Leena Krohn: Collected Fiction

by Leena Krohn

  Emil set off to follow him once more.

  They arrived at a park and the gravel crunched under their feet, the bird’s in his paddle-shaped shoes and Emil’s in his trainers. The pelican slowed his pace, gazing at the tops of the lime trees, where the wind fussed about; he seemed to be breathing deeply, and he sounded as if he might have been humming something.

  Then a scrap of paper fell out of his pocket. Emil hurried to pick it up—the bird himself hadn’t noticed anything. On it large letter As were scrawled over and over again in a shaky, spidery (or was that pelicany?) hand.

  The bird was learning the alphabet!

  Emil ran after him.

  “Excuse me, but you dropped this.”

  The pelican turned towards him and croaked a polite thank-you, but he looked worried. Maybe he was embarrassed that someone had found out that he was learning the alphabet—at his age!

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Pelican,” Emil said in a loud voice.

  The bird started visibly, and dropped the piece of paper again. He tried to pick it up off the ground with clumsy, trembling wings. Emil picked it up again.

  “Here you are, Mr. Pelican,” he said again, staring determinedly into the bird’s round yellow eyes, which were suddenly hidden behind transparent eyelids. But he had had time before that to note a panicked look in them, and pity squeezed his heart, surprising him. “You don’t need to be afraid, I won’t tell anyone,” he reassured him now, in a low voice.

  Near where they were standing was a park bench, and next to the bench was a small drinking fountain, the kind that sends a low jet of water into the air when you turn the tap at the side. The bird went over to the fountain with tottering steps and drank, keeping his other wing on his heart. Then he sank down onto the bench so that his pipe-cleaner legs inside his tweed trousers stuck straight out into the air. Emil sat down next to the bird and looked tactfully elsewhere while he tried to regain his composure.

  After a short time he heard that strange cawing voice once again: “May I be so bold as to inquire,” (his way of speaking was very educated), “how you came to discover my,” (here he hesitated for a moment), “my origins?”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” The boy was amazed. “There was no discovering about it. It’s obvious.”

  “Not to humans,” the bird argued. “Humans have such special eyes that they can’t see anything with them except what they think they see. But perhaps you aren’t human.”

  He looked at Emil hopefully.

  “No, I am,” Emil assured him. He sounded almost apologetic.

  “Are you completely sure?”

  “Yes, completely sure.”

  “I can’t deny that you look human. But one can never be too careful . . . ”

  Emil felt uncomfortable with those sulphur yellow eyes examining him so searchingly. For a moment he thought that maybe the bird was right and he was wrong: that deep down he was something very different from those creatures who crowded the streets and the buildings, who had last names and first names, jobs and tax brackets.

  But the pelican stopped staring and sighed. “Up until now people have only seen my clothes. And they are the clothes of a gentleman; beautiful clothes, are they not?”

  He fingered the lapel of his jacket and looked at Emil demandingly. Emil admitted that he did have elegant clothes.

  “Because I wear human clothes, I am human. That is the general consensus.”

  The bird drew a large A in the sand with his walking stick, but it came out looking wrong.

  “It’s not quite like that,” Emil said. He bent down and corrected the letter with his finger.

  “Really; so you know how to write,” said the pelican thoughtfully.

  “Of course,” Emil said, trying not to laugh. “I’m going into the year nine of Victoria Park Secondary School in the autumn.”

  “Is that so?”

  Now the bird drew wings in the sand, both extended for flight and folded down.

  “It is a difficult art,” he said as if to himself, and then pushed the tip of his walking stick hard into the sand.

  “Would you agree to teach me? I would pay, of course.” He stared at Emil once more with unflinching yellow eyes. “Would you teach me to read and write?”

  Emil hesitated. “I’ve never taught anyone before. I’m not sure if I know how.” But when he noticed the bird’s face (insofar as it could be called a face) falling and his whole posture sagging, he hurriedly continued. “I can try, though.”

