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Fiction

Final Appearance

By Leena Krohn
Translated from Finnish by Eva Buchwald
Leena Krohn's depressed writer presents the reading from hell.

That winter afternoon, just before the flyover and exit for the city of S—, E. suddenly saw a broad, dark shadow cross the beam of his headlights. The back-end of a truck! Such was his perception. There must have been an accident and the truck’s trailer had overturned to sprawl diagonally across both lanes of the motorway. E. saw no alternative but to slam on the brakes or swerve off the road. Before fully deciding what action to take—not so much by deliberation as by unconscious reflex—E. hit the brakes so hard that chips of ice flew out from under the screeching tires. The car had not even come to a proper halt before he realized his mistake: the road was clear, there was nothing there except, indeed, for a shadow falling across the road.

Was there a rational explanation for his hallucination?

At that particular point in the motorway, the road curved and sloped in such a way that oncoming traffic was only visible once the vehicle had advanced beyond the bend. A hill planted with fir trees on the other side of the motorway, illuminated by headlights approaching from the north, had cast this dark mass in his path. The optical illusion was created not only by the unusual lighting conditions but also, perhaps, by the fact that an earlier cataract operation on E’s left eye had not been entirely successful. Particularly in the evenings, the rim of the intraocular lens, slightly off-center, caused reflections and rainbows to form around lights, and at its worst, it could hinder accurate vision.

The car behind E. was also forced to brake suddenly, and when it overtook him, the driver gave him the finger. Deeply mortified as he took the next exit, E. noticed he was trembling. He was also shaken by the realization that he couldn’t quite trust his eyesight, and by the suspicion that similar incidents were likely to recur. They might come to plague his advancing years with increasing frequency.

Chastened by his phantom vision, he continued on toward his destination, a town which was new to him. He was due at a local branch of the city library, where he was to read extracts from his books and possibly answer questions from the public. The evening was billed as ‘The Realms of Truth and Fable.”

When he arrived at the library, unerringly prompted by the navigation system’s gentle female voice (now merge with the exit lane!), he still had about half an hour. The librarian, an older woman, was sitting behind the counter deeply engrossed in her computer.

“I’m your visiting author,” said E., giving his name. “For the literary evening?”

“You? I’d never have guessed!” the librarian quipped, looking him over from head to foot.

E. found this to be a slightly unorthodox welcome, rather lacking in enthusiasm, but he did not ask the librarian what she meant by her remark. E. did, however, become very conscious of the puffiness around his eyes, the wrinkles on his neck and the roundness that had set into his shoulders of late.

“Any chance of a cup of coffee?” he asked. He felt in need of a pick-me-up after his long drive and strange experience.

“The café’s already closed I’m afraid,” said the librarian. “There’s a kitchen alcove for the staff over there. There’s water. I still have to finish up over here.”

“Which way is the lecture hall?” E. made so bold as to enquire further.

“The auditorium is at the end of the corridor on the left. I’ll be introducing you. We start at a quarter past.”

The librarian appeared to lose all interest in her visitor and began tapping on her keyboard. This frosty reception further disheartened E. After a few wrong turns he located the kitchen alcove where he noticed an empty coffee pot by the sink. He briefly considered brewing a pot of coffee himself, but decided to settle for a glass of water.

The auditorium was not particularly vast but E. was surprised to see there was quite a turnout, the room was almost half full. This was gratifying. E. recalled a similar event in another town, where his public had comprised three assistant librarians and the aunt of one.

As soon as the librarian had finished enumerating, in a monotone and without pause, the titles of all E’s twenty books, E. began unceremoniously reading extracts from his work: one early short story, one essay, and the first chapter of his new novel. As he read he became increasingly aware that he was not doing it well. Not well at all. He was not on form this evening. On more than one occasion he was forced to clear his throat, and at one point someone in the back row called out: “We can’t hear!”

It didn’t help that, in various parts of the room, several people were chatting in low voices. As he paused between the essay and the novel, he even caught the tail-end of a phrase recollecting a holiday in Thailand. Moreover, some members of the audience were fiddling with their phones or tablets without ever lifting their gazes. Text messages, e-mails, and smiley faces flew indiscernibly across the room, but the author could almost feel their electric breeze in his thinning hair. By contrast, among the otherwise indifferent audience sat two individuals whose gaze was relentlessly fixed on E. Could it be they were admirers of his books? If they were, they gave no indication other than the obdurate stare, for neither displayed the slightest reaction to the words he read, no trace of a smile or nod. And E. felt he had chosen passages which were, after all, both amusing and moving.

E. felt there was something vaguely familiar about the two individuals, but he couldn’t place them. One was an older man, the other a woman of about the same age as E. Their imperviousness caused E. some degree of discomfort.

No one clapped when he finished reading. After a brief silence, the librarian grabbed the microphone and announced: “The floor is open.”

