Leena Krohn: Collected Fiction

by Leena Krohn

  The next phase of decomposition is the bloated stage, in which the temperature of the body rises and the inner gases cause it to swell. Still, flies and maggots are the prevailing species.

  Only in the third phase of decomposition, the decay stage, does the body start to reek perceivably. The body wrapped inside the blanket is in this stage. Its skin tears and the gases are released. At this stage the maggots are at their most numerous both on the surface and on the inside of the carcass. Before long, though, they give way to an army of beetles. In this phase all flesh is consumed and only skin, cartilage, and bone remain.

  During the first stages of decomposition, predatory insects emerge to prey on the aforementioned, and the parasites and the omnivores, who feed on both the cadaver and other insects, make their appearance.

  There is one more group of insects that do not really have anything to do with the matter at hand: those who stray onto the carcass by coincidence, inadvertently, and gain nothing of it. You might think these insects have nothing to tell me. But this is assumption is false. Sometimes I find insects that do not naturally occur at the scene.

  What can I conclude from this? A fact that is of utmost interest to the police: that the body has been brought to the scene from somewhere else. All in all, there can be eight or nine separate waves of insects. At certain stages of decomposition several hundreds of different species of insect may be found on the body.

  The process is unfaltering in its course, even though the duration of its stages varies from one case to the other. The lengths of these periods depend on the environmental circumstances, the temperature and its variations during the time. But the proliferation of insects, the maturation of eggs, the development of larvae into adult individuals also occurs according to the same laws. Note this: NATURE NEVER MISSES A STEP AND IT NEVER TURNS BACK. Never, nowhere. Or, to be more cautious, let us say: nowhere here, never in time.

  And we can do nothing, absolutely nothing to make it miss a step any more than turn back. It is capable of neither. The most we can do is to regulate the circumstances so that the processes are slowed down or sped up.

  A crop is not harvested in spring. A child turns into an adult only through puberty, and an insect only becomes an imago once it has passed through the pupal stage. No stage is missed and every stage occurs in a designated order. In the right and unwavering order. In the only possible order.

  Upon this fact all my certainty and uncertainty is founded.

  As the waves follow one another, the post-decay stage is soon reached when even skin and cartilage disappear. Only the durable parts remain, the ones that may keep for centuries, even millennia: bones and hair.

  Then everything is finished. Liquids and gases have evaporated, the temperature has come down, the slime has dried, the stench has vanished. Everything is clear and irrevocable. Cold and dry, clean and brittle. We look at the remains calmly and without disgust.

  The insects have left, and I, too, am long gone. Everything is finished. If something remains, it is invisible even as grief and the soul are invisible.

  Sometimes they are unable to answer even who the deceased was while still alive. Such was the case with this woman. She had been left to lie where she was for three weeks in the middle of high summer. Thus the insects had labored for a long time, and I could give no more than a rough estimate.

  The police went to a lot of trouble to identify her. But very little was learned. She had traveled to that part of town on the day she was killed, taking the last night bus. She had been alone, and if anyone had spoken to her, the bus driver hadn’t noticed. She was a foreigner, but from which country, no one knew. As far as I know, her identity was never verified.

  Who was she? And what does it really mean? Officially it means a name, an address, a place and a time of birth, height, hair color, and distinctive features, if any. To be even more specific it also means the names of parents, occupation, and marital status. Once these facts have been established, we suppose to know who she was.

  We saw her brown hair, her size, her bare feet, the already torn skin under which seethed the living sheet of insects.

  The cup was her body. The spirit had left it, making room for other forms of life. It was no longer alive, but it had life. Life that may seem despicable and disgusting to us but is nevertheless indispensable.

  The rains and the fermentative secretions of the cadaver had soaked the bundle and stiffened it. But the person who had been violated was long gone.

  Lucilia illustris. Necrophobus vespillo. Emus hirtus. Insects are not individuals. They are, so to say, statistical beings. They do not know what they do. They only know what they want, which is what they must do: feed, mate, breed, flee death as long as they possibly can. But in addition to this – no, in doing this – they perform a wonderful, essential function, the only true catharsis.

  To purify. To equalize. To return. To unite. This is the goal, which the insects themselves know nothing of but which they show to whomever willing to see. For this universal unity they toil while trying to preserve and continue their own petty, statistical existence.

  How tempting it would be to believe that human beings, just by being what they are, as wholly as possible, elaborate and faithful to themselves, would fulfill a more important task, of which they know as little as insects of human life.

  I rarely have to deal with the victims’ families. Or with those who were suspected, or those who actually killed. What would I have to do with them? This dead woman was an exception.

  – Are you aware that I’m suspected of her death?

  Startled, I took my eye off the ocular of a microscope. A man I didn’t know stood at the door of my office, his gaze stern and demanding.

  – What do you want, and who are you? I asked, rather harshly. His steps had been so soundless that I hadn’t noticed him until he spoke.

