April Affairs

The moment Wade woke up freezing, a thought flashed through his mind: “Enough is enough. Today, I’m heading south!”

This marked his fourth month inside the Arctic Circle. By then, he had retreated from the Arctic Ocean’s edge into the dense forests of Lapland, curling up inside an abandoned kota—a traditional Sami tent. The kota resembled a Native American tipi, with a pointed cone shape. Around it were layers of tightly sewn reindeer hides, bear pelts, and felt to keep out the cold. Wrapped in animal skins, Wade lay on a half-foot-thick bed of ash. Before sleeping, he had burned a campfire, so there was still some warmth. But now, when he reached out, the ash was icy and biting, cold enough to make his arm numb.

It was time to head south. After four months—especially the last half—he’d seen fewer than ten people. They say those who live alone in extreme environments long enough start seeing things. Just yesterday, Wade was certain he saw a reindeer sitting cross-legged on the ground, applying lipstick. The brand was Chanel, Colour 99—a bold red. After putting it on, the reindeer turned to him, puckered its lips as if asking for a kiss.

Wade actually critiqued its makeup: “You should line your lips.”

Then he crouched, holding his head. If he didn’t leave soon, his mind would crack.

He tightened his animal skins and crawled out of the kota. After a night of wind and snow, the world was eerily silent. A ghostly green aurora twisted through the sky, weaving into an orange-red horizon. Tall red pines, weighed down by layers of ice and snow, bowed their heads and bent their trunks. They looked swollen, like giants or spirits, rows of white bones stretching to the end of the earth.

The Sami believe a fire fox runs across the night sky, swatting snowflakes with its tail to create the northern lights.

For the Chinese, a sky ablaze with colors signifies auspicious omens.

The Chinese are particular about timing; they choose lucky days for everything—engagements, weddings, building homes. The day Wade decided to head south was filled with auspicious signs—a good omen.

Wading through knee-deep snow, Wade trekked south, leaving the Lapland forest behind on foot. When lucky, he caught rides on husky sleds.

Relieved to no longer risk dying on the snowfields, his biological clock went haywire. His mind was a haze, like a woman who’s given birth and lost three years of clarity. His speech and actions were foggy. Meals rotated between rough pizza, stale Italian dishes, reindeer meat, and ice-cold beer.

When he finally returned to Helsinki, the capital, only two things remained clear in his memory.

First, passing through Rovaniemi’s Santa Claus Village, he bowed to the Arctic Circle marker pole and whispered goodbye. Tourists hid nearby, spying on him, and someone muttered he looked like a wild man.

Second, he hitched a ride on a heavy timber truck loaded with Norwegian spruce. Finland, known as the land of five million loggers, had plenty of these trucks. The cabin was full, so Wade, wrapped in animal skins, climbed into the truck bed. Surrounded by the sharp scent of fresh wood, he lay down. Around midnight, the driver came back, patting him and saying they could only go so far. Wade heard but was too tired to open his eyes or get up. He mumbled, “Just leave me here.”

The driver had no choice. With help, they tossed him onto the roadside like a discarded body. Half his face pressed into the mud, he slept until dawn.

But upon seeing Helsinki’s pale Lutheran church on a hill, Wade felt his blood revive.

His hearing sharpened, sight cleared, thoughts quickened, and his nose caught the distant scent of freshly baked burgers. His blood boiled like the sauna’s hot water nearby.

He was back home.

Some hated this place, calling it cold and gloomy—like the Soviet Union before its opening. Others loved it, saying this city, cradled by the Baltic Sea, had a rustic charm.

It was late March; Helsinki was still clinging to winter’s tail, cold and dim. Wade wrapped his ragged, dirty animal skin tighter and walked past concrete apartment blocks, dusty shop windows, adult stores, and Thai massage parlors.

The streets were empty; no one gawked at him. He walked straight into a basement bar run by Erinn.

The bar was called We Care About the World.

