Leena Krohn: Collected Fiction (54 page)

‘The artist knows that there is no art without sacrifice,’ Håkan said, half-turning toward the glass case.

‘Fiat ars, pereat mundus!’

Good God, he raised his axe. I could not stop myself shouting his name, twice even. The guard also screamed, and the suited lady tried to grab Håkan’s hand.

Too late. The axe fell heavily and the glass splintered into a tinkling rain of fragments. At the same time as the audience jumped backwards, a cloud of flies rose from the shards, buzzing like a motor-saw. The other buzzing was from the cameraman’s video. The stench swelled until it was palpable. Small, unpleasant thumps were heard as the flies bounced off the walls and the ceiling.

Håkan stood in the midst of this incomprehensible vision calm, even sublime, dangling the axe casually from his left hand.

A girl whimpered; it looked to me as if she had been wounded in the face by one of the splinters of glass. The disorder was extraordinarily unpleasant, and I stood against a wall, behind the column where, a moment ago, the embalmed finger had stood. Now it was absent; perhaps it had fallen during the confusion and been trodden under people’s heels.

There was plenty of noise, and more guards ran into the room through both doors at the same time as the counter-current carried the audience, pursued by the flesh flies. They ran out as fast as they could, holding their clothes up to protect their faces, at a gallop. There was a clattering as from hundreds of trotters and hoofs. The cameraman followed at their heels, continuing constantly to video the proceedings.

I stayed behind to look for the finger, I was suddenly so sorry for it, the innocent little finger, the lonely finger that would never again find its own hand. But I could not see even a nail, either it had been stolen or then it had been beaten to dust by the audience’s heels. There was one, at least, of the victims of art.

Håkan, on the other hand, was calmly putting his axe back in the violin case. When the police finally arrived, there was not much argument. By that time the room was almost empty, with the exception of the guard, myself and the museum director.

‘Maybe the artist went a little too far this time,’ one of the constables said. ‘After all, you can’t do just anything in the name of art. And in a museum, too!’

‘As if you understood anything about it,’ Håkan said, almost tenderly.

But he followed them without resistance, smiling composedly. Doubtless he considered his performance a success. At least they did not put him in handcuffs; for that I was grateful on behalf of my poor old uncle.

As he reached me, Håkan stopped, as if expecting praise. I only said to him, shaking my head, ‘Håkan, Håkan!’

What else could I have said?

The Ice-Cream Seller

‘Where’s that sound coming from,’ Elsa asked in astonishment. ‘Just as if someone were writing on a typewriter.’

‘But no one uses a typewriter on the beach,’ her mother said. ‘It must be a lawnmower. Or an outboard motor.’

‘But it’s coming from the ice-cream kiosk!’ Elsa said. ‘Let’s go and see!’

On the empty beach stood a small, white building. Why was the beach empty, although it was such a hot day, Elsa and her mother wondered. Generally, on clear days, it was difficult to find a space for your bath-towel, and there was a long queue for the ice-cream kiosk. Today they did not see a soul. It was like witchcraft. But they did have the beach to themselves.

When they got close to the kiosk, the energetic tapping was even clearer. Elsa glanced at her mother and said: ‘That’s no motor.’

‘No, you’re right,’ her mother said.

Inside the ice-cream kiosk sat Håkan, writing on a small traveling typewriter. Håkan was wearing a black suit, a white shirt and a dark blue silk tie. He was writing with great concentration, sitting upright, grandly. From time to time his eyes absent-mindedly scanned the horizon and the deserted beach.

‘A new ice-cream seller!’ Elsa said.

‘Looks like it,’ her mother said. ‘What a costume for the job.’

‘A bit silly!’ Elsa said. ‘He’s sitting in the kiosk, writing. I wonder why?’

‘Go and buy some ice-cream,’ said her mother in a tired voice, closing her eyes again. ‘I’ll wait here in the shade. Perhaps he will be able to take enough time off writing to sell you a cone. You certainly won’t have to queue like you usually do.’

‘Won’t you have one?’

‘Yes, I will, bring me a mango one, if he has one,’ her mother said.

Elsa looked at the ice-cream kiosk. A haze shimmered over the sand. It was as if the kiosk were inside a cloud, but it was also a cloud of words.

As Elsa approached, Håkan raised his fingers from the typewriter’s keys.

‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.

‘Why are you writing?’ Elsa asked.

‘Because I have to.’

‘Aha. What are you writing?’

‘My will,’ Håkan said. ‘Kind of.’

‘The sort where you say who will get your things when you are dead?’

