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wonderful drink had taken the lift from my palate right up to my brain, where it had come to rest and was now giving off a soothing, numbing glow.
    ‘Thanks . . .’ I paused, meaningfully.
    ‘Jyrki.’
    ‘Thanks, Jyrki.’ I reached my hand across the counter and watched and above all felt the way his enormous fist swallowed it up. ‘Heidi.’
    ‘And is Heidi having another one?’
    ‘She certainly is.’
     
Jyrki
    It’s normally fun closing up the bar. You can play God for a moment and flick the lights for last orders. Then you turn from Jekyll into Hyde: just a minute ago I was smiling, joking, genially pouring fresh drinks, then in a flash I transform into a humourless, monosyllabic tightarse. In seconds the generous provider, everyone’s best friend, the life and soul of the party, is transformed into a cold-hearted thrower-outer.
    Still, the last-orders bell doesn’t mean your shift’s over. There are still glasses, drinks measures and beer trays to rinse out. You have to make an inventory of the day’s takings, reset the credit-card machine, then clear up all the shards of broken glass and pieces of lemon rind on the floor behind the counter.
    But on that one occasion I allowed the bar to remain open a little longer. The shift manager had told me to use my common sense when it came to closing time, so long as we stayed within the letter of the law. I made a judgement call: I was only too happy to carry on looking at that black fountain of hair and the glinting expression behind that thick even fringe — a look that was a mixture of exhaustion and mischief, caution and seduction, sweet and savoury. It wasn’t for nothing I’d given her that sambuca-and-tomato-juice shot: it was barman’s instinct.
    I poured her anodier one every time she emptied her glass.
     
Heidi
    The coffee filter was rinsed out, the bottles counted, and the whirring cash register was busy churning out an endless stream of receipts. Jyrki’s movements seemed minimal, but everything happened as if by magic. Every now and then he would stop to exchange a few words and didn’t seem to want to encourage me to drink up the last in a seemingly continuous line of shots that had appeared in front of me — although many of the other customers nodding off in their chairs were told politely but firmly that perhaps it was time to hit the hay.
    Jyrki was quite a catch, I thought as my brain turned gradually softer and softer.
    I learnt that he was originally from Ostrobothnia and now lived in Tampere—or at least that was where his official address was — but that his flat was a small, cheap rented bedsit which he only really used to store his stuff.
    Jyrki was on the books of some staffing agency that hired him out and sent him off all over Finland. There was always a need for experienced bar staff: holiday cover, summer festivals, city festivals, rock festivals, new bars opening up that wanted to get things off the ground with staff that knew what they were doing. There was plenty of work, and he was often able to pick and choose between offers. The local employer generally sorted him out with accommodation, usually a shared flat or some other modest place suitable for a free spirit with no wife or kids.
    ‘The winter season is the best round here. The summer’s grim. You should see those slopes when there’s no snow.’
    I ’d never thought of that.
    'So you’ve been here in the summer, too?’
    'In the autumn. Been hiking a bit out in the fells.’
    A barman with a rucksack? Wow.
    ‘We’re like modern-day lumber jacks. We’ll go wherever there’s work. Winter in Lapland, summer at the Seinajoki Tango Festival, the Hanko Regatta, Kaustinen or wherever . . . And, besides, during the summer you always need staff to serve in all the beer gardens.’
    ‘I’m a lumberjack t and I’m OK . . .’ I burst into song.
    Jyrki gave a laugh.
    ‘I had a different song in mind.’Then, in a voice—a grave, profound, vibrating voice: