The conclusion of the last musical quarter of the year feels like a festive farewell. It makes you cry much less than Grogu and Din Djarin's farewell in the closing episode of The Mandalorian, but nevertheless draws you into the whirlwind of dervish-like dancing much better than the press conference of the capital region's corona coordination task force.
The accompanying fourth quarter report was slipped onto the market in an inconspicuous brown paper bag, peeking out from behind eyeholes cut into a newspaper. Although neither I nor the company I represent have any reason to be ashamed of the result, on the contrary. It really was delightfully perky, springy and – in full measure – unbowed in all its purpleness. Still, it felt somehow wrong to be happy about our fortune.
From the Q4 list, it feels appropriate to mention, for example, the Australian-Japanese sibling duo Lastlings, who released their excellent debut album in November, and from whom we dare to predict future greatness. Such is the effortless sophistication with which they combine pop and club sounds. Our credit portfolio manager urged us to invest heavily in them, and we've gotten used to trusting him in such matters. Previously, our company was notorious for the poor management and outright misplacement of portfolios. Over the years, we've also lost many precious memories, casual conversations, two Finnish student caps on May Day when completely schnockered, and maybe even half of our lives so far in poop-flavoured hangover mornings and irrational scruples. On the other hand, as CEO, I'm also known in our little morning coffee conversations as an extremely sharp dresser and my reputation as a self-polluter of the masturbatory kind is the strongest in the city, so I think we've made at least some right choices.
In addition to our selections for Top Tunes of the Month for October and November, we would also like to pay attention to Dubstar, who continued on a brilliant streak with the second single after their comeback, to two excellent cover versions – OMD's Souvenir and New Order's True Faith – and the continuous winning streak of both Kylie and Steps. Listening to all these has put me in such a state of arousal that I've had to think about things that prolong my endurance, such as baseball, a documentary about the war reparations between Finland and the Soviet Union, the constant flow of Werther's Original cream candies on offer at Grandma's, and former president Tarja Halonen.
The songs have sometimes led me to daydream about the moment when a sultry female knocks on the door, whose pert little nose, big hat and fully exposed kneecaps leave little room for imagination. She would sit on the edge of the table and light a cicarillo in her cigarette holder, from which the smoke would spiral up, swirling into the ceiling fan. At the same time, through the open window, you could hear the newspaper boy screeching: the stock market had collapsed just then, in those quiet afternoon hours. The nation crumbled under the weight of prohibition and chewing gum that lost its flavour much too quickly, somewhere far away an airship crashed and I nervously dropped my sarnie on the floor. Butter side down, how else.
"I've heard that you are hard-boiled and follow your own paths. I'd like to hire you to look for my lost pussy," the woman cood softly, fiddling with her hair.
I interpreted this as flirting. I turned bright red, swallowed, and giggled hysterically. My carefully built image of an uncompromising private detective was in danger of falling apart. I couldn't get a single word out of my mouth. I hoped she would interpret all this as part of the hermit-like nature of the city's stoniest detective. After all, I was an enigma of a man, a lone wolf, a child-faced killer, an amateur sugar baker, famous for my marzipan flowers.
"So how about it, will you help me find my pussy?" the woman repeated her question. "A naughty boy, about whom I wouldn't want to go into more detail, stroked my pussy the wrong way, and it got scared. It retreated into the shadows, climbed a tree, meows at the moon, is in need of a comforter, a safe lap, a soft bed, a meaty bite, a creamy lick," the woman sighed so erotically that I nervously bit my tongue and completely messed up my step patterns. There was so little time until the finals of the dance competition that I had to use every available moment to practice.
"Your proposal is certainly as attractive as those bedchamber eyes of yours, but to accept it would be cheating," I finally said and put down the miniature rake meant for raking my Japanese miniature rock garden. "Surely you understand that I wouldn't have enough time for jazz after that. And jazz is, after all, a way of life. I have always been able to trust jazz. Jazz can be whatever I want it to be. Jazz is self-deprecating, fluffy, impatient, pliable or easily combed. Jazz is my mistress, my best cockfighting cock, my personal fitness trainer and my favorite simultaneous interpreter. I'm not ready to leave jazz. I hope you understand."
The woman understood. We soon realised that we understood each other so well that we moved to Zebra's bar to understand each other on an even deeper level. After his sunbed accident, the bartender known as Zebra was the only one around my office who knew how to mix a proper Mojito. I could still almost feel that first bite, both of the woman and the Mojito. The woman was a little fierce, a little dangerous, and she liked hurting me a little too much.
“No, I can't think about our electric first touch, the arches and mounds, the tips sucked sharp, the skin broken by my stubble, the short and curly hair on my face... I can't do this to jazz. Not yet," I thought and stepped out of the back door – as if it was a self-induced therapy session – to face the same alley where something I'm not proud of happened that fateful night.
Because of what happened then, I still couldn't trust anything but jazz. People cheated, jazz didn't. As did those fiendish devils who robbed my memories and betrayed me that night. I lost that moment over a dark pint in Dublin, a beautifully captured nighttime snowfall in Tallinn's old town square and a carefree festival feeling glowing in the heat. Why can't I remember what those weird bruises are? Why don't I learn from these lessons? Did I still want to wake up in the morning safely in my boxer shorts to the sound of a smug empty-headed deejay blaring on the clock radio, hosting a breakfast show, or do I want to wake up one morning in a musty shower stall, a coat-check stub in my pocket, next to a pile of old photos, staring at faces I thought I had lost forever after the accident and the fourteen months of coma that followed. Or have I already lost them? Have I lost it all?