  He told me his name and repeated his question. He was no bum. He dressed smartly and his phrasing was refined. I had heard his name mentioned in the investigation. He had been questioned, but there had been no arrest, and what I knew of the hearings anyone could read in the tabloids. Just that this man had been on the same bus with the victim and had gotten off at the same stop.

  – My only concern is to determine the developmental stages of insects. I am not an officer of the law.

  – But you do know?

  This I admitted to, albeit reluctantly. – Why do you come to me? What does it matter if I’ve heard your name or not?

  I fell silent and looked at him, expectant and somewhat suspicious. He was fairly young, tall, and blonde. Was this person trying to affect me and was the timing of the woman’s death of consequence to him?

  He lowered his gaze and said glumly: – I was just asking.

  – I ascertain the species and age of the insects. When I know them, I can give a rough estimate of the time of death.

  I have no idea why I didn’t end the conversation, why I told this stranger about the requirements of my office.

  – I work neither for the prosecutor nor for the defense attorney, I went on. – It’s for others to make the final conclusions. Flies don’t lie. Undoubtedly, other truths than theirs exist, but they are no concern of mine.

  – What will happen to me?

  – It depends on what you did.

  – If everyone dies anyway, he said – and in manners that are all more or less cruel, why is it so horrifying that it should happen by someone else’s hand? Perhaps they are only put out of their misery, who knows.

  – Is this a confession? I asked and stood up. The conversation had started to horrify me.

  – Quite the opposite, he said quickly. – I didn’t do it.

  – But why do you come here to philosophize? I said, suddenly angry. I felt myself stiffen and blush. – You speak rubbish and you know it. If you have anything real to impart on this subject, go to the police.

  – How do you know the murderer didn’t do her a favor?

  – Do you still
go on? Men love their yoke, I told him. – Hasn’t it been said that evil must come, but woe to him by whose hand it does? Go to the police.

  – Now you think I’m guilty, admit it. I didn’t even know her. I didn’t speak a word to her.

  – So what? Not all murderers know their victims. You must have something to relate about this matter, or you wouldn’t have come. But I am not police, surely you understand that.

  – Are you going to tell them about this conversation?

  – I don’t need to, I said. – You will tell them all they need to know.

  Why was I so sure? He glanced at me and was about to say something more, but changed his mind for some reason.

  – Well? I have work to do, as you can see, I said and gestured at my desk.

  He turned and left the office without saying goodbye.

  As a matter of fact I think there is nothing but life. Many forms of life. It is called birth, growth, and death.

  People who have looked upon their deceased sometimes say: “Then I saw that there is no resurrection. That there can be none. Nothing as lifeless as that can ever have been alive.”

  You might think that someone who has seen death in all its – not nakedness, but in its wealth, diversity, activity, intensity – would see things in the same way. That someone like that, if anyone, would be predestined to the most severe form of materialism.

  The idea of resurrection is foreign to me, too. But always when I witness the absoluteness of the change that occurs in death, and its irrevocable consequences, I cannot help but wonder. As anyone would, I keep repeating the question: What happened to the life that was here just a moment ago? Where is the self that only yesterday aspired, desired, loved and remembered?

  How could one, who has seen what I have seen, so closely, not believe in perpetuity? For if it exists in matter, how could it not exist in spirit?

  The spirit is like the queen of an anthill. No one sees it, for it lives in the most hidden cave. Yet its effect is what keeps the body healthy, whole, intact. It moves the body. It alone makes the nest alive. When the queen is removed, the nest disintegrates with unbelievable rapidity. Soon it is only dust.

  Yet the queen itself may remain inviolate.

  I saw the man who had come to my room one more time. I saw him outside a movie theater, with a party of friends engaged in lively conversation, and I recognized him at once. He wore the same clothes as when last we met.

  He said something to a woman, who glanced at me with curiosity and then turned away. He came to me.

  – Yes? I said.

  – You still do what you used to?

  – Still. That is my office, you see, I said.

  – I hear the incident last summer was never solved, he said. – A pity.

  – Yes, I said. – It’s a pity.

  He hesitated and glanced at his companions, who had fallen silent and seemed to be waiting for him. Then he said: – I just wanted to apologize for intruding into your office so rudely back then. But the hearings had put me slightly off balance. It is not every day one is suspected of murder.

  – Most certainly not, I said. – But I never did understand why you came.

  – It was just a whim. Coincidence, really, he said. – Someone mentioned your name, and what you do. I – was intrigued.

  – Really? Is your opinion still the same?

  – About what? he asked.

  – You philosophized about the justification of killing.

  – Is that what I said?

  Now he seemed to panic a little. Maybe he regretted coming to me.

  – I was a little drunk. Please forget about it.

  I looked at him and considered whether I should have reported the conversation to the police after all.

  – I hate to think that her killer is still on the loose, he said.

  His name was called. The movie was about to begin. He nodded, joined his party, and disappeared into the lobby of the theater. At the door I saw him turn back and look at me, as though expecting or even inviting me to follow him. As if he was slightly disappointed that I didn’t.

  I can picture the past, translucent form of your hands, their slenderness instead of this current shape. Only dry, blackened tatters of skin that don’t even cover your finger bones.

  Who knows whether you were killed by a man you once loved, whom you trusted more deeply than anyone on earth. Or did that blonde stranger follow you from the bus stop, did he grab you and throw you down, hit you, hit you, over and over again, kick you, rape you and finally strangle you.

  – You lived, I said in my mind to this eaten, emptied shape. – You lived like I live now. Where did you go now that you are no longer there? Where will I go when I’m no longer here?

  Her hair still had vigor, it shone amid the twigs and the dry hay, even though her skin was already torn, even though her face had bloated and blackened beyond recognition.

  But still I see a look on the face. That look – I have seen the same look on the faces of other dead, at the first or second stage of decomposition. How can it be described?

  It is a seriousness devoid of all moral judgment. No hatred, no fear, no pain. Concentration, that is the right word. Such complete concentration can only be seen in the eyes of very small children or, sometimes, at a moment of ecstasy, in someone listening to music. Something that is left as proof of what is and what may persist. As if something crucial had been revealed to them.

  It is the look of knowledge. The mouth half open. And the eyes, most of all – they are open. The vitreous humor is of course less clear than that of a living person. The eyes never blink and the mouth will not tell what they have seen. Still they keep the knowledge that no longer seeks or needs to be expressed. It will stay to trouble the onlooker as an inextinguishable question.

  I would like to know what she looked at. Not at her murderer any more. What happened to her no longer interested her. It had already happened, was over at last. The worst had happened. All had happened that could happen to her on Earth.

  What were her eyes in fact fixed on at that final moment, when all her muscles slackened from their frantic convulsion? On a branch of a tree, at the edge of the pit, that kept swaying gently, incessantly even as the hands closed around her throat? The wind, forever roaming the Earth, brushed the tops of the bushes as well as both their foreheads. “Still, the moor-wind remains . . . ”

  Where she was dumped and hidden, whence she was carried, the first snow now falls. The rusty tracks, the car tires, the oil containers will soon be covered under the humble forms of the snowdrifts. The armchair on the tracks will get a luminous cushion. How unresisting and at the same time irresistible is the ongoing snowfall. The meadow fescues, which yellowed and flattened under her ravaged corpse, are coated in snowflakes. When they rise again in the spring, no trace of the shape of her body will be visible.

  Queen, where did you go?

  Translated by Vivii Hyvönen

  TO SLEEP, TO DIE

  Extracts from the novel Unelmakuolema

  (Dreamdeath, Teos, 2004)

  Translated by Hildi Hawkins

  In Dreamdeath (Unelmakuolema, 2004), Leena Krohn provides her own take on utopias and dystopias. In the future, the law has been changed so that people can choose their own perfect death. Some decide to make an artwork of their own death while others choose less ostentatious (and expensive) displays. The experience is meant to take any stigma and any discomfort out of the equation. But how does this effect what it means to be human? Characters from prior novels such as the doctor Umbra and Dr. Fakelove from Krohn’s novel Pereat Mundus reappear in Dreamdeath as well.

  To Sleep, To Die

  Who would not like to cheat the Grim Reaper? Ways are known, of course, both scientific and non-scientific, but all of them are uncertain and temporary. Except for the simplest: to get there first oneself.

  The refinement of this idea was Dreamdeath’s business idea. ‘Dreamdeath – because you deserve it!’ went Dreamdeath’s
slogan.

  The Dreamdeath home offered those who wished it the means to the most pleasant, even luxurious realisation of an autonomic death in an atmosphere of moral approval, against a suitable fee. At Dreamdeath the client himself decided when and in what conditions he would leave his mortal clay.

  Dreamdeath did not employ the term ‘suicide’; its place was taken by ‘event’ or ‘project’. It was a tamed, timed, extremely refined phenomenon, purged of everything unexpected.

  The Omega Foundation had founded Dreamdeath in the teens, after a change in legislation. At that point suicide was recognised as an essential human right which must not be stripped from citizens. The foundation was the first in the country to trademark a self-chosen and autonomic death.

  If a person can choose his toothpaste from among thirty-six different brands, it would surely be unreasonable if he could not choose his own moment of departure, its place and manner.

  Dreamdeath considered one of its spiritual fathers to have been Dr Glas, who wrote more than a hundred years before: ‘The day is coming, and it must come, when the right to die will be recognised as a much more essential and inalienable human right than the right to place a voting slip in a ballot box.’

  There were, however, those who were so determined that they wished to carry out their last act themselves and alone, those who would not for anything have sought out Dreamdeath or who could not afford it. But was Dreamdeath’s offices and website warned, considerable risks and possibilities of failure were associated with private attempts.

  There were indispensable advantages associated with fitness for death. At Dreamdeath, there was no need to fear the intervention of compassionate nearest and dearest or the failure of the method. Here, the individual’s right of self-determination was honoured. Ease and freedom from disturbance were guaranteed.