Vataranta, Essi; Valamo Etruscans. Usko studied the computer screen, shook his head and muttered to Vatanescu what it said.
Vatanescu did not exist.
Create me. Please.
Rautee tried F1, F5 and Ctrl+V, but Vatanescu still lacked a social security number – in other words everything. It would have helped if Vatanescu had an ID in his own country, but that too was lacking. Usko said he would try to create Vatanescu. First he would have to fill in a questionnaire that would outline the foreign worker’s qualifications in the Finnish labour market.
Did Vatanescu speak Finnish?
No
.
Did he have a fixed address?
No
.
Usko looked at Vatanescu’s weary eyes. He wasn’t a coaster or a baldie or an arts graduate. He was a man, capable of work, willing to work, and of working age. He didn’t even look as though he had problems with alcohol. Yes, he smelled, but the reason for that was his unwashed state, not drink. In order to be able to work he didn’t need eight years of training, just a little soap.
Usko leaned round his computer and asked Vatanescu if he was really willing to do any kind of work.
I’m in the shit. A people smuggler wants my head. I’m being hunted.
Must I rob a bank?
If the conveyor belt below the factory smokestack that was visible through the window still worked, Vatanescu could be sent to work on it, or perhaps to the packing department, or perhaps as a pusher of wheelbarrows.He could unload containers at the harbour. Jobs like that didn’t really need to be entered on the payroll, Usko reflected.
He looked Vatanescu in the eye.
‘I’ll take you on myself. I’ll hire you.’
You’ll fire me?
Usko pronounced the word more distinctly and made it clear that this was a labour contract. If you wanted a service society, you had to get on with the work.
‘A service society. A customer-oriented society. That’s what you hear everywhere. Vatanescu, you can be my servant. How would you like that? Another name for the job would be general dogsbody. I’ll pay you a decent wage and sort out your social security for you. You’ll do cleaning. Wash my car. You’ll take hot meals to my mother three times a week. OK? Is it a deal?’
Vatanescu did not manage to say anything, as the rabbit was struggling inside his jacket.
Usko Rautee said he would make the offer as honest as was possible in these doubtful times. Vatanescu would have the weekends to himself, and they would agree on when he could take his autumn, winter and summer holidays. Usko Rautee felt that for once he was doing something, not just following the rules. If everyone did the same, took the initiative and listened to their own inner voice, the welfare state would be certain of success. It would be updated. Man would rise above the despotism of machines and regulations.
The rabbit moved up to Vatanescu’s collar.
Vatanescu pushed it back inside his shirt.
Usko Rautee asked what it was.
Nothing. Or rather, that is…
The rabbit moved round into the sleeve and from there jumped clumsily towards Rautee’s desk. For a moment it clung to the edge of the desk by its frontpaws, and then, exerting all its energy, hauled up first its good hind-leg, and then the splinted one.
‘It’s a damned rat!’
The rabbit looked the employment officer in the eye. Rautee instinctively rolled back his chair. Vatanescu dived after the rabbit and tried to catch it in his hands. The animal hopped off the desk into Rautee’s lap, and Rautee threw it back on the desk again.
A harmless creature.
Don’t be afraid.
The rabbit limped awkwardly across the desk with its splint, knocking over a penholder and Usko Rautee’s water mug. The computer mouse fell to the floor, its base came off and the ball rolled along the carpet for several long seconds. With an embarrassed smile Vatanescu hurled himself after the rabbit. At last it came to a halt in the curtain hanging by the desk, which came adrift from its moorings and collapsed to the floor. The
Vatanescu did not exist.
Create me. Please.
Rautee tried F1, F5 and Ctrl+V, but Vatanescu still lacked a social security number – in other words everything. It would have helped if Vatanescu had an ID in his own country, but that too was lacking. Usko said he would try to create Vatanescu. First he would have to fill in a questionnaire that would outline the foreign worker’s qualifications in the Finnish labour market.
Did Vatanescu speak Finnish?
No
.
Did he have a fixed address?
No
.
Usko looked at Vatanescu’s weary eyes. He wasn’t a coaster or a baldie or an arts graduate. He was a man, capable of work, willing to work, and of working age. He didn’t even look as though he had problems with alcohol. Yes, he smelled, but the reason for that was his unwashed state, not drink. In order to be able to work he didn’t need eight years of training, just a little soap.
Usko leaned round his computer and asked Vatanescu if he was really willing to do any kind of work.
I’m in the shit. A people smuggler wants my head. I’m being hunted.
Must I rob a bank?
If the conveyor belt below the factory smokestack that was visible through the window still worked, Vatanescu could be sent to work on it, or perhaps to the packing department, or perhaps as a pusher of wheelbarrows.He could unload containers at the harbour. Jobs like that didn’t really need to be entered on the payroll, Usko reflected.
He looked Vatanescu in the eye.
‘I’ll take you on myself. I’ll hire you.’
You’ll fire me?
Usko pronounced the word more distinctly and made it clear that this was a labour contract. If you wanted a service society, you had to get on with the work.
‘A service society. A customer-oriented society. That’s what you hear everywhere. Vatanescu, you can be my servant. How would you like that? Another name for the job would be general dogsbody. I’ll pay you a decent wage and sort out your social security for you. You’ll do cleaning. Wash my car. You’ll take hot meals to my mother three times a week. OK? Is it a deal?’
Vatanescu did not manage to say anything, as the rabbit was struggling inside his jacket.
Usko Rautee said he would make the offer as honest as was possible in these doubtful times. Vatanescu would have the weekends to himself, and they would agree on when he could take his autumn, winter and summer holidays. Usko Rautee felt that for once he was doing something, not just following the rules. If everyone did the same, took the initiative and listened to their own inner voice, the welfare state would be certain of success. It would be updated. Man would rise above the despotism of machines and regulations.
The rabbit moved up to Vatanescu’s collar.
Vatanescu pushed it back inside his shirt.
Usko Rautee asked what it was.
Nothing. Or rather, that is…
The rabbit moved round into the sleeve and from there jumped clumsily towards Rautee’s desk. For a moment it clung to the edge of the desk by its frontpaws, and then, exerting all its energy, hauled up first its good hind-leg, and then the splinted one.
‘It’s a damned rat!’
The rabbit looked the employment officer in the eye. Rautee instinctively rolled back his chair. Vatanescu dived after the rabbit and tried to catch it in his hands. The animal hopped off the desk into Rautee’s lap, and Rautee threw it back on the desk again.
A harmless creature.
Don’t be afraid.
The rabbit limped awkwardly across the desk with its splint, knocking over a penholder and Usko Rautee’s water mug. The computer mouse fell to the floor, its base came off and the ball rolled along the carpet for several long seconds. With an embarrassed smile Vatanescu hurled himself after the rabbit. At last it came to a halt in the curtain hanging by the desk, which came adrift from its moorings and collapsed to the floor. The
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