Leena Krohn: Collected Fiction

by Leena Krohn

  I had come into a high-ceilinged hall, whose walls were crowded with long balconies, and whose entire floor was covered with comfortable-looking chairs upholstered in red cloth. Pleasant-smelling women with bare arms and shoulders sat there, along with gentlemen who were clothed in black and white. For the first time I noticed that my own clothing differed markedly from that of everyone else present, and also that people were giving me surprised, even disapproving glances. I could not be sure if these were occasioned only by my costume or also by other aspects of my appearance, and so I sat stiffly in my chair amid the restrained hum of conversation with a lump in my throat, unable to relax.

  All the chairs were pointed in the same direction, so that we were all watching heavy curtains that extended from the ceiling to the floor. It occurred to me to get up and go to see what they were covering, but at that moment the lights began to dim and a wonderful voice began to be heard from somewhere. I had never heard anything like it in my life; neither the sea, nor the wind, nor any kind of bird nor, based on my experience up to that point, even a human was capable of creating such a sound.

  I forgot my surroundings and my fears about my clothing. I felt as if I had gained a new pair of wings, broader and stronger than the single pair that I had possessed before. The gnawing homesickness in my breast ceased, and although I had closed my eyes bright pictures danced beneath the lids. All of this was caused by the sounds, which went on, swelling, rising and falling. At times they lamented, at others they rang and laughed.

  For the first time in my life I had come into contact with music.

  It was a great evening for me. Everything that happened on the stage was living reality. The evil of the Queen of the Night and the goodness of Sarastro, the betrayal of Monostatos, the tests which Tamino and Papageno underwent and their love for Pamina and Papagena. I liked Papageno best, as he was dressed in feathers like myself, and he was lively and joyful, although not as wise and handsome as Tamino.

  Those marvellous sounds! Who could believe that such things could be heard by living ears? They came from trombones and trumpets, stringed instruments, woodwind, Papageno’s glockenspiel and the throats of humans, but to me they all represented the grandeur of humanity, its nobility and beauty.

  I was filled with bitterness towards the fate that had given me the wrong body. I had been given a shapeless beak, lead-grey legs, webbed feet and huge wings rather than a small, pretty human nose and a human mouth which could warble like a nightingale or argue wisely and amusingly; I did not have long, muscular legs like Tamino, or human hands that could do things that an animal cannot even dream of. But the music gave me the feeling that I was strong, that I could shape my own fate and take my life into my own wings. It was true that I had not been born human, but I could still become one.

  When Papageno sang:

  Oh, if I were a mouse

  How I should wish to hide

  A voice inside me moaned:

  Oh, if I were a human

  How I should create the world anew

  But then I completely forgot my own body, what I had been born as and what I must become. I was a great ear filled with joy and the richness of hope, I was a member of a choir of slaves that sang:

  What marvellous music!

  What miraculous sound!

  Never in my life have I heard

  Or seen its like before.

  But in due course it was over, and I stood once more in the street. The effect of the music evaporated, the homesickness returned, and when it attacked my heart once more it felt as though it had been away somewhere sharpening its teeth. But now a new feeling was gnawing at me from inside: hunger.

  I knew that a river ran through the city; we had crossed it at some stage, but the lights and sounds had confused me, so that I had lost my excellent sense of direction. But I had to find the river, because rivers mean fish.

  I began to wander aimlessly around the streets, and every now and then I raised my beak into the air, the better to sense the scent of water. The air which I drew into my lungs was a mixture of fumes and smoke, soot and dust. When I looked at those parts of my snow-white feathers that were not hidden by my clothes, it seemed to me as if the air had already caused them to lose their pale gleam. But through the smoke I now felt the gentle breath of water, and I quickened my pace, imagining that I would be able to drink, bathe and fish.

  The river was a bitter disappointment to me. It was not a real river, but rather an open sewer which transported the city-dwellers’ rubbish to the sea. It lapped pleasantly against the stone-lined bank, but the cold gleam of the electric lights on its ripples revealed a greenish film, mixed with all sorts of rubbish, covering its surface. There were rotting food-scraps, shredded paper, bottles and cans; I could not even think of washing, let alone drinking. Fishing would also have been a waste of energy, as I did not know any kinds of fish that would be at home in the waters of a sewer.

  No, loitering by the banks of the river was simply a waste of time, and I turned away, even more hungry and tired. It was already late: the streets were beginning to empty of people and cars, the lights in the windows of the houses were going out. Before that night I had never known loneliness; after that night it was my constant companion.

  I arrived at a square. It was a market square, where during the day people sold all kinds of food, although I did not know it then. However, I could smell rotting vegetables, even fish, and my beak led me to some barrels and waste bins that stood at the edge of the square. They were tall, and I had to use some packing boxes to help me before I could get my hands on their contents. I dug around in the rubbish with my wing, and the smell rising from the barrels turned my stomach, but I found many herring-heads, which satisfied the worst of my hunger.