  The pelican rose and shook his future teacher’s hand formally—though it could hardly be called a handshake: it was just the brush of a wing, feather-light.

  “Shall we agree then to meet tomorrow, at five o’clock?”

  “Tomorrow at five,” Emil repeated.

  They parted by a statue of a long-dead general.

  The Alphabet

  The next day Emil stood outside the pelican’s door, on the eighth floor of number six, at exactly five o’clock. The nameplate did indeed read Henderson. He rang the doorbell, and after a short while splashing noises began to be audible from the other side of the door. Bare flippers, Emil guessed. The pelican opened the door in a dazzling red dressing-gown, which had green and blue peacocks embroidered on it. (His partiality to bright colours was becoming more and more apparent).

  “Do come in,” he urged politely.

  Emil stepped into the living room. It looked like the sort of bachelor pad that he had seen in his mother’s old interior decoration magazines. There was a teak bookcase equipped with a drinks cabinet, a sofa-bed, a stereo and a television. But the room had an uninhabited air about it.

  “Just a moment,” the bird said from the doorway. “I will change my clothes. This clothing is perhaps not completely appropriate for a writing lesson. I was just in the bath, you see.”

  “In fact,” he continued, more slowly and with greater emphasis, “I am always in the bath.”

  The bird gave the boy a sidelong glance, as if he was expecting to see some sign of surprise in his face. But Emil nodded seriously. That would explain the vacant feel of the living room.

  “I live in the bathtub,” the pelican added defiantly, and because Emil felt that he ought to say something he muttered:

  “Well of course, you miss the water. You must be from the coast originally.”

  “The coast,” the bird repeated dreamily, and his eyes began to glisten with moisture.

  Then he was gone, and the gurgling of water running down the plughole was mixed with the sound of a husky voice singing:

  It murmurs, it murmurs,

  The sea it murmurs,

  The deeps grow dim as night draws down,

  The white-caps fade, light drops to drown

  In Neptune’s nets,

  In silent depths;

  It rocks the gulls towards their rest.

  He returned wearing a sweater and velvet trousers, and a cloud of aftershave hung in the air around him, although it was clear that he had never in his life needed to shave.

  “To work, to work,” he urged briskly, and Emil took his old primer out of his rucksack.

  The letters were not in alphabetical order; instead the book began with E and O. On the first page there was a picture of a train engine, and there was nothing written there except EE O OO OOO. They were simple letters and the bird quickly learned to write them and especially to pronounce them. He didn’t just imitate the train’s whistle, he was the train’s whistle, so much so that Emil, in his role as the teacher, had to ask him to go on to the next page before the janitor came to ring the doorbell. After all, trains were not allowed to whistle in council flats.

  The pelican was a phenomenal student. By the time the evening began to darken he was already, with Emil’s help, able to understand the following chapter passably well: TOOT TOOT GOES THE LORRY. THE ENGINE CHUGS. IT IS A BIG LORRY. IT GOES FAST. IT BRINGS EGGS TO THE SHOPS. WILL YOU FALL OFF? ASKS THE DRIVER. I WON’T FALL OFF. LET’S GO. I’M HOLDING ON TIGHT.
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  The pelican was extremely pleased with the last sentences. He closed his eyes as if he was remembering something funny and repeated: LET’S GO. I’M HOLDING ON TIGHT.

  To end the lesson Emil recited This Little Piggy to the pelican, who was still listening with great concentration. All the time he was reciting it, the bird stared with admiration at Emil’s bare feet, and as each toe was mentioned he touched Emil’s corresponding toe with his wingtip.

  THIS LITTLE PIGGY WENT TO MARKET,

  THIS LITTLE PIGGY STAYED AT HOME,

  THIS LITTLE PIGGY HAD ROAST BEEF,

  THIS LITTLE PIGGY HAD NONE,

  AND THIS LITTLE PIGGY WENT “WEE WEE WEE”

  ALL THE WAY HOME.