‘A different sort,’ Håkan said. ‘And what would you like?’

‘Mango ice-creams. Two. Are you intending to die soon?’

Håkan put two scoops of pale yellow mango ice-cream into each of two waffle cones.

‘I’m not intending to at all, but it might turn out that way all the same. And not just for me. That will be eighteen marks.’

Elsa took the exact money from her purse for Håkan.

‘Other people too, do you mean?’

‘Have you noticed,’ Håkan said, ‘that there is no end in sight for this heat-wave at all?’

‘Yes,’ said Elsa. ‘It’s great. You can go to the beach every day.’

‘Great or not so great, depends on how you look at it,’ Håkan said. ‘You have to prepare yourself for everything.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Heat-waves are not always harmless,’ Håkan said.

‘Do you mean that someone could die from the heat?’ Elsa said, dubiously.

‘Why not,’ Håkan said. He began to tap away again and no longer paid Elsa any attention.

Before Elsa could reach the shade with her ice-cream cones, they were already half-melted.

‘That ice-cream kiosk man said some strange things,’ Elsa said to her mother. ‘I began to be frightened.’

‘Did he frighten you?’

‘He said someone could die. And he was writing his will.’

‘He was kidding you,’ her mother said. She went back to the ice-cream kiosk. Håkan was writing with such concentration that at first he did not notice his customer at all. Elsa’s mother tapped on the counter with her nails, and Håkan raised his head and stopped tapping.

‘I hope you’re not frightening little children,’ Elsa’s mother said.

‘Sorry?’ Håkan asked.

‘Did you just tell my daughter someone might die?’

‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’

‘That you said so?’

‘I mean, someone could.’

‘Why not? But an ice-cream seller doesn’t necessarily need to discuss such subjects with a child.’

‘In general, no. But these times are exceptional. There is a lot it is worth talking about. There is a lot it is worth preparing for. Especially if you have a family.’

‘What are you talking about now? What sort of times?’

‘Pay attention to the weather, is all I will say. And the birds.’

‘The birds?’

Elsa’s mother eyed the shore and the sea. She did not see a single bird.

‘But there are no birds here.’

‘No,’ said Håkan. ‘And no people. Very strange, isn’t it?’

Mother went back and said to Elsa: ‘Best not to pay attention to what he says. I think he’s a little, a little – ’

‘Crazy,’ Elsa suggested.

‘Exactly,’ her mother said. ‘Strange, anyway.’

‘Ugh,’ Elsa said. She had found a sun-cream bottle.

‘What’s is it?’ her mother asked.

‘Sun cream! It’s leaked into the bag. Our sunglasses and hair-brush and your book – everything is covered in oil.’

‘Isn’t the top on properly?’

‘It is,’ Elsa said.

‘There must be a hole in it somewhere,’ mother said.

Elsa wiped the bottle and cork and inspected both carefully.

‘There isn’t,’ Elsa said. ‘There’s no hole anywhere.’

‘Show me.’

Elsa’s mother turned round to take the bag and fished out the bottle of sun-cream. Its cap really was tightly closed. Her fingers slipped as she tried, in vain, to twist it open, but all their things were stained with the yellow oil.

‘It’s a mystery,’ Elsa said, almost content. ‘And it will never be solved.’

‘Perhaps. Isn’t it time for you to go for a swim?’ her mother asked.

‘Yes, but first I want another ice-cream,’ Elsa said.

She did not really want ice-cream. But she wanted to continue the conversation with Håkan.

‘That’s the last for today, then,’ her mother said. ‘And don’t hang around talking to that man.’

‘Another mango?’ Håkan asked Elsa.

‘No, something else.’

‘We also have pistachio,’ Håkan said to Elsa. ‘You don’t get that everywhere. Were you frightened just now? I didn’t mean to scare you. But facts are facts.’

‘Not really. I’ll take the pistachio, then,’ Elsa said. ‘A big one.’

Her temples had begun to hurt. It felt as if there was a slight scent of sulphur in the air.

‘Are you a real ice-cream seller?’ Elsa could not help asking.

‘No. I’m just deputizing.’

‘Do deputies always wear suits like that?’

‘Not generally. And permanent staff don’t, either.’

‘Why have you got one, then?’

‘Because it’s a special day.’

‘Is it your birthday?’

‘Quite the opposite, really,’ Håkan said.

‘Oh.’ Elsa had to begin eating her ice-cream, for it was already melting through the holes in the waffle.

‘Do you know how hot it is now?’

‘I do. We have a thermometer here,’ Håkan said helpfully. ‘It’s now showing thirty-nine.’