“I’m interested in that so-called thriller you wrote, your first book I think. The Dead Never Repent, or Regret or something,” a young man opened the discussion.

The Dead Never Redial,” E. corrected the speaker.

“Yeah that one. Because it was just so unbelievably dreadful it had me stumped,” continued the young man.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said E. “Many critics at the time expressed a slightly different opinion. In fact that book received quite a number of positive reviews in the press. But of course every reader has the right to their own opinion. An author can’t please everyone unfortunately. Did you have a question about the book?”

“Not really. I was just wondering how such a poorly written book managed to win such a lot of praise. Were you friends with the critics?”

The author began to see red. He could feel a sudden flush spreading from his neck to his cheeks, and he knew it did nothing to improve his appearance.

“What exactly are you saying? Surely you’re not suggesting I bribed the critics?”

At this point the librarian saw fit to intervene.

“Perhaps the speaker could specify what he feels is so dreadful about the work?” she proposed.

“Well the plot for one,” the young man eagerly explained. “It wasn’t the least bit believable! I mean that sort of thing just doesn’t happen in real life. It made no sense at all. The characters were flat, and as for the language it was—how can I put it—pretentiously poetic I suppose. That’s for starters anyway.”

The audience stirred slightly from its torpor, and someone giggled audibly in the back of the hall. It was the same older woman who had been tormenting E. with her stare as he read. The woman’s mouth and hair, wispy strands drawn back into a ponytail, reminded E. of a girl he once knew. The memory in question was not entirely pleasant.

“Thank you for your feedback,” said the author. The librarian coughed and took the microphone: “Are there any other questions. Or comments. The floor is open.”

The same older man who had been staring at him blankly from the beginning of the session, and who seemed vaguely familiar to E., raised his hand.

“I would like to discuss Solzhenitsyn’s short story collection entitled For the Good of the Cause,” he said.

The author was taken aback.

“I see, Solzhenitsyn’s short stories. Hmm. I do recall reading them once, but it was very long ago. Why would you like to talk about that specific work?”

“Because thirty-five years ago, you stole that very book from a bookstore. In April. Didn’t you?”

“What are you talking about?” E. almost choked. This was totally uncalled for. He felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him.

“You remember the occasion, don’t try and play dumb. Your left hand didn’t know what your right was up to, is that it?”

Now E. recognized the man making the unexpected accusation. They used to sit next to each other in Advanced Latin. And the worst part was, the man was right. E. had, indeed, around that time, stolen the book, absentmindedly as it were (or can he even be sure of that?), but stolen it in any case, from the main bookstore in town. He had started reading the book as he stood between the shelves, and then walked out with the book still in his hands. And he’d even laughed as he mentioned the incident—his deed—to this very same fellow student.

 The room fell silent, even the electric breeze died down. Finally, the author had the room’s undivided, if malevolent, attention.

“When you’re young you make all kinds of mistakes,” E. said, first swallowing, then clearing his throat, and finally accompanying the end of his sentence with a little laugh.

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” the man asked.

“It was a mistake, as I just said,” E. repeated, “a stupid mistake.”

“Not just a mistake. A crime!” the man pointed out drily.

E. did not know what to say to that, true, shoplifting is a crime, albeit past its statute of limitations in this case. Now it was a crime confessed, if not forgiven. A youngish woman came to his rescue by raising her hand. E. thought he could perceive sincerity in her eyes, as well as hint of sympathy, and this helped him retain his composure.

“I have an eight-year-old daughter who dreams of becoming a writer. What can I do, as a mother, to help her fulfill her dream?” the woman asked.

E. bit his lip, bit it till it hurt. He did so want to answer: “Kill yourself!” But he restrained himself from saying something so horrific aloud to such a kindly-looking mother. E.’s own mother had died when he was young, and he had read that it was a statistical fact that many an author had lost one or both parents in childhood. No other misfortune provided better impetus to a budding writer.

He couldn’t possibly give such an answer, but he should at least have urged her: “My dear young lady with the gentle, sparkling eyes, look at me! Look at me and think again. You see before you a decrepit individual who has dedicated decades to the construction of main and subordinate clauses, the study of word order and punctuation, the quest for the perfect adjective. Is there any occupation more foolish? Why wish such a future on your innocent child?”

Instead he said tamely: “Should a mother or father hold such ambitions for their child’s future, they should ensure the child has as wide a range of reading material available as possible, both fact and fiction. And it is important to read to your child aloud every evening,” came his tame answer. “It develops language skills.”

“Are there any other questions?” asked the librarian. “If not, those who so wish now have an opportunity to obtain the author’s autograph. Don’t forget it can increase in value once the author is dead.”

