitchen.
"Yeah, no problems. Probably a good thing we didn't get any snow, though."
Timo returns and hands him the beer. He leans against the doorpost and takes a swig from his own can, as he watches Bertel open his. As Bertel puts his beer down, he catches Timo still looking. He's just about to say something, when Timo seems to catch himself and looks away, clearing his throat.
"I was thinking we could get pizza now, if you want to?" he says. "Delivery is expensive as fuck today, but it's only five minutes if you don't mind a walk. And then glögg afterwards, yeah?"
"Absolutely," Bertel says. It's been a long drive, and he's feeling restless. A walk might be exactly what he needs.
Dusk falls slowly over Vantaa, the lack of snow making the winter afternoon darker than it otherwise would have been. They walk in silence between the grey apartment blocks, down towards the square. It's pretty quiet (apart from the distant roar of the highway), but now and then the sounds of other people's Christmas Eves reach them from a window on high. Now and then, Timo names a point of interest along the way: train station. Bar. Gym. Library. The landmarks of his life down here. Bertel listens, commits them to memory.
The pizza place is brightly lit and nearly empty. A food delivery guy with his helmet still on sits scolling on his phone, with the oversize pink bag on the chair next to him. Two old men, looking like they're there for the heat as much as the food, sit each at their own table at opposite ends of the shop.
Is that what he and Timo look like to other people, to the guy behind the counter? Two sad old bachelors, alone together on Christmas Eve?
"Enjoy, merry Christmas," the pizza guy mutters as he hands Timo the boxes.
"Thank you!" Bertel says, and can't resist flashing the man his most dazzling salesman smile. All that happens is that the guy's frown deepens a fraction, before he turns back to his pile of pizza boxes. Whatever. Bertel decides to count it as some kind of win.
Back at the apartment, over another beer and pizza straight out of the box, Timo asks how things have been working out for Dan-Ole and Eva-Lisa. Bertel tells him of their domestic bliss and the Christmas tree, and watches Timos eyes light up.
"Fuck me if that isn't the nicest thing I've heard since my confirmation!"
"You were never confirmed," Bertel says.
"Alright, maybe I wasn't. That's not the point," Timo says. "The point is, that's beautiful. See, I knew they'd make it! I should stop by and say hi the next time I'm passing through."
"That's a great idea," Bertel says, making a mental note to give the two ample warning first. He's heard Dan-Ole's version of what happened during their first date on the boat. If Timo were to show up unannounced on his bike, Bertel is pretty sure poor Damaris would have a heart attack.
Maybe he should come along, just in case. Act as a buffer. Then afterwards he could take Timo on a tour around Vörå, show him the sights, such as they are. Maybe introduce him to... - no, that's stupid. He's getting ahead of himself. For all he knows, by the time it's warm enough to get the Harley out, he and Timo may not even be in touch anymore.
Despite the walk, the beer and the hot meal, the restless feeling lingers.
Timo frowns at the screen, glass of glögg on the table in front of him. The pizza has been eaten, the sauna in the basement won't be free for another couple of hours, and none of them feel like watching Donald Duck fight that stupid jungle bird yet again. They just need to decide on a movie. Bertel has already vetoed Love Actually. Timo briefly pauses as Die Hard comes up in the menu, then keeps scrolling. Bertel does not object.
Eventually Timo sighs in frustration and starts flipping through the channels, seemingly at random.
"Wait!" On the screen, a young Aretha Franklin, wearing a pink apron, is taking up orders in an old-fashioned diner.
"'Blues Brothers. 1980. Comedy.'," Timo reads. "I think I recognize the title?"
"You've never seen it? It's a classic, pretty good actually. Lots of really good songs. Also there's a car chase through a shopping mall," he adds, in case that's more to Timo's taste.
"Alright, good enough for me. You want me to restart it?"
"Go ahead, I'll just go top up my glass" Bertel says, getting up.
He returns to an aerial shot over the dark, smoky industrial hellscapes of seventies Chicago. Timo has settled in at the far end of the couch, just in front of the tv. Bertel hesitates on the threshold, then leans against the end of the couch in a pose designed to ooze cool and confidence, feeling quite lost.
They watch in silence as the walls of the Joliet Correctional Center come into view. Inside, two guards arrive at a cell door to pick up an inmate. As they begin their long slow walk through the hallways, Timo finally breaks the silence.
"You're not planning on standing all the way over there all night, are you?" he says softly. "Come and sit here instead." He pats the cushion next to himself.
Bertel rounds the sofa and sits down. Scoots a bit closer. He leans forward to put his glass on the coffee table, and when he leans back again he's quite by accident managed to end up right next to Timo. Timo's arm comes down from where he's been resting it on the back of the couch, pulling him close. And Bertel finally does what he's wanted to do since the moment he stepped through the door: rests his head on Timo's chest, feels the heat from his body, breathes in his scent. And there it is, at last, the reason he came here: the calm of Christmas, slowly spreading throughout his body, chasing stress and restlessness away.
Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all.