‘Oh dear!’ Elsa said. ‘Can you die of that?’

‘Not at that temperature,’ Håkan said. ‘If you’re a healthy person.’

‘That’s good,’ Elsa said. ‘I am quite healthy.’

‘It lasts its time,’ Håkan said.

‘What?’

‘Health. But perhaps it’s time to go now.’

‘Go where?’

‘Back home,’ Håkan said. ‘I’ll be going soon too.’

‘Are they going to close the beach?’

‘It should be closed,’ Håkan said.

Elsa went back to her mother, who had dampened a towel and covered her face with it.

‘Mother?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s thirty-nine degrees here. But he said that you don’t die of that.’

Her mother snorted. ‘That’s comforting to hear. But why did you go and speak to that man?’

‘He said we should leave.’

‘Did he say that? Cheeky fellow! It’s not for an ice-cream seller to decide how long we can spend on the beach.’

‘But he said the whole beach should be closed.’

‘Why on earth? Don’t go to the kiosk again. You never know with guys like that. What they will make up next.’

‘Do you know how I feel?’ Elsa asked. ‘Just like in an airplane. When your ears feel funny.’

‘Swallow. Perhaps it’s got something to do with the barometric pressure. I’m sure it must have fallen.’

Elsa thought for a moment, swallowing and licking her ice-cream.

‘What if that was behind the sun-cream business, too. Perhaps there’s going to be a thunderstorm, or something like that,’ Elsa said, a little anxiously.

‘Maybe,’ her mother said. ‘The weather’s changing, that’s for certain. It can’t go on like this for long. I think there’s a real storm brewing. Perhaps we really should go home. But not on account of the ice-cream seller.’

‘I want to have a swim first. That’s why we came here, after all.’

‘Of course you can go. Perhaps I should, too,’ her mother conceded. ‘Although I’m sure the water will be boiling. It won’t be very refreshing.’

They walked lazily to the water’s edge, Elsa a little in front. But just before her toes touched the water, she stopped.

‘What now?’ her mother asked.

‘Let’s not go, after all,’ she said. ‘There’s something strange about the water. There’s something in it.’

‘Fish!’ her mother said.

‘Look, they’re all swimming the wrong way up,’ Elsa said.

‘They’re not swimming,’ her mother said.

In the shallows there floated fish of many sizes and species. Their white bellies shone. They stank.

‘Are they dead?’ Elsa asked.

‘Looks like it. Strange that the birds haven’t noticed them yet,’ her mother said, and Elsa gazed at the empty, hot sky.

‘The birds have gone,’ someone said. The ice-cream seller was standing on the sandy beach in his elegant suit. His black shoes shone. It was so solemnly quiet.

‘They look as if they’ve been cooked,’ Elsa said, looking at the fish.

‘My dear, they
are
cooked,’ Håkan said gently. ‘Look.’

The sea was dead calm. The rushes stood up straight like spears. But from amid the reed-bed and beyond, where the haze hid the view, a bubbling sound began to be heard. The water simmered and babbled.

‘Why did the water start to move like that?’ Elsa asked.

They looked in turn at the simmering surface of the sea and at the haze, which had begun to thicken. It roiled and swirled, thicker and thicker. The hot, stinking fog wrapped itself around them and soaked their hair.

‘It’s steam,’ Håkan said. ‘The sea is boiling.’

‘What will you think of next?’ Elsa’s mother said, dumbfounded. ‘And in front of a child!’

‘Run!’ Håkan said to Elsa. ‘Let’s see who gets to the car first.’

He turned to her mother and said pointedly: ‘You too, madam.’

Elsa’s mother grabbed Elsa by the hand and they ran as they had never run before. At one point Elsa nearly stumbled, and looked behind her. Amid the steam she could distinguish the ice-cream seller’s upright, black-dressed figure. He was not running.

The ice-cream seller raised his hand in greeting and behind him, far out in the open sea, there rose a shimmering white bubble, round as a mother’s breast. It swelled and spread like a dream beneath the strange, white-hot sun.

Totalpro

That spring, once again, Håkan was looking for work. He had put in applications for three jobs, but in fact he had little hope. Håkan had prepared himself for the eventuality that he would draw a blank with all of them. His doubts did not stem only from the fact that the jobs for which he had applied were sought-after, demanding and well-paid. Håkan knew that his education was certainly sufficient, and more than sufficient. He had an excellent command of languages and his age, too, was ideal, but these characteristics did not guarantee work, or at least not a job that fulfilled his requirements.