“Was that remark absolutely necessary?” the author muttered to the librarian. The audience was already vacating the hall, talking and laughing loudly. No one brought him a copy to sign despite the likelihood that before long—and E. felt, in his anguish, maybe very soon indeed—the value of his scrawl might rise to untold heights. That no one wanted his autograph did not actually dismay E.; he was only too eager to escape the hall and get out beneath the black winter sky. But this was out of the question, as through the crowd of exiting backs, approached that same woman, smiling and slinking strangely forward, the one he had observed earlier, with the stare and the giggle. The author picked up his pen in readiness, but was surprised to see that she handed him not a book, but a scrap of paper.

“What is this?” E. asked, baffled. He noticed that the soft, off-white paper looked like it had been ripped from a toilet roll. Or, rather, it had. When E. lifted his gaze to the woman’s face, her smile had turned into a mocking, evil smirk. That is when he recognized her. They had almost dated forty years ago, but only almost. They had met up on a couple of weekends, but the woman had clung to him like a leech, phoned him day and night, and talked, talked, talked incessantly. And always about herself! Now E. remembered those phone calls. This person had bent his ear with the whole detailed misery of her life, and not just once but over and over again: workplace bullying, diets, bulimia, dermatosis, menstrual pains, miscarriage, and a graphic account of having her uterus scraped. He had brutally, rapidly nipped the relationship in the bud, it had seemed like the only solution at the time.

“No, this is too much,” said E. “I refuse.”

“Too much? How so? You’re here to sign your autograph,” said the librarian. “All the authors do it. It’s part of the agreement.”

“I won’t do it!” E. persisted.

“Well, I never!” said the librarian, and she stared at him with her eyebrows raised, as if addressing an unruly child, tapping insistently on the chit of paper in front of him. Both women watched him expectantly. Furious and humiliated, E. dutifully scribbled his name on the paper, but he was so incensed that the pen made holes and cuts in the fragile texture. He had barely finished when the woman snatched the paper from under his pen, glanced at it with displeasure and said: “Now it’s useless!”

She scrunched the paper up and flung it past the author’s ear into the waste basket. She turned away angrily and left, but instead of slinking as she did when she approached, now she stormed out. Her heels rang out along the stone corridor, long after her figure was no longer visible.

Exhausted in the deserted auditorium, E. faltered as he rose to his feet and asked the librarian: “Was this all planned in advance?”

“What do you mean?” The librarian looked at him blankly. “Of course these events are always planned in advance. The auditorium was booked three weeks ago and there was an announcement in the local paper last week,” the woman explained.

“And as for your fee,” the librarian continued, ignoring the author’s distress and the appalling incident which had just taken place. “I’m assuming you were told that we no longer remunerate our guest speakers other than travel costs, in line with the cheapest method of transport. After all, these occasions are like free publicity for you people. And there was quite a turnout, I was rather surprised. We’ve had authors with bigger names who’ve had smaller audiences. Perhaps there wasn’t much on offer in town tonight. So anyway, if you came by car, we do refund fuel costs. Against a receipt of course.”

 There was nothing E. could say to this so, without so much as a good-bye, he strode into the lobby and grabbed his coat off the rack. In the parking lot, an icy drizzle thawed on his bald spot and rapidly cooled his forehead’s crimson vexation. He had stepped out into the winter night without his hat and gloves. He had forgotten them on the hat shelf, but even the whiplashing slush could not induce him to return to the building. A different, barely suppressed, and warmer moisture stung his eyes: the bitter tears of self-pity.

 The engine cut out twice before he got it going, but driving through the narrow streets piled high with snow on either side forced him to turn his attention away from his recent ignominy.

“That was my final appearance,” E. swore to himself. “Never again.”

Only once he was on the motorway did the loss of his gloves really begin to annoy him. They were a Christmas present from his only daughter, the finest kid leather and a perfect fit. E. had told his daughter she shouldn’t have bought such an expensive gift, but the gloves had given him real pleasure. Perhaps he could ring the library tomorrow and ask to have them sent on by post, if he paid the postage and if they had not already been stolen . . .

His thoughts turned to his daughter’s loneliness and how his small granddaughter had once asked him, in tears: “Granddad, why don’t I know how to live like other children?”

As he tried to recover and calm down, E. began to reflect on time and death and oblivion. The passage of time is merciful, oblivion is forgiving. One hundred years pass, and then another hundred, and shame, honor, what are they, no one remembers. Our names are forgotten and all our deeds are as inconsequential as fallen leaves. Just as honor fades, so too does guilt, and our thoughts, our aspirations, our errors vanish as though they never were. No one remembers that we once existed, no one knows why we were so unhappy, so ridiculously unhappy.

He also recalled why he first began writing. There had been an experience, so grand and beyond words, that he had wanted to lend it words. He had hoped to articulate the silence. He had tried to depict the unseen. Why go to all that trouble? Now his ambitions were almost forgotten, but E. still retained some small particle of faith. He wanted to believe that even though he had never attained that which he sought, it did exist nonetheless, it was there for the finding, at any time.