  Now I was tired. The images of the beach and the reed-beds rose before my eyes; it was as if I could hear the soft breathing of my children—the reeds rustled, the moon glided into the centre of the sky, and the glittering of the stars was hidden behind its veil of light. My wife had covered her head with her wing. Alas, unhappy fool, what had I done?

  I continued my wandering mechanically, searching for a safe place where I could sleep for a moment. I drifted into a park, the same one where we met yesterday. There was a fountain there, as you must remember, and the tinkling of clean water was like the music of the Magic Flute to my ears.

  I threw my stolen clothes onto a park bench and waded into the basin. I drank from the glittering fountain, I wallowed and splashed, refreshed for a moment, completely forgetting my unpleasant experiences and the teeth that had gnawed at my heart, as the Magic Flute warbled to me with the voice of the dancing water.

  Having cleaned myself thoroughly, I withdrew into the shadow of a tall lime tree to rest, and, exhausted by the taxing day, sank immediately into a dreamless sleep.

  An angry man dressed in blue with a peaked cap on his head woke me up.

  “You can’t sleep here,” he said. “You can’t even lie down. And the rules say that you count as lying down as soon as one of your legs is on the bench. Come on, move it. Go home or go to work.”

  “I do not have a home, or any work,” I said innocently.

  “Oh, you don’t, do you?” asked the blue man. “In that case I’ll have to arrest you for vagrancy.”

  “What is vagrancy?” I asked.

  “It’s when you sleep in the park because you haven’t got a home or a job or any money.”

  It was true, I was a vagrant. I did not have two pence to rub together, but I had often heard humans talking about money.

  “What do you mean when you say you will arrest me?”

  “You must be pretty simple,” said the blue man. “And you’ve got an odd way of speaking. Where are you from?”

  “Over there, very far away.” And I indicated with my wing the direction in which I knew the sea foamed, salty and cold.

  “From abroad?”

  “From abroad,” I said, for at that point I still did not quite understand
the borders between lands and nations, and I thought ‘abroad’ was the opposite of “inland.”

  “Right. Show me your passport,” the blue man said.

  “What is a passport?”

  “Look, stop messing about or there’ll be trouble. Passport, now.”

  I fumbled anxiously in my clothes in the place where that evening I had found the scrap of paper which deceived the Opera attendant, and hoped that an equally happy chance would save me this time. My wing grasped something that rustled; I pulled it out hastily and slapped it into the large, outstretched palm.

  But the blue man’s face became enraged, he threw my offering to the ground with an angry gesture and grabbed me by the collar.

  “Right, we’re going to the station.”

  He dragged me behind him through the empty morning streets, as the rising sun glittered in the topmost windows of the houses and the morning breeze whirled the tatters of yesterday’s newspapers before it.

  Then we came to the “station,” as he called it. Behind some tables sat more blue men. They were yelling into odd-looking gadgets, which from time to time rang shrilly. They were telephones, I know that now. Others were talking sternly to people whose escorts were holding them by the arm, just like me.

  “What’ve you dragged in off the streets this time, Henderson?” someone asked my escort.

  “This gentleman’s a foreigner, but he doesn’t seem to have a passport. And d’you know what he had the nerve to do when I asked for his ID? He put a used tissue in my hand! Used!”

  “I see, so we’re a comedian, are we?” said the blue man who was sitting behind the desk. “And your name is?”

  I did not reply. I could not reply. It had come to my notice that all humans had names, but I myself had not yet acquired such a thing.

  “Name? Occupation? Address? Place and date of birth?”

  Anxiously, I said the first name that came into my head: “Papageno.”

  “You from Italy then?”

  Once more I did not reply, and he clearly took this as a confirmation, as he wrote something on his paper.

  “I suppose you’re a musician, are you?”

  I did not understand the word, but I nodded anyway.

  “What instrument do you play?”

  I still was not sure what the man meant, but he continued: “Violin?” He raised one of his hands to the level of his shoulder and made sawing motions with the other. “Piano?” The fingers of both hands drummed on the table-top. “Flute?” He pursed his lips and exercised his fingers in front of his mouth.

  Now I understood, and I nodded enthusiastically. The magic flute! I was Papageno, and of course Papageno played the magic flute. For a moment I believed it myself, although of course everybody knows that an individual who has wings instead of hands cannot play any kind of flute at all.

  The man who was questioning me looked a little more friendly now. He bent towards me and continued confidentially:

  “My daughter plays the flute as well, very lovely. But her flute teacher’s ill and we haven’t been able to get anyone else. How would it be if you took her on, Mr. Papageno?”

  I had fallen into a trap. I tried to stammer out some objections, but he leaned even closer and whispered:

  “This could be very advantageous for you, you understand. Passport and work permit and so on . . . ”

  So that was how things were. I remained stubbornly silent.

  “But if you can’t see your way clear . . . Well, in that case, you’re free to go. But you can’t live here without a passport and work permit. You’ll be deported back to Italy.”

  I did not know where Italy was, or what it was like, but I knew that I did not want to go there. I could not become any young girl’s flute teacher either, but there did not appear to be any other options. The blue men waited for my decision. I looked anxiously around. The window behind the men was open: the sounds and smells of the waking city wafted in through it.

