William Wordsworth & Robby Naish (2005–2005)
In front of Tuuli lies the plucked and gutted rooster. This is Wordsworth, she says, taking the biggest knife from the knife block and the whetstone from the hook, Naish has been in the soup since yesterday. Did you hear the screams, Manteli? Yes, I did. We came directly into the kitchen, Tuuli’s standing in her puddle of lake water, I in mine (both wrapped in towels). It was loud enough, I say, and the soup was good, it was just what I needed in my condition. Tuuli sharpens the knife, which is almost as long and wide as her delicate forearm. Svensson didn’t hit Naish’s neck precisely, she explains, that happens to him often, that he doesn’t hit things precisely and thus causes pain, instead of — for example, when slaughtering the white rooster Robby Naish — dealing with things as quickly and as painlessly as possible for all concerned parties. Tuuli checks the blade, then she continues to sharpen it and looks me directly in the eyes (her fingertip on the bare metal). Once the knife is sharp enough, she pulls open Wordsworth’s wings and lays bare the rooster’s belly and breast. Hold tight, she commands, and because I’ve already marveled at her nimble fingers when she was filleting the fish, I press the cold wings down on the tabletop. Tuuli holds the knife between her teeth and takes a water glass out of the cabinet. Svensson must have gotten the bottle of vodka at the supermarket yesterday, and since the fuse has been reset, there are ice cubes again. Tuuli puts the glass between me and the rooster. She asks whether I’ve read all of Astroland, whether I believe such stories? Not all of it, I say, but the part with the vodka. At that Tuuli taps lightly on the glass with the blade.
You’re weird, Manteli,
she says with a loud laugh (she’s quoting Svensson’s New York escape attempt). I raise the glass, we take turns draining the vodka, the ice clinks. With the cold vodka in my mouth I kiss Tuuli, but her thin lips remain closed. She smiles, Wordsworth on the table draws his wings very slowly to his body (he has ceased his defense). Tuuli points with the blade at the bird, I press it down on the table again. The knife slowly pierces his soft breast, first carefully, the second time already more forcefully. Again and again Tuuli stabs into the bird (she will have given Lua the heart).
Elisabeth’s Musical Streak
By the fountain near the gate
There stands a linden tree
I dreamed in its shade
Many a sweet dream.
I carved in its bark
Many a dear word,
In joy and in sorrow
I was drawn to it always
Brazilian garlic chicken
On the table there’s a list of things to cook. The rooster we stuff with pimento, coriander, and half a clove of garlic in each knife cut. Tuuli ties the legs together with poultry string, I chop onions and shallots, we add pepper and salt and oil, then Tuuli puts Wordsworth back in the fridge. We’ve stopped talking. She takes flour and sugar out of the cabinets, we peel apples and soak raisins in rum, we melt butter, I clean radicchio and Tuuli dices tomatoes, she removes the seeds from red peppers, I from yellow ones (Daisy Duck laid two eggs). I wonder why we’re preparing such massive amounts of food. We wash strawberries, we roast pine nuts, we rinse fava beans. Tuuli and I circle each other, since the kiss we haven’t touched. We chop flat-leaf parsley, sage, basil, green olives, black olives, garlic, capers, we squeeze lemons and oranges, we scrape out vanilla pods, we beat aioli, I with the whisk, she pours in olive oil from a small canister. Out of flour and oil we knead pizza dough. Potatoes and tomato sauce are cooking on the stove, apple pie is baking in the oven. We drink another vodka, and Tuuli smokes a cigarette (I say no thanks).
Interview (main informant)
MANDELKERN: Why are we actually cooking all this stuff?
TUULI: Lua’s dying, Manteli, he hasn’t eaten anything for days.
M: And now all this at once? But that’s not healthy.
T: The food is for the guests.
M: I had no idea that guests were coming.
T: Well, you were rummaging around in Svensson’s things instead of asking questions.
M: I was sick.
T: Cigarette?
M: Did Svensson really collect cigarettes?
T: I’m only one of the characters from Astroland.
M: Maybe even the most important one.
T: So no cigarettes today?
M: I don’t actually smoke.
T: The stories are one-third truth, one-third fiction and one-third the attempt to glue the other two together with words.
M: You were really together in New York?
T: In New York, in Seraverde, in Oulu.
M: Is the boy an American?
T: He has several passports.
M: And who’s the father, if I may ask? Svensson writes at least ten times that you were not alone but were three.
T: Are you familiar with the Borromean rings, Manteli?
M: No. But that Kiki mentioned them.
T: Then look it up and ask me about Lua instead.
M: What?
T: Ask me: was Lua really once named Lula?
M: What about Blaumeiser’s death?
T: Felix was too careless. He was waiting for us, he drank more than you and Svensson together. He lived himself to death. But one thing at a time. Ask me about Lua and Svensson about the rest.
M: Okay. — So was Lua really once named Lula?
T: Yes. Lula da Silva was the watchdog of a policeman named Santos.
M: Did Felix really shoot off Lula’s leg?
T: Yes. And then I sawed off Lua’s leg with a saw from the carpenter’s workshop, and sewed together the flaps of skin with sewing thread.
M: Svensson writes of a bolt cutter.
T: He writes like a bolt cutter. Or do you think Wordsworth and Naish really existed? It sounds good, but it’s not the truth.
M: How long do chickens live?
T: Here chickens don’t live to be one year old, Manteli, Svensson always gives his animals the same names. He keeps his eyes fixed on the past with sentimental tricks. And he collects the dead, because the living are too much in motion for him. Things pass away, but Svensson imagines that his stories remain.
M: Isn’t that why we tell stories? Writers glue fiction and truth together, they preserve the world otherwise than it is. That’s why that Kiki paints pictures and photographs animals and garbage. Isn’t it?
T: Is it? I’m not a psychologist, Manteli, I amputate. It would be best for you to ask Kiki herself.