Strange Bird (2013)

by Anna Jansson

  “When will we know with certainty that this is bird flu, when can we have an answer from Disease Control?”

  “Normally it takes two or three days to type which strain of influenza we’re dealing with and get a resistance determination. It has to be done at a level-four biosafety laboratory, but they think we can get a preliminary answer sooner. The national epidemiologist has ordered in extra personnel. Maybe we can get an answer as soon as this evening. It has top priority and they’re doing their best. They’ll call. I’ll be in touch as soon as they do.”

  “What should I tell the parents? I have to be able to give them clear answers when they ask me whether the children at the soccer camp will receive treatment.”

  “Say that the children will get medicine. We’ll dole out what we have for as long as it lasts. The most important thing is for them to remain calm. Otherwise we have to act as if we’re dealing with bird flu until the opposite is proven. That’s my policy. It’s hard enough anyway to motivate the observation patients to stay inside. We have to pursue this consistently.”

  He heard how she swallowed and then braced herself, her voice getting tense. “For your information, Jonathan, I’ve also requested assistance from the police. The area around Klinte School will be cordoned off and movie showings in the school auditorium will be cancelled. I don’t want to risk parents coming to pick up their children. If you have children yourself you understand what I mean. This arouses strong emotions. It’s not an easy decision, but the scenario that could play out if we don’t show a clear line is infinitely more frightening. Is the picture clear to you? We don’t have medicine for the whole population. This may mean tens of thousands of deaths.”

  “And if it should turn out that it’s not bird flu?” Jonathan could not keep from asking the question.

  “Then I’ll donate my body to research and my soul to be dissected by the media, and you’ll inherit my chair. The decision has support from the National Pandemic Group. Speaking frankly, Jonathan—what else could it be? The old man with the homing pigeons died, unclear why. A preliminary autopsy report should arrive before too long. I’ve spoken with the pathologist about the risk of contagion. Berit Hoas died; it was a flu virus. We don’t know yet what type—but flu is normally not this aggressive. She was basically healthy before she was infected. Petter Cederroth has a flu virus, again type unknown. But we don’t dare wait. You can start treating him with Tamiflu if you haven’t already done so. I heard he was doing poorly. His wife, if I’m correctly informed, has a slightly elevated temperature and a sore throat. We’re waiting to find out if this is H5N1. You should be getting that at any time, if you’ve set up a computer out there in the woods.”

  Jonathan opened the window to let in the aromas of summer after the rain. It was oppressively hot in the office; he stood in the draft and breathed in the scent of pine forest. Sweat pearled on his forehead and his clothes stuck to his body. Did his throat feel a little rough? Did he feel a little feverish? Was there resistance when he swallowed? Hopefully imagination—a mental influenza. But still—the risk was there. With an incubation period of one to three days it could still flare up. What would happen to Malte and Nina then? It was worrisome enough as it was. Jonathan tried to dismiss the fear but it ground and ground deep in his belly as soon as he thought about them and the future and what it would be like when he could no longer conceal the shameful truth about her alcoholism, lie and set things right. If only he had been home more perhaps things wouldn’t have turned out the way they did, perhaps the problem never would have developed, perhaps he could have stopped the destruction in time … if, if, if.

  The old sanitarium environment was a reminder that wiped away the boundary of time. Jonathan Eriksson thought that he might as well have been in the 1940s as in the present. A generation or two ago people died from TB in Sweden the way those affected now were dying in other countries because they couldn’t afford the medicine that could heal them. Young people. Parents with small children. Schoolchildren. Entire families wiped out. If the walls of this sanitarium could talk they would tell of hopelessness and despair, but also of courage and gallows humor and defiant hope. Life changed and new perspectives open up when you are staring death in the eye. What is important when you have a week left to live? Is there anything we’ve missed? Those of us who believed we would live forever now face the fact that death applies to us too, thought Jonathan. He got no further in his train of thought before the phone again demanded his attention. What would he say if it was another worried parent? Had they already cordoned off the school where the children were at soccer camp? Asa didn’t say.

  Jonathan wanted to escape from it all but he grabbed the receiver and said his name as calmly and with as much control as he could. Every patient has a right to an engaged reception, regardless of how you feel yourself, an elderly colleague had imprinted in his medical students. It was still there as if he heard it yesterday.

  “It’s Nina.” He heard immediately by her slack articulation that it was as he’d feared and his stomach muscles knotted up in defense. “Malte’s not here. I don’t know where he is, do you think he might have gone to a friend’s?”

  “I asked my mother to pick him up—thank god. He fell off the swing and his nose was bleeding. He couldn’t get it to stop and he tried to wake you, but you were too far gone. Did you even notice he was gone? My mother said the door was wide open.”

  “Well, lucky you—your mother can show little Nina what to do with her own child! Accuse me of being a bad mother, go ahead! It’s your fault. Your damned fault, you hypocritical jerk. I never wanted to have a kid, you were the one who wanted one and then … What happened then? Who the hell had to stay home and take care of everything, literally everything while you were gallivanting around?”

  “I wasn’t gallivanting around. I was doing my specialist training.”