Calmer now, the line of a poem came to mind, he had read it in the Spoon River Anthology: “The inner kernel is freedom, it is light, purity.“

These thoughts helped E. regain his ruffled composure and he began to plan his itinerary for the following day, including a hospital visit to his aging aunt.

It was almost nighttime, and there was little traffic heading to the capital. Weather conditions had worsened and a slurry of slush slid down the windscreen. Almost at the same spot as on his outward journey, a mountainous shadow loomed ahead. “This time I’m not falling for it,” thought E. and without reducing speed he drove on into the heart of the night, failing to see or grasp that minutes beforehand, an accident had taken place, and both lanes were blocked by the trailer of a timber truck, the size of a train carriage.

Long after the vehicle had stopped, mangled into a pile of serrated wreckage against the trailer, and as glass and flesh, metal and bone, urine and petrol, blood and oil all mixed together in the chaos and obscurity, E. himself continued to soar onward. An explosion of agony had plucked him from all that had gone before.

“That was another illusion,” E. thought. “Indeed, it was all an illusion.” Suddenly the world stood still and only he was moving. Freedom, light, purity! In the expansive void, he was propelled toward the wordlessness he’d been unable to express, toward the unseen he’d been unable to depict.

“Viimeinen esiintyminen” @ Leena Krohn. By arrangement with Teos. Translation @ 2014 by Eva Buchwald. All rights reserved.

English Finnish (Original)

That winter afternoon, just before the flyover and exit for the city of S—, E. suddenly saw a broad, dark shadow cross the beam of his headlights. The back-end of a truck! Such was his perception. There must have been an accident and the truck’s trailer had overturned to sprawl diagonally across both lanes of the motorway. E. saw no alternative but to slam on the brakes or swerve off the road. Before fully deciding what action to take—not so much by deliberation as by unconscious reflex—E. hit the brakes so hard that chips of ice flew out from under the screeching tires. The car had not even come to a proper halt before he realized his mistake: the road was clear, there was nothing there except, indeed, for a shadow falling across the road.

Was there a rational explanation for his hallucination?

At that particular point in the motorway, the road curved and sloped in such a way that oncoming traffic was only visible once the vehicle had advanced beyond the bend. A hill planted with fir trees on the other side of the motorway, illuminated by headlights approaching from the north, had cast this dark mass in his path. The optical illusion was created not only by the unusual lighting conditions but also, perhaps, by the fact that an earlier cataract operation on E’s left eye had not been entirely successful. Particularly in the evenings, the rim of the intraocular lens, slightly off-center, caused reflections and rainbows to form around lights, and at its worst, it could hinder accurate vision.

The car behind E. was also forced to brake suddenly, and when it overtook him, the driver gave him the finger. Deeply mortified as he took the next exit, E. noticed he was trembling. He was also shaken by the realization that he couldn’t quite trust his eyesight, and by the suspicion that similar incidents were likely to recur. They might come to plague his advancing years with increasing frequency.

Chastened by his phantom vision, he continued on toward his destination, a town which was new to him. He was due at a local branch of the city library, where he was to read extracts from his books and possibly answer questions from the public. The evening was billed as ‘The Realms of Truth and Fable.”

When he arrived at the library, unerringly prompted by the navigation system’s gentle female voice (now merge with the exit lane!), he still had about half an hour. The librarian, an older woman, was sitting behind the counter deeply engrossed in her computer.

“I’m your visiting author,” said E., giving his name. “For the literary evening?”

“You? I’d never have guessed!” the librarian quipped, looking him over from head to foot.

E. found this to be a slightly unorthodox welcome, rather lacking in enthusiasm, but he did not ask the librarian what she meant by her remark. E. did, however, become very conscious of the puffiness around his eyes, the wrinkles on his neck and the roundness that had set into his shoulders of late.

“Any chance of a cup of coffee?” he asked. He felt in need of a pick-me-up after his long drive and strange experience.

“The café’s already closed I’m afraid,” said the librarian. “There’s a kitchen alcove for the staff over there. There’s water. I still have to finish up over here.”

“Which way is the lecture hall?” E. made so bold as to enquire further.

“The auditorium is at the end of the corridor on the left. I’ll be introducing you. We start at a quarter past.”

The librarian appeared to lose all interest in her visitor and began tapping on her keyboard. This frosty reception further disheartened E. After a few wrong turns he located the kitchen alcove where he noticed an empty coffee pot by the sink. He briefly considered brewing a pot of coffee himself, but decided to settle for a glass of water.

The auditorium was not particularly vast but E. was surprised to see there was quite a turnout, the room was almost half full. This was gratifying. E. recalled a similar event in another town, where his public had comprised three assistant librarians and the aunt of one.

As soon as the librarian had finished enumerating, in a monotone and without pause, the titles of all E’s twenty books, E. began unceremoniously reading extracts from his work: one early short story, one essay, and the first chapter of his new novel. As he read he became increasingly aware that he was not doing it well. Not well at all. He was not on form this evening. On more than one occasion he was forced to clear his throat, and at one point someone in the back row called out: “We can’t hear!”