  It was now so late that the pelican had to turn on the light. He had shown himself to be a diligent and attentive student, who would obviously soon be able to read fluently. But, to the pelican’s mind, there was nothing to complain about as far as the teacher was concerned either.

  “You have excellent pedagogical skills,” he praised. “And now, some light refreshments.” He disappeared into the kitchen, from where the sound of clinking plates could soon be heard. When he reappeared, he was carrying a tray on which a teacup, some sandwiches and meringues, and a dish of raw herring were elegantly arranged. “That is for myself,” he said, indicating the dish. “Everything else is for the professor.”

  They set to with a good appetite, although Emil sometimes forgot his own food as he watched how the herring disappeared into the bird’s impressive throat-bag.

  When they had finished enjoying the snack, the pelican settled himself into a more comfortable position in his chair.

  “Perhaps you are wondering why an . . . individual . . . such as myself would live and dress as a human, learning your language and striving in every way to behave just as you do?”

  Emil admitted that he had indeed been wondering just that.

  “Would you care to hear my story? I warn you, it is long.”

  But without waiting for Emil’s answer, the pelican began his tale.

  The Pelican’s Story 1

  Into the World of Humans

  I come originally from the southern coast, were the sea is salty and warm and the waves of high tide crash against the sand dunes. I lived there happily among my family and friends in a great flock; we divided our time between fishing, caring for our children and enjoyable social interaction.

  But as time went on humans became ever more intrusive. They were no longer satisfied merely with hunting us: they began to build their factories and power stations on the beaches of our homeland as well. Their sewage and run-off drove the fish further and further away, so that we began to suffer from hunger and all kinds of discomforts. We moved on again and again, and thus we finally ended up in the North. My loved ones settled in, but I began to think: humans flourish and live well, humans spread in all directions and make their lives more and more comfortable. Animals have a different lot: the better life is for humans, the worse it is for us. Our homes are destroyed by chainsaws and bulldozers, our food becomes ever scarcer and our homes more cramped. Dead fish float to the surface, the soil is poisoned and eggshells become so brittle that they break before the chicks are fully-grown.

  I began to envy humans. I thought: since I cannot live in peace as an animal, then let me be a human. They have the upper hand, and I wish to join them.

  Among the birds in my area I was the only one who dreamed of something like this. I had already been investigating the lives of humans for years: I had hidden in the safety of bushes to hear the conversations of sun-worshippers on the beach, and I had followed them silently when, as the sun set, they returned to their homes.

  I had been spying on them. I had watched them in secret from behind the glass as, when darkness had fallen, they turned on bright, cold lights and gathered to dine in their handsome nests. I saw that they surrounded themselves with innumerable objects, the purpose of which I could not guess, and which remained behind when they themselves were gone. I learned the beginnings of their language; I learned that a name could be given to almost everything in the world.

  I have always had an excellent head for languages, the best of those among whom I was brought up. I can speak the dialect of gulls fluently, and can even exchange a few words with cormorants. But the language of humans is the most charming and complex of any that I know. I fell in love with it, I savoured its vowels and consonants in my beak and they tasted delicious; my passion for them grew and grew. When the shore was deserted, I would cry them aloud into the wind; I remembered them at night in my dreams, and to those of my children who still lived in the nest I gave human names: Ursula, Serendipity, Lionheart and Apollo. Of the dazzling light I said: “That is the sun,” and of the sea: “That is water,” and the whole world became different from before, it dissolved into its components and was built anew.

  Human language and human hands! I adore hands, naked nimble hands with their five projections, each tipped with a small sliver of mother-of-pearl, and with which one can grasp, pull, push, turn, press, slap and caress. I would exchange my wings for them at any time, and I learned how to use my quill feathers as if they were fingers.

  Day after day I followed humans, imitating their gestures and customs, listening to their speech and envying, envying. I became isolated from my family and friends. I ceased to be a bird, and I decided to become a human among humans.

