Leena Krohn: Collected Fiction (33 page)

‘He cheats on me as often as twice a week, but I know that he still loves only me. The problem is that he does not himself understand that he is in love with me. How can I make him learn?’

Darling, put him in dog-training school, Fakelove thought. They don’t learn, ever.

And that would have been a perfectly sufficient response for True Love, but Fakelove had to write a little differently in order to pass as a therapist.

From Desperate Bride Fakelove received the alarming message: ‘My fiancé just lost his temper and smashed an entire Churchill dinner service. Our wedding day is already set, but he feels as if he is suffocating and fears marriage like the plague. I only want him to be healthy and happy. What kind of therapy do you recommend?’

‘What is the right way to deal with my husband?’ enquired Uncertain. ‘I don’t want to separate from him, but he’s now dressing almost every day as Barbie, borrowing my make-up, and has started popping oestrogen pills.’

Monday morning’s first patient was This Soon? He wrote: ‘I am only fifteen, but I fear that I am already becoming impotent. My penis is no longer as hard as it used to be.’

On Tuesday a long message from Big Mistake? Arrived:

‘Next door there lives a man,’ wrote Big Mistake?, ‘who is as ugly as sin. He has a sparse, unkempt beard and no chin at all. He smells of sweat. He drinks like a fish. He is overweight and eats nothing but junk food. Now that I have got to know him a little better I also know that he is extraordinarily immature if not infantile. He tells racist and chauvinist jokes. He doesn’t know how to communicate in any other way and has no understanding of how to behave in the presence of women. At our very first meeting he immediately grabbed my breasts! He is unemployed and not even looking for work, he is untrustworthy, uneducated and prejudiced. I have lent him, on two occasions, my pocket money, and I do not believe I will ever get it back. But nevertheless he attracts me, and I have no idea why. I am only seventeen and still at school. He is over forty. I think about him night and day. I plan to run away from home with this jerk, this stinking idiot, my new neighbour. What would you suggest I do to help me resolve this life situation?’

Oh my God, she’s Lisa’s age, Fakelove thought. He felt a pang as he thought of his daughter, who lived with his first ex-wife. When had Lisa last visited him? At least twice she had cancelled an agreed meeting at the last minute, and Fakelove had not wanted to put pressure on her.

But before Fakelove began to offer his paternal advice, he read what Unhappy of Outokumpu, 62, wrote. He had just ordered a catalogue bride from the Far East. He wanted detailed advice from Fakelove, as he had no previous experience of sex.

On Thursday Forty-Year-Old Virgin wrote. She criticised Doctor Fakelove for excessive broad-mindedness and for encouraging patients to engage in possibly unsuccessful sexual liaisons.

‘I take sex very seriously, and I do not wish to have an intimate relationship with a man who does not also take sexuality seriously.’

After the reprimands, the tone of the message became gentler and more intimate. ‘I have gained the impression that in your heart of hearts, despite everything, you take these questions seriously. I am prepared to meet you in earnest. Come to the terrace of the Café Noir on the sixteenth. You will recognise me by my pink top and leopard-print hipsters.’

Fakelove hesitated for a second, then deleted the message. There were more enticing invitations on offer.

In all their variety, those who sought Fakelove’s advice nevertheless had something in common: they were all unhappy and they imagined that Doctor Fakelove might have ways of picking unhappiness out of their lives like pulling a weed out of a bed of perennials.

Fakelove himself had few illusions about his own capacities. As a young man he had asked his teacher, an old professor, whether he had ever healed anyone.

‘My dear friend,’ said the professor, ‘you must leave such megalomanic ideas behind you immediately.’

This answer had made a deep impression on Fakelove’s mind. The longer he practised, the more convinced he became of its veracity.

But if someone asked what sex really was, Doctor Fakelove fell silent, humble, for once at a loss for words. He knew as little and as much about it as his patients.

One thing Fakelove’s profession had nevertheless taught him with unusual rigour: what a crushingly heavy cross, what a tormenting burden the sex urge was. It was like revenge for something. What a great deal of unhappiness it brought in punishment for moments of enjoyment. With what many-splendoured flowers of evil it sprouted and stank, and how long, in how many thousands of ways, it kept people awake, made them grow old and ill, and tortured them.