It didn’t help that, in various parts of the room, several people were chatting in low voices. As he paused between the essay and the novel, he even caught the tail-end of a phrase recollecting a holiday in Thailand. Moreover, some members of the audience were fiddling with their phones or tablets without ever lifting their gazes. Text messages, e-mails, and smiley faces flew indiscernibly across the room, but the author could almost feel their electric breeze in his thinning hair. By contrast, among the otherwise indifferent audience sat two individuals whose gaze was relentlessly fixed on E. Could it be they were admirers of his books? If they were, they gave no indication other than the obdurate stare, for neither displayed the slightest reaction to the words he read, no trace of a smile or nod. And E. felt he had chosen passages which were, after all, both amusing and moving.

E. felt there was something vaguely familiar about the two individuals, but he couldn’t place them. One was an older man, the other a woman of about the same age as E. Their imperviousness caused E. some degree of discomfort.

No one clapped when he finished reading. After a brief silence, the librarian grabbed the microphone and announced: “The floor is open.”

“I’m interested in that so-called thriller you wrote, your first book I think. The Dead Never Repent, or Regret or something,” a young man opened the discussion.

The Dead Never Redial,” E. corrected the speaker.

“Yeah that one. Because it was just so unbelievably dreadful it had me stumped,” continued the young man.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said E. “Many critics at the time expressed a slightly different opinion. In fact that book received quite a number of positive reviews in the press. But of course every reader has the right to their own opinion. An author can’t please everyone unfortunately. Did you have a question about the book?”

“Not really. I was just wondering how such a poorly written book managed to win such a lot of praise. Were you friends with the critics?”

The author began to see red. He could feel a sudden flush spreading from his neck to his cheeks, and he knew it did nothing to improve his appearance.

“What exactly are you saying? Surely you’re not suggesting I bribed the critics?”

At this point the librarian saw fit to intervene.

“Perhaps the speaker could specify what he feels is so dreadful about the work?” she proposed.

“Well the plot for one,” the young man eagerly explained. “It wasn’t the least bit believable! I mean that sort of thing just doesn’t happen in real life. It made no sense at all. The characters were flat, and as for the language it was—how can I put it—pretentiously poetic I suppose. That’s for starters anyway.”

The audience stirred slightly from its torpor, and someone giggled audibly in the back of the hall. It was the same older woman who had been tormenting E. with her stare as he read. The woman’s mouth and hair, wispy strands drawn back into a ponytail, reminded E. of a girl he once knew. The memory in question was not entirely pleasant.

“Thank you for your feedback,” said the author. The librarian coughed and took the microphone: “Are there any other questions. Or comments. The floor is open.”

The same older man who had been staring at him blankly from the beginning of the session, and who seemed vaguely familiar to E., raised his hand.

“I would like to discuss Solzhenitsyn’s short story collection entitled For the Good of the Cause,” he said.

The author was taken aback.

“I see, Solzhenitsyn’s short stories. Hmm. I do recall reading them once, but it was very long ago. Why would you like to talk about that specific work?”

“Because thirty-five years ago, you stole that very book from a bookstore. In April. Didn’t you?”

“What are you talking about?” E. almost choked. This was totally uncalled for. He felt like he’d had the wind knocked out of him.

“You remember the occasion, don’t try and play dumb. Your left hand didn’t know what your right was up to, is that it?”

Now E. recognized the man making the unexpected accusation. They used to sit next to each other in Advanced Latin. And the worst part was, the man was right. E. had, indeed, around that time, stolen the book, absentmindedly as it were (or can he even be sure of that?), but stolen it in any case, from the main bookstore in town. He had started reading the book as he stood between the shelves, and then walked out with the book still in his hands. And he’d even laughed as he mentioned the incident—his deed—to this very same fellow student.

 The room fell silent, even the electric breeze died down. Finally, the author had the room’s undivided, if malevolent, attention.

“When you’re young you make all kinds of mistakes,” E. said, first swallowing, then clearing his throat, and finally accompanying the end of his sentence with a little laugh.

“Is that all you have to say for yourself?” the man asked.

“It was a mistake, as I just said,” E. repeated, “a stupid mistake.”

“Not just a mistake. A crime!” the man pointed out drily.

E. did not know what to say to that, true, shoplifting is a crime, albeit past its statute of limitations in this case. Now it was a crime confessed, if not forgiven. A youngish woman came to his rescue by raising her hand. E. thought he could perceive sincerity in her eyes, as well as hint of sympathy, and this helped him retain his composure.

“I have an eight-year-old daughter who dreams of becoming a writer. What can I do, as a mother, to help her fulfill her dream?” the woman asked.