  My wife and my friends were horrified to hear of my decision. They tried to persuade me to stay and wept bitter tears, but I remained firm. I intended to go north, to the place where I had heard that a large city was situated, and live as humans lived. My youngest son begged: “Take me with you.” But I refused: “Not yet. One day I will return and take you all with me. One day we will live together again, but then we will be humans.”

  Then the fateful day arrived, the day which turned my life in a completely new direction.

  On the beach, day-trippers sprawled on bath-towels and drank yellow lemonade. Without further ado I stole a young swimmer’s clothes and walked without haste to the road which led to the city. This was my first attempt, and my trial by fire, but I succeeded. No one saw past my disguise, no one stopped me and tore off my stolen clothes. I melted, unnoticed, into the stream of day-trippers that flowed towards the city as the light of the summer’s day began to fade.

  I did as I saw many young humans doing: I positioned myself at the side of the road and signalled with my wing the direction in which I desired to travel, and before a great deal of time had passed someone picked me up. In the car were a young couple who had also spent their day at the beach, and they enquired politely which way I was going.

  I became confused, and tried to dig the name of some place or street from my memory, but my mind could recall only one word: Opera. I had no idea what Opera was, but I had snatched the word from a discussion between two young girls on the beach.

  “You must be going to see The Magic Flute,” said the driver of the car. “We tried to get tickets too, but they were sold out.”

  I did not have the slightest idea what he was talking about, but I nodded my head as if I knew everything about magic and flutes.

  And then! Let’s go! I’m holding on tight!

  The road, which was marked with white lines, rolled back underneath the car. The woods and fields, stained by the sunset, the chewing cows, the human dwellings, the fences, the electricity pylons—they all flew past. Everything was new and wonderful to me, ideas awoke in me of a life which was brighter and broader than the past that I had left behind at the coast, and I regretted that I had not left it long ago.

  Gradually more and more buildings began to appear at the side of the road; they began to join together and become taller. The roads branched into new roads and became streets, the greenery disappeared, the daylight faded, but the bright electric lights illuminated the car’s journey. Now we travelled as if in a deep ravine, along the narrow channel left between the walls of the sto
ne houses. Before us, behind us and on either side sped vehicles similar to the one in which we ourselves were travelling. The new lights and sounds began to frighten me, but it was too late to turn back, and at that same moment we stopped.

  “This is the Opera,” said the driver.

  I looked at the great, brightly lit building; elegantly dressed people hastened in through its doors.

  “I hope you enjoy the performance,” the woman said. “I’m jealous that you’ll get to hear La Sambina.”

  I thanked the couple for the lift, and the driver opened the door for me. I myself was so clumsy and inexperienced that I was unable to get it open.

  There I stood on alien soil, stones as a matter of fact, which were cut into regular shapes and set closely side by side. I was away from my loved ones for the first time, and I suddenly felt as if someone had bitten into the side of my heart and tried to tear a large piece off. Since then my heart has ached continually, ceaselessly, and I know the name of that disease: homesickness. But it is too mild a name, since it is not simply sickness, but pain, which at times becomes agony.

  The stream of people pulled me along with it. I was carried to an illuminated staircase and into a spacious lobby. The stream became narrower there and flowed towards a smaller doorway, where a man dressed in gold and red stood guard. A beautiful woman who was walking in front of me, at whose throat glittered a string of droplets, handed him a slip of paper. The man tore it in two, kept one half and returned the other to the woman. I noticed that other people who were approaching the door had similar slips. Only I was without such a thing.

  I was jostled forward, and by chance my wing slipped into a small hole which was sewn into the clothes that I had stolen. (It was a trouser pocket.) Something rustled inside it. I took it out, and saw to my joy that it was a piece of white paper. Unsure, I handed it to the guard, who tore it in half indifferently with a practised air.

  I still have a piece of that important paper. It was a mere bus ticket, and only the man’s carelessness or his inconceivable good nature meant that I found myself, on my first day as a human being, at the opera.