But the world without it? It was bare and cold, it was without aura and brilliance, lacking a colour that could not be found in any palette, but only in the human heart.

The Son of the Chimera

I was born, but not because anyone wanted it to happen. No one even knew it was possible, for my mother was a human being, my father a chimera. He was one of the first multi-species hybrids.

Only one picture of my father survives. It is not a photograph, but a water-colour, painted by my mother. My father is sitting in an armchair, book in hand, one cloven hoof placed delicately on top of the other. According to my mother, he liked to leaf through illustrated books, although he never learned to read. He is wearing an elegant, muted blue suit jacket, but no trousers at all. Thick grey fur covers his strong legs, right down to his hoofs. Small horns curve gracefully over his convex forehead. Striking, in his face, are his round, yellow eyes, his extraordinarily wide mouth, his tiny chin and his surprisingly large but flat nose.

Virgin forest is visible through the window behind him, and above it a moon that is reddish, as if it were oozing blood. If you look a little more closely at the picture, you notice that Håkan’s book carries the same picture of Håkan, in which he gazes at the same book by the light of the same moon.

Schoolwork never really held my mother’s attention. This was a disappointment to my grandmother, who was a high court judge. My aunt always said that my mother lacked perseverance. All the same, my mother has always worked and earned her own living. She dropped out of school, tried three times to get into art college and was rejected each time. But she never lost her hobby of painting. Later she survived on temporary jobs, cleaning in various institutions, spent some time as assistant to the cobbler at the opera house, then moved on to the central parish kitchen. From time to time she filled in for the caretaker at the city museum.

My mother met my father at Hydra, the laboratory of an international gene technology institution, where she had a job for a couple of months. There my mother cleaned, and was sometimes expected to feed the laboratory animals.

‘Did you like it at Hydra?’ I asked.

‘It was one of my best jobs,’ my mother said. ‘Even the cleaners were treated like human beings, and the laboratory buildings were so modern and spacious. There were plenty of workers, but even I was reasonably well-paid. I was happy to clean the laboratory animal rooms, particularly when I was able to work by myself. After five, it was peaceful and light in there. The chimeras had just been fed and most of them were fast asleep, for after the experiments they were given sedatives. The only sound was that of the computer ventilators and, from time to time, a rumbling from the plumbing of the embryo cupboards.’

‘Tell me something else about Daddy,’ I asked.

‘Your father, Håkan, wasn’t the only chimera in the lab. There were already dozens of them when Håkan was born, but most of them were combinations of two species. Håkan was a special case. He was the first four-species chimera: chimpanzee, wolf, goat and human.

‘You will remember that the scientists had succeeded in transplanting into Håkan twenty thousand of the eighty thousand human genes. All the rest were genes from the three other species, but in what proportions I was never able to discover.

‘Around the time of the events that led to your birth, there was no longer anything new even about multichimeras. There were already hybrids of seven species among the laboratory chimeras at Hydra.

‘But Håkan was the oldest of the laboratory animals; he had even been patented. He had been the whole lab’s favourite, not just because of the patent, but because he was such a gentle and docile chimera. But by the time I arrived at Hydra to clean and look after the animals, no one was interested in Håkan any more, and he was no longer young. The only time he got any attention was during controlled experiments and the inevitable caring routines.

‘I liked his humble and melancholic, but sometimes amazingly animated chimpanzee’s gaze. The irises of his eyes were yellow, but his pupils often dilated – perhaps on account of the drugs – so much that his gaze was deep and black. Often, after I had fed the chimeras, I lingered, stroking Håkan’s woolly fringe, and he rubbed his disproportionately large head against my white forearm, which was still plump then. Before long there grew up between us a mute but durable friendship.

‘Håkan had good hearing, but the scientists and laboratory animal assistants did not know whether he understood anything of human speech. There had apparently been at one time great hopes for his capacity for language, and quite early on he learned to react to his own name and understand simple commands, like a dog. But despite regular lessons from a phoniatrist, he never learned to speak. The sounds he made consisted of whimpers, bleats and strange howls that became more impassioned as mealtimes drew near.