E. bit his lip, bit it till it hurt. He did so want to answer: “Kill yourself!” But he restrained himself from saying something so horrific aloud to such a kindly-looking mother. E.’s own mother had died when he was young, and he had read that it was a statistical fact that many an author had lost one or both parents in childhood. No other misfortune provided better impetus to a budding writer.

He couldn’t possibly give such an answer, but he should at least have urged her: “My dear young lady with the gentle, sparkling eyes, look at me! Look at me and think again. You see before you a decrepit individual who has dedicated decades to the construction of main and subordinate clauses, the study of word order and punctuation, the quest for the perfect adjective. Is there any occupation more foolish? Why wish such a future on your innocent child?”

Instead he said tamely: “Should a mother or father hold such ambitions for their child’s future, they should ensure the child has as wide a range of reading material available as possible, both fact and fiction. And it is important to read to your child aloud every evening,” came his tame answer. “It develops language skills.”

“Are there any other questions?” asked the librarian. “If not, those who so wish now have an opportunity to obtain the author’s autograph. Don’t forget it can increase in value once the author is dead.”

“Was that remark absolutely necessary?” the author muttered to the librarian. The audience was already vacating the hall, talking and laughing loudly. No one brought him a copy to sign despite the likelihood that before long—and E. felt, in his anguish, maybe very soon indeed—the value of his scrawl might rise to untold heights. That no one wanted his autograph did not actually dismay E.; he was only too eager to escape the hall and get out beneath the black winter sky. But this was out of the question, as through the crowd of exiting backs, approached that same woman, smiling and slinking strangely forward, the one he had observed earlier, with the stare and the giggle. The author picked up his pen in readiness, but was surprised to see that she handed him not a book, but a scrap of paper.

“What is this?” E. asked, baffled. He noticed that the soft, off-white paper looked like it had been ripped from a toilet roll. Or, rather, it had. When E. lifted his gaze to the woman’s face, her smile had turned into a mocking, evil smirk. That is when he recognized her. They had almost dated forty years ago, but only almost. They had met up on a couple of weekends, but the woman had clung to him like a leech, phoned him day and night, and talked, talked, talked incessantly. And always about herself! Now E. remembered those phone calls. This person had bent his ear with the whole detailed misery of her life, and not just once but over and over again: workplace bullying, diets, bulimia, dermatosis, menstrual pains, miscarriage, and a graphic account of having her uterus scraped. He had brutally, rapidly nipped the relationship in the bud, it had seemed like the only solution at the time.

“No, this is too much,” said E. “I refuse.”

“Too much? How so? You’re here to sign your autograph,” said the librarian. “All the authors do it. It’s part of the agreement.”

“I won’t do it!” E. persisted.

“Well, I never!” said the librarian, and she stared at him with her eyebrows raised, as if addressing an unruly child, tapping insistently on the chit of paper in front of him. Both women watched him expectantly. Furious and humiliated, E. dutifully scribbled his name on the paper, but he was so incensed that the pen made holes and cuts in the fragile texture. He had barely finished when the woman snatched the paper from under his pen, glanced at it with displeasure and said: “Now it’s useless!”

She scrunched the paper up and flung it past the author’s ear into the waste basket. She turned away angrily and left, but instead of slinking as she did when she approached, now she stormed out. Her heels rang out along the stone corridor, long after her figure was no longer visible.

Exhausted in the deserted auditorium, E. faltered as he rose to his feet and asked the librarian: “Was this all planned in advance?”

“What do you mean?” The librarian looked at him blankly. “Of course these events are always planned in advance. The auditorium was booked three weeks ago and there was an announcement in the local paper last week,” the woman explained.

“And as for your fee,” the librarian continued, ignoring the author’s distress and the appalling incident which had just taken place. “I’m assuming you were told that we no longer remunerate our guest speakers other than travel costs, in line with the cheapest method of transport. After all, these occasions are like free publicity for you people. And there was quite a turnout, I was rather surprised. We’ve had authors with bigger names who’ve had smaller audiences. Perhaps there wasn’t much on offer in town tonight. So anyway, if you came by car, we do refund fuel costs. Against a receipt of course.”

 There was nothing E. could say to this so, without so much as a good-bye, he strode into the lobby and grabbed his coat off the rack. In the parking lot, an icy drizzle thawed on his bald spot and rapidly cooled his forehead’s crimson vexation. He had stepped out into the winter night without his hat and gloves. He had forgotten them on the hat shelf, but even the whiplashing slush could not induce him to return to the building. A different, barely suppressed, and warmer moisture stung his eyes: the bitter tears of self-pity.

 The engine cut out twice before he got it going, but driving through the narrow streets piled high with snow on either side forced him to turn his attention away from his recent ignominy.

“That was my final appearance,” E. swore to himself. “Never again.”

Only once he was on the motorway did the loss of his gloves really begin to annoy him. They were a Christmas present from his only daughter, the finest kid leather and a perfect fit. E. had told his daughter she shouldn’t have bought such an expensive gift, but the gloves had given him real pleasure. Perhaps he could ring the library tomorrow and ask to have them sent on by post, if he paid the postage and if they had not already been stolen . . .

