“Fuck off” cried angrily the dashing young man. His unblemished face was red from the blood rushing to his face and if he was part of a fantasy story, his eyes would spit out fire. That would have been very convenient, thought Jaakko, to be able to burn the young Catalan to death.
He never liked the idea of travelling to Barcelona, he had told his wife so, but then again she never listened to him. Noora would just go about arranging all the parts of their lives, from the dirty dishes to their vacation days. Many times he woke up and he could find a small paper note on his IKEA table with Noora’s cursive handwriting. She would have made a list with what he had to do that day. Most of the days he did not care, he would read it while sipping his black coffee, but some days he flared up just by smelling her hand cream on the paper.
Fucking tourists, he thought clutching in his fist the little pink camera. He was lost in his anger that somehow had moved from the Catalan to his wife and he had completely forgotten to take notice on the surroundings. Why did they have to be so many? They filled the streets and moved along like a huge animal, smelling of sweat, boredom and excitement all at once. It seemed to Jaakko that all the tourists looked the same with the same small shorts, the same hats and the same dark sunglasses.
He missed the trees, the clean air and the crystal clear waters of the lakes. They could have gone to Paskajärvi and catch fish and swim after sauna while their bodies were still numb from the heat.
“Where is my wife?” Jaakko muttered to himself. He put a sweaty hand into his pocket and found a very cramped up note written this morning by Noora. He had scratched off already some points from the list when he noticed that the next one was gift shopping for dad. With a heavy sigh he moved towards the metro station. Her dad was a Barca fan and so they had to get him an original shirt from Camp Nou. What a hindrance, football is not even an interesting sport… Just men chasing a ball.
Five minutes, ten minutes and the train did not arrive. Bored but not complaining, Jaakko looked around him, observing the other people. Most of them looked bored, some worried, some in a hurry. A group of very young girls, barely at legal drinking age, entered the station. They were drunk already at noon and they were wearing their brightly coloured bikinis. A lot of men stared at them; they did not seem to mind, on the contrary they seemed to enjoy the attention.
Within the next five minutes, the train still had not arrived and the girls started arguing. From the few Swedish he had learned at high school, he understood that the drunk girls were fighting over a young man.
As interesting as it was the small soap opera unravelling next to him, he had to stop attention when Noora called him. He felt relieved, good to speak to her again, oh how much he had missed her!
Suddenly a loud noise made it impossible for him to listen to his wife anymore. The train was coming, entering the platform, but what really caught his attention were the Swedish women. They were shrieking to each other, they were screaming. They had their hands on each other’s hairs, pushing and pulling. The train entered the platform and suddenly the tallest of the tall, the leanest and obviously the one that exercised regularly pushed her friend.
Usually Jaakko did not like to scream or show any kind of emotion, but he screamed on top of his lungs, along with the rest of the people on the platform. The poor girl turned into a red paste by the train, an undistinguishable mass of meat, hair, bone and blood.
Why did he have to travel to Barcelona? Was all he could think Paskajärvi was quitter and less dangerous for drunk people.