‘”That’s a wolf-whistle,” they used to say.

‘He walked on two legs, but with some difficulty, for Håkan had goat’s hoofs, as you know. His forepaws, on the other hand, were three-fingered and almost hairless, and he used them with great skill. He had a little tuft of a tail, and with the exception of his forepaws a thick coat of wolf’s fur covered him from his hoofs to his convex chimpanzee’s forehead. No one could have called him beautiful, however pretty the curve of his horns. There was really extraordinarily little about his appearance that was human, apart from his nose, his shoulders and his shoulder-blades. In his cage Håkan had a swing in which he spent most of his waking hours. Everyone knew that Håkan’s time was nearly up; when he reached his tenth birthday the last needle awaited him.

‘That thought was hard for me to bear. My own job at Hydra was only temporary, and I had decided that after Håkan I would have nothing more to do with the place. I had not planned anything in advance, but quite unexpectedly a moment came in which I found myself intervening in Håkan’s destiny. And my own life changed too.

‘On my last day at work at Hydra, Håkan was awake, and his eyes followed me incessantly. When I pushed my finger through the wires of the cage door to scratch Håkan’s forehead, I realised to my amazement that the door was unlocked and ajar. One of the lab assistants had been careless.

‘I opened the door to be able to pat Håkan more easily. But Håkan took the opportunity to clamber out of his cage.

‘”What d’you do that for?” I said to your father.’

‘Didn’t you even try to get Daddy back into the cage?’ I asked.

‘No, I didn’t. I thought it would do him good to walk around the room for a while. There’s not much extra space in laboratory animals’ cages, as you may have guessed.

‘As I said, Håkan never learned to walk properly, but in his enthusiasm he stood up and, with the help of his strong forepaws, was able to clamber. His back hoofs slipped on the shiny tiles of the laboratory floor, and he toppled over, whimpering pathetically. I took him in my arms. At that moment, feeling his warmth and his weight against my breasts, as his pure, woolly scent penetrated my nostrils, I suddenly knew that I never wanted to be parted from Håkan again. Håkan meant nothing to anyone else in the world, and I was the only one Håkan cared for. How could I have rejected his affection – far less abandon him?’

‘In other words, you stole Daddy.’

‘That’s right. I wrapped Håkan in a blanket and carried him as if he were a rucksack through the evening bustle of the streets to my own little bedsit. I could feel his rapid breathing on my neck and cheek, and his gentle warmth spread throughout my body. He weighed about thirty kilos, and I had to rest from time to time. I could not afford a taxi, and I did not dare take the bus with Håkan, as I was afraid that he might begin to yelp and attract too much attention.

‘”You can sleep here,” I said, when we got home.

‘I made him a bed in the bath-tub, as I was afraid that some friend might come visiting and I would not have time to hide Håkan. In fact, I lived such a lonely life that it was unlikely in the extreme.’

‘But wasn’t he ever missed?’

‘I did have one telephone call. It was an assistant, and he asked me if I knew anything about an escaped chimera. I denied it, of course. After that I heard nothing. They forgot me and they forgot Håkan, as if we had never existed.

‘We began to live a life of our own. It was a peaceful and harmonious home. I talked to Håkan a lot, and he understood me better each day. I began to be able to make out distinct sounds in his yelps. After a while he began to give short answers to my questions. Often he doubled up the first syllable of a word. Water was wa-wa, sleeping slee-slee. He also learned to smile so that his sharp wolf’s teeth flashed. I realised that his consciousness and capacity for development had been drastically underestimated throughout his short life.

‘I saw in him an old soul which was bound to a deformed body, a combination of many human parts. How can we ever be forgiven for the wrong we did him? But still: without that wrong, he would never have been born, and neither would you.

‘He began to eat at table, but never really succeeded in learning to use a knife and fork. Because he was so small, I got him a high chair. In the evenings, we listened to music or I read aloud to him. Your father liked Schubert’s Lieder so much that sometimes he used to sink into a kind of semi-conscious ecstasy, which worried me a little.