His thoughts turned to his daughter’s loneliness and how his small granddaughter had once asked him, in tears: “Granddad, why don’t I know how to live like other children?”

As he tried to recover and calm down, E. began to reflect on time and death and oblivion. The passage of time is merciful, oblivion is forgiving. One hundred years pass, and then another hundred, and shame, honor, what are they, no one remembers. Our names are forgotten and all our deeds are as inconsequential as fallen leaves. Just as honor fades, so too does guilt, and our thoughts, our aspirations, our errors vanish as though they never were. No one remembers that we once existed, no one knows why we were so unhappy, so ridiculously unhappy.

He also recalled why he first began writing. There had been an experience, so grand and beyond words, that he had wanted to lend it words. He had hoped to articulate the silence. He had tried to depict the unseen. Why go to all that trouble? Now his ambitions were almost forgotten, but E. still retained some small particle of faith. He wanted to believe that even though he had never attained that which he sought, it did exist nonetheless, it was there for the finding, at any time.

Calmer now, the line of a poem came to mind, he had read it in the Spoon River Anthology: “The inner kernel is freedom, it is light, purity.“

These thoughts helped E. regain his ruffled composure and he began to plan his itinerary for the following day, including a hospital visit to his aging aunt.

It was almost nighttime, and there was little traffic heading to the capital. Weather conditions had worsened and a slurry of slush slid down the windscreen. Almost at the same spot as on his outward journey, a mountainous shadow loomed ahead. “This time I’m not falling for it,” thought E. and without reducing speed he drove on into the heart of the night, failing to see or grasp that minutes beforehand, an accident had taken place, and both lanes were blocked by the trailer of a timber truck, the size of a train carriage.

Long after the vehicle had stopped, mangled into a pile of serrated wreckage against the trailer, and as glass and flesh, metal and bone, urine and petrol, blood and oil all mixed together in the chaos and obscurity, E. himself continued to soar onward. An explosion of agony had plucked him from all that had gone before.

“That was another illusion,” E. thought. “Indeed, it was all an illusion.” Suddenly the world stood still and only he was moving. Freedom, light, purity! In the expansive void, he was propelled toward the wordlessness he’d been unable to express, toward the unseen he’d been unable to depict.

“Viimeinen esiintyminen” @ Leena Krohn. By arrangement with Teos. Translation @ 2014 by Eva Buchwald. All rights reserved.

Viimeinen esiintyminen

Sinä talvisena iltapäivänä moottoritiellä, juuri ennen siltaa ja S:n kaupungin liittymää, E:n ajovalojen keilaan ilmestyi yllättäen leveä ja synkeä varjo. Rekan perävaunu! Niin hän sen näki. Oli ilmeisesti tapahtunut onnettomuus ja perävaunu oli kaatunut ja kääntynyt poikittain tielle niin että se peitti molemmat ajokaistat. E. ei nähnyt muuta mahdollisuutta kuin lyödä jarrut pohjaan tai ajaa ulos tieltä. Ennenkuin päätös oli täysin syntynyt –  eikä sitä sanellut harkinta vaan pikemminkin tiedoton refleksi – E. iski jarrut pohjaan niin että jäähileitä sinkoili kirskuvien renkaiden alta. Auto ei ollut ehtinyt edes kokonaan pysähtyä, kun hän jo tajusi erehtyneensä: tie oli avoin, hänen edessään ei ollut mitään konkreettista vaan tosiaan pelkkä tielle langennut varjo.

Miten sellainen harha oli selitettävissä?

Juuri siinä kohtaa moottoritie kaartuu ja laskeutuu niin että vastaantulijoita ei näe ennen kuin ajoneuvot ovat ohittaneet kaarteen. Metsäinen, kuusia kasvava kukkula moottoritien toisella puolen, jonka pohjoisesta lähestyvät autonvalot olivat valaisseet, oli langettanut hänen eteensä tuon massiivisen pimeyden. Kenties optinen illuusio oli syntynyt paitsi erikoisista valaistusolosuhteista myös siitä syystä, että E:n vasempaan silmään aikoinaan tehty kaihileikkaus ei ollut täysin onnistunut. Etenkin iltaisin tekomykiön reuna, joka ei istunut täydellisesti kohdallaan, tuotti heijastuksia ja sateenkaaria valojen ympärille ja saattoi siten pahimmassa tapauksessa olla esteenä tarkalle näkemiselle.

E:n takana ajava auto joutui myös tekemään paniikkijarrutuksen, ja kun se ohitti hänet, ajaja näytti E:lle keskisormea. E. kääntyi ulosmenokaistalle, tunsi häpeää ja huomasi vapisevansa. Häntä pelotti myös ajatus, ettei hän enää pystynyt täysin luottamaan silmiinsä, aavistus, että ehkä samankaltaiset tapahtumat tulisivat vielä toistumaan. Kenties ne tulisivat rasittamaan yhä tiheämmin hänen alkavaa vanhuuttaan.