  “So goddamned charming and important, more important than my life and my plans. Nina just wanted to go to art school and play a little, dabble a little with paint.”

  “Listen, we can talk about this when you’re feeling better. Go lie down and call me later, when you know what you’re saying.”

  “Take two white tablets and go lie down, is that the doctor’s orders? My art teacher at high school said that I could actually be something. He saw that I had talent. He believed in me, did you know that? You fucking traitor. He said, ‘Nina, you have genuine talent. You really have talent!’ Do you hear that, you fucking—”

  Jonathan hung up, steeled himself, and pushed away the thought of Nina. He thought about Malte. If it was bird flu Malte shouldn’t be at daycare. There would be major risk of infection, he thought. It must be possible to resolve this somehow, even if the days Malte spent at daycare were the only days Jonathan felt calm and could work in peace.

  Chapter 12

  “It is feared that an epidemic of bird flu has broken out on Gotland. Two deaths may be linked to the contagion, and a number of persons have been taken to the old Follingbo sanitarium for observation. We are speaking with disease control officer Asa Gahnstrom. Dr. Gahnstrom, you say you’ve been expecting this epidemic to break out. Why haven’t you taken any preventive measures?”

  “First, we still don't know whether these patients are infected with bird flu, and second—”

  “Why don’t you know that?” The radio reporter’s voice penetrated like the tip of an arrow.

  “It takes time to determine what type of influenza we are talking about. The analysis must be done at a special biosafety laboratory. H5N1, commonly known as bird flu, normally affects birds but not people. Generally, when people are infected they've been in contact with animals. We have only seen a few cases where the contagion has been transferred from human to human. In the case of a twenty-one-year-old in Hong Kong who drank duck blood at a Lunar New Year ceremony, the nurse who treated him and his fourteen-year-old sister died, but no other cases have been reported. What we have feared for some time is that the virus could
mutate and become like a normal virus in the way it infects humans. This could possibly happen if a single individual already has a typical influenza virus and is then infected with bird flu through contact with birds, allowing the different types of flu to exchange characteristics. There is also a risk that the process could occur in a domesticated animal, for example a hog. But in the present situation I see no cause for alarm.”

  The reporter pressed on: “According to reports, 180 cases of bird flu in humans have been discovered around the world, and eighty-seven of those infected are dead. If you have feared such a development and the mortality rate is so high, why is there so little preparedness for a crisis situation? Why hasn't the entire population been vaccinated for bird flu, like with tetanus, diphtheria, and polio?”

  “Viruses change form,” answered Gahnstrom. “New, more effective vaccines are developed all the time but before it is known exactly what the virus is, it’s impossible to make a vaccine. Even the standard flu shot is customized for each outbreak in the Southern Hemisphere. Sometimes the virus manages to change so much that the vaccine does not provide complete protection. Then it takes at least six months to manufacture a vaccine for bird flu once it is known what the virus looks like, and we no longer have those resources in Sweden. Instead we have to buy the vaccine from abroad once it’s known what needs to be manufactured.”

  “And this may already have affected a third of our population? Can a comparison be made to the Spanish flu that broke out in 1918 and 1919, where twenty million people in the world lost their lives? The latest statistics show a hundred thousand deaths in Sweden alone.” The reporter paused for the doctor to answer.

  “That is a bit drastic perhaps. There is no cause for alarm right now.”

  “We thank Asa Gahnstrom and turn now to Almedalen, where we hope to get a commentary from the Minister of Public Health, Erik Malmgren.”

  Hans Moberg turned off the radio and pulled back the blue checked curtain of his camper. Yes, it was definitely starting to clear up—and about time. He stretched his legs and finished up his online flirtation with “Mature Woman ‘53” with a phrase in French he had picked up in a previous conversation with “Dolly P,” an unemployed mail clerk from Vasteras. Damned if I know what it means, but it looks charming. His tongue was perched at the corner of his mouth as he pecked out the sentence letter by letter. Women like that sort of thing; in his experience, the effect usually exceeded expectations.

  Of course, he had no intention of actually meeting “Mature Woman ‘53,” but for the moment he needed someone who would show him some maternal solicitude. “Blonde Goddess” had, upon closer examination in a cabin on the Gotland ferry, turned out to be a disappointment. But those were blows you had to accept. Hans was used to it. The ladies seldom correspond to the image you create for yourself when you’re chatting with them on the Internet, thought Hans Moberg with a shrug. When it came to online dating, reality tended to be far too real—especially when meeting in broad daylight. In fact, it could be a bit of a shock—for both sides, if he were to be completely honest with himself. In those cases, it was a matter of quickly returning to the mutual understanding that existed in their intimate conversations on the Web, or giving her a kiss right away to activate the romantic hormones before she had time to think about it.

  Hans Moberg, known to his friends as “Moby,” stood in front of the brown-stained mirror on the door of the broom closet and combed his long, wavy hair before stepping into his boots. He inspected his face again, yanked out a few white strands from his mustache and put on his white cowboy hat. He adjusted the brim so that it sat at a slight angle over one eye. Villains wear a black hat, heroes a white one; everyone knows that. He thought he was probably too nice, too indulgent in the interpretation of “a few pounds too many” and “some problems with finances right now.” Not to mention “easily offended husband,” which could be pure hell. He knew that from experience. Nevertheless this was his life. Traveling around in his camper/love nest and meeting women, wherever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and for as long as he wanted. No boss. No old lady. No schedule to stick to, other than the one he made for himself, and only if, as the hour approached, he still desired it. Otherwise he could forget about it, change his email address, create a new identity on Facebook, and move on to new adventures in a new guise.

