Yari Kuusinen and Raivo Nikkilya squeezed into the backseat of the old Zhiguli without speaking as Yukha took the seat in front. “Take us to She-re-me-tie-vo,” he said, speaking with emphatic clarity. Strangely enough, Russian had been the language of Mustajoki’s childhood, although he’d managed to forget most of it afterward. But then he’d always had a talent for languages, and now he lived near the Russian border and made regular drinking trips to St. Petersburg. The others preferred the ferry to Sweden-on the overnight trip you could get really drunk on hard liquor bought in the duty-free shop, sleep it off during the day (who needed Stockholm, anyway?), and then indulge your expensive pleasure again on the way back. But Mustajoki had stubbornly kept on traveling to St. Petersburg. “Drive quickly and careful-ly,” he said. The driver drove. Quickly and carefully. Taking foreigners to the airport was a sheer delight for him.