Harhan nöyryyttämänä hän jatkoi matkaa kaupunkiin, joka oli hänelle tuntematon. Sen lähiössä, sivukirjastossa, hänen oli määrä lukea otteita kirjoistaan ja vastailla mahdollisiin yleisökysymyksiin. Illan otsikoksi järjestäjät olivat antaneet Toden ja tarun vyöhykkeitä.

Kun hän saapui kirjastolle ilman harharetkiä, navigaattorin pehmeä-äänisen naisen opastamana (“ottakaa erkaantumiskaista!”), tilaisuuden alkamiseen oli yhä puolisen tuntia aikaa. Kirjastovirkailija, vanhempi rouva, istui tiskin takana syventyneenä tietokoneensa näyttöön.

“Olen kirjailija Sejase”, E. esittäytyi. “Täällähän on tänään se kirjallinen ilta.”

“Tekö? Enpä tuota olisi uskonut!” kirjastovirkailija tokaisi silmäillen häntä päästä jalkoihin.

E:stä se oli hieman odottamaton tervetulotoivotus, eikä ainakaan innostunut, mutta hän ei kysynyt, mitä virkailija huomautuksellaan tarkoitti. Hän tuli kuitenkin hyvin tietoiseksi turvonneista silmänalusistaan, rypistyneestä kaulastaan ja viime aikoina kumaraksi käyneestä ryhdistään.

“Olisikohan mitenkään mahdollista saada kahvia?” E. kysyi. Hän tunsi tarvitsevansa hiukan virkistystä pitkän ajomatkan ja omituisen kokemuksensa jälkeen.

“Valitettavasti kahvio on jo kiinni”, virkailija vastasi. “Tuolla on henkilökunnan keittosyvennys. Sieltä voi ottaa vettä. Minulla on tässä vielä vähän tekemistä.”

“Missähän päin luentosali on?” E. rohkeni vielä tiedustella.

“Auditorium on tuolla käytävän perällä vasemmalla. Tulen sinne esittelemään teidät. Aloitetaan viittätoista yli.”

Virkailija näytti menettävän kaiken kiinnostuksensa tulijaan ja alkoi naputella konettaan. Vastaanoton viileys sai E:n mielialan entisestään laskemaan. Pienen harhailun jälkeen hän löysi keittosyvennyksen ja näki tiskipöydällä myös tyhjän kahvinkeittimen. Hetken pohdittuaan, tohtisiko itse ryhtyä valmistamaan kahvia, E. päätti tyytyä pelkkään veteen.

Auditorium ei ollut suurensuuri, mutta siellä oli hänen yllätyksekseen suhteellisen paljon väkeä, sali oli melkein puolillaan. Siitä sopi sentään olla tyytyväinen. Hän muisti toisen kirjailijavierailun toiseen kaupunkiin, jonka yleisönä oli ollut vain kolme kirjastoapulaista ja yhden heistä täti.

Heti virkailijan lueteltua paperista kaikki E:n kahdenkymmenenviiden teoksen nimet ja julkaisuvuodet monotonisesti, taukoja pitämättä, E. alkoi kursailematta lukea otteita teksteistään: erään lyhyen varhaisen novellin, yhden esseen, ensimmäisen luvun viimeisestä romaanistaan. Lukemisen edetessä hän tuli yhä tietoisemmaksi siitä, ettei tehnyt sitä hyvin. Ei yhtään hyvin. Vire ei ollut sinä iltana paras mahdollinen. Useampaan otteeseen hän joutui karauttamaan kurkkuaan, ja kerran joku takariviltä huusi: “Ei kuulu!”

Kuuluvuutta ei mitenkään parantanut se, että siellä täällä salissa monetkin henkilöt keskustelivat puoliääneen. Pitäessään tauon esseen ja romaanin luvun välillä E. jopa kuuli katkelman lauseesta, jossa muisteltiin lomamatkaa Thaimaaseen. Osa yleisostä taas askarteli puhelimiensa ja tablettiensa parissa nostamatta katsettaan puhujaan. Tekstiviestit, sähköpostit ja hymiöt sinkoilivat näkymättöminä salissa, mutta kirjailija oli tuntevinaan niiden sähköisen tuulen harvenevissa hiuksissaan. Sen sijaan muutoin välinpitämättömän yleisön joukossa istui pari henkilöä, jotka kumpikin tuijottivat E:tä herkeämättä. Oliko hänen kirjoillaan sentään ihailijoitakin tässä salissa? Jos oli, he eivät sitä osoittaneet millään muulla eleellä kuin jäykällä tuijotuksella, sillä kumpikaan ei reagoinut hänen lukemaansa tekstiin, ei edes hymynhäiveellä tai