The name was all in English, with no Finnish or Swedish signage. Faces from all over the world passed through here, and many transactions, some overt, some hidden, took place. Reindeer said this bar was a whirlpool on Helsinki’s surface—those who didn’t understand should avoid it, but those who did naturally came in.

Wade pushed open the door.

During the day, the bar was quiet, lit only by a wall lamp casting a dim glow over a mini jellyfish tank on the bar. Inside floated two translucent moon jellyfish, glowing faintly green, their long tentacles drifting like phosphorescent ghosts.

Behind the tank was a face distorted by water, light, and glass. The woman looked up, surprised to see Wade.

It was Erinn.

Erinn was a young German woman with a head of red hair, resembling the heroine from the famous German film Run Lola Run. Around her neck was a thin tattoo of a king cobra coiling once, its forked tongue flicking near her throat with every word she spoke.

But beneath her fierce exterior, Erinn was surprisingly gentle.

She eyed Wade cautiously, one hand reaching beneath the bar for a hidden Russian Makarov pistol.

Wade knew she hadn’t recognized him or had mistaken him for a homeless drifter: his hair was a tangled mess, his beard untrimmed and merging with his hair like two bushes meeting; his face was scratched and dirt-stained, the grime embedded deep; his clothes were mismatched, the rancid smell of the skins mixed with blood—a reminder of days he’d eaten raw meat, unable to light fires.

He cleared his throat. “It’s me.”

Erinn’s eyes widened. “Wade is coming?”

Wade nodded. “The key.”

His apartment belonged to Reindeer, on the top floor of this building. When he went out, he usually left the key with Erinn—just for safekeeping. Erinn never cleaned or tidied his place, even though she always insisted she loved him.

Still shocked, she held the key between two fingers and handed it over. When Wade leaned in, her face twisted in a mix of disdain and reluctance, as if afraid to touch him. She practically threw the key.

Wade caught it.

“Look at you,” Erinn said.

“You’d be the same after four months up north,” Wade replied.

That wasn’t entirely true—Erinn wouldn’t last four days up there.

He turned and left. Inside the building, it was less biting cold than outside. As he walked, he peeled off his animal skin.

“Wade!” Erinn called from behind.

He glanced back as she approached but had to recoil from the strong smell. Her expression was serious, almost angry.

“Wade, you better get back to your old self. You know I love you—mostly for your handsome face and body…”

She hesitated at “handsome,” feeling it was a mockery given his current state.

“…but like this, I can’t love you.”

The elevator was at the end of a narrow hallway, passing the security room. The building had only one guard—a German named Mark. Bald and impressively overweight, he struggled to squeeze through the security door, so he mostly stayed behind the glass, either asleep or eating.

As Wade passed, Mark was focused on slicing Bavarian white sausage. Wade sensed a dark shadow pass the window and, out of duty, muttered, “Moi!”

Without looking up, his slurred greeting landed in the sausage.

Wade figured Mark wouldn’t notice if it was a murderer, a bear, an alien, or a ghost passing by. Mark was just part of the building’s decor—a psychological comfort for residents.

In his long security career, Mark had only once “stepped up.”

It was Christmas Eve. At midnight, two men killed someone on the third floor. They didn’t care, pouring beer over the body, dragging the corpse out like a drunken friend.

The corpse wore one shoe; the other foot was bare, scraping the floor, leaving a trail of bloody beer.

Mark, less fat then, saw them coming and shouted, “Merry Christmas!” hoping to keep the festive spirit.

His Christmas gift was a stab.

That wound kept his job; Mark claimed he’d bravely confronted the killers to protect tenants. The truth was the murderers were never caught.

The old elevator was narrow, with a manual iron gate. A crumpled newspaper lay in the corner, trampled many times. The bold headline read:

RANSOM!

Another robbery, no doubt.

Four months without news—probably many deaths, new lives, and lots of money flowing from some hands to others.

Under the sun, nothing is truly new.