  Wings! I had broad, powerful wings. When I had begun to become a person I had learned to use them like hands, and I had forgotten their original purpose. Now I felt them rising and spreading. Before the astonished eyes of the peaked-cap wearers I leapt onto the table, from the table to the window, and from the window I glided down into the open space formed by the back yard. Half-flying, half-running I sped through the gateway into the street, but once there I could no longer take advantage of my wings. Humans could pass by beaks and feathers with nothing but a glance, but even a city dweller would be startled by a flying man.

  I walked quickly, glancing behind me, but I did not notice anyone following. Perhaps the blue men considered me too insignificant to pursue. When all was said and done, I was not a criminal, I was merely a vagrant, and in the big city vagrants were probably innumerable.

  The Pelican’s Story 2

  My first job

  For the first time I understood how constrained humans were, and how free I had been in my life up to that point. I had not had any walls that I could call my home, nor had I had a workplace other than the sea, where I fished to keep body and soul together. But there no one had demanded a passport or work permit, nor had anyone called me a vagrant or forbidden me to sleep where and when I desired. I saw, as if in a mirage, the sand dunes undulating once more before me, the sea stooping before them and spraying them with its salt, the tops of the pines swaying and the south-westerly wind ruffling my feathers.

  But I gritted my beak and continued my journey. I could not turn back yet, not yet, for there was so much in the city that I wanted to find out about, so much which excited my curiosity. I did not wish now to hear the flurry of the wind, I wished to hear the sound of the magic flute, which called me to adventures in the world of humans, and assured me of its mystery and richness.

  But my stomach cared no more for the wind than for the magic flute: it required fish. Therefore I directed my footsteps towards the market square, and I found it without further delay; the city was beginning to become familiar to me.

  Now it was completely different from how it had been on the previous night. People swarmed among the stalls, and the stallholders cried the day’s offers. On the tables were spread every kind of food imaginable: tomatoes, carrots, potatoes, parsley, berries and fruit from the South. But I was only interested in the fish-stalls, above which gulls called and dived.

  “I would like some herring,” I said to a plump lady, in front of whom lay a whole mountain of silver, but to my disappointment already dead-looking, fish.

  “How many kilos would you like?” the lady asked.

  “No, no kilos, I would like herring,” I said, louder now.

  She must have thought I was joking, since she burst out laughing. But at that point I had not mastered measures of weight or volume, and I really did think that a kilo was some kind of fish. I still had a few things to learn.

  “Is one enough for you, sir?”

  “Dear me no, I shall certainly need at least fifteen.”

  “Fifteen!” The lady looked astonished, but began to pile herring into a large bag. According to my calculations there were a lot more than fifteen, but I didn’t dare to make any further remarks. When the first bag was full, she began to fill a second, but then I said: “Thank you, that will be enough,” and I took the bag, intending to go on my way without further ado.

  “That’ll be twenty pounds then,” the lady said.

  Twenty pounds! I had completely forgotten about money. I had forgotten that the humans’ city was built on spinning coins, and that it was not possible to take even a step there without having to deal with pieces of metal or green paper notes that had pictures of haughty men on them. I did not have five pounds, or even one, but in their place I had a hunger that was growing sharper at every moment.

  The lady waited, her hand outstretched, as I dug in my pockets as I had twice before in slightly similar situations. But this time they were empty; and so they remained.

  I glanced despairingly around; people were begi
nning to notice me. For some reason I also turned my gaze upwards, and I saw a large black-backed gull, which was wheeling over the stall.

  From time to time my linguistic studies are of notable benefit to me. I knew a few words in the language of gulls, which, by the way, is rather ugly-sounding, and in this hour of need they returned to my memory. I will translate them for you:

  “Dive, dive,” I shouted and at the same time pointed to the stallholder, who was looking more and more stern. “You will get your share.”

  And the gull dived. The woman cried out in fury and covered her face to protect herself from further attacks. I took advantage of the opportunity and disappeared. I ‘melted away,’ as I have heard it said sometimes. But I hugged the bag of herring tightly under my wing.

  So now I was not only a vagrant but a thief as well. Fitting in with human society looked as though it was becoming much more troublesome than I had supposed.

  I came to a busy main street, slowed my pace to a walk, and tried to melt into the crowd. Once again it seemed that I had nothing to fear from pursuers: only the gull followed my escape without difficulty, in order to get his promised reward.

  I arrived once more at the banks of the river, which lazily transported the filth that had been thrown into it towards the sea, to those shores that I had once called my home and where my family still lived. Tired, I set up camp on a jetty and the gull dropped down beside me. We divided the herring, of which there were plenty, without argument, but we made no attempt at closer acquaintance. When the meal was over, the gull rose once more on his wings and I was left alone with my thoughts.

  I reflected that I would need to get money from somewhere in order to live as a human. And as far as I knew, people got money by doing work. There must have been other ways, easier as well, but I did not know about them. These days I know that doing work is not the way to get one’s hands on the largest sums of money; for that, one needs pedigree, connections and ruthlessness.