  That was actually part of the attraction: the acting, getting to play a new role every time. He’d been owner of an art gallery in Paris, construction industry project manager on the Riviera, agent in the intelligence services, leader of rescue operations for the fire department, and a big-game hunter in Gambia. Everything he’d dreamed about as a young boy, but that never happened—and didn’t need to either. Now he could experience everything in his imagination without getting his shoes muddy or exposing himself to physical danger.

  The important thing was how others saw him, whether they believed him. That was the kick, once he’d rehearsed his role and found a suitable counterpart on the Web: actually meeting women in real life and getting to test his act with them, picking out the best ones for the more passionate scenes.

  Of course, not every woman he met got the full treatment. He had little use for those who demanded clean living and fidelity up front. That got too complicated. Even if there was the time he lived on potato decoction, sprouts, and sesame seeds for a whole week because the lady in his life was a vegan. He was not even allowed to wear his leather belt! But for that one week it didn’t make any difference.

  The incense had been pretty bad. A camper tolerates very little of that particular product, and it drove out the aroma of his own pipe tobacco. Smoked out of his own burrow! He felt homeless. Later, she’d expected him to eat nettles she had picked behind the men’s restroom at the campground in Vastervik. It was all too much; there were limits to what was acceptable. Time to pull up anchor and head for a more fashionable location, thought Moby.

  Last night he had parked his love nest in an industrial area east of town. If someone wants to save on the unnecessary expense of paying for a space at an RV park, an electrical outlet at a factory building is a worthy alternative, wireless Internet, too, is easily borrowed when parked in a populated area. A penny saved is a penny earned, Moby always said. It was just a matter of looking out so the barbed wire didn’t rip your pants as you climbed over the fence.

  He’d marked a strip of beach on the map labeled Tofta Campground. There he could shower and freshen up before the evening’s encounter with “Cuddly Skane Girl.” But before that, he had a little business to take care of—discreet deliveries. Cash in exchange for romance and renewed self-confidence. It often surprised him that more people didn’t get into the same line of business. Freedom, quick money, and grateful customers. As the many cases thrown out of court had shown, there was practically no danger in buying and selling medications over the Internet or just peddling them right on the street for that matter. Hans Moberg was careful to follow the developments in the media. The legislative authority had truly bitten itself in the tail on this one! The fourth clause in the Act on trade in pharmaceutical products (1996:1152) namely refers to the pharmaceutical decree from 1962, which was terminated in 1993. No court in Sweden can judge according to a law that no longer exists—the lowliest blueberry picker can understand that!

  No, Hans Moberg was not worried about his livelihood, not now and not in the near future. By the time the monotonously slow decision-making process was over and the lawmakers finally had their butts in gear, the European Court would surely have abolished the Swedish pharmaceutical monopoly. Moby often said just this to his colleague, Manfred “Mayonnaise” Magnusson, who worried about the future of their business.

  It would be fun to get together at Tofta Campground and pop open a beer or two before doling out Christmas presents to the Viagra customers. Some customers wanted their medication sent by mail, others wanted it delivered right into their hands. A few customers could be picked up on the spot when the demands for satisfactory
entertainment increased during a camper vacation. It was just a matter of opening the kiosk door and inviting them in. Moby was lucky—his whole warehouse fit in his camper. And he used the thrice-yearly pickups to also refill his supply of alcohol. Really, those trips were like a vacation.

  Business had really been booming when he’d joined forces with Betsy, who sold underwear and sex toys. What a businesswoman! There he’d met his match. And although it had tried his patience severely to stick to schedules and routes, it was with sorrow in his heart that he dropped her off in Tanumshede when winter came and the camper became too cramped for the two of them. Freedom has its price.

  “Cuddly Skane Girl”—his date this evening—loved country and western, honesty, and evenings at home, she wrote. On the picture she sent through cyberspace she was wearing a short, fringed leather skirt. A checked shirt unbuttoned to the limit of propriety and pointed boots in white leather. Yeehaw! Her red hair was cut in a pageboy and her mouth was red and broad. A real pretty little doll. Of course, Moby had been mistaken before.

  “Cuddly Skane Girl”—he hadn’t even found out her real name. She was presumably an experienced Web charmer. Total discretion. He was usually just as careful himself. His newest moniker, “Doctor M,” was coined after a couple of beers and was actually not very well considered, but it would have to do for the time being. The biggest problem for the evening would be consistently sticking to a Skane dialect. He couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid as to say he was from Skane, too. It was a dilemma that occupied him until the morning hours, when he’d come up with the solution: he was an American living in Skane! He rehearsed an American accent; in the best-case scenario, an American might be to the lady’s taste. This was part of the game. Guessing your way to her secret wishes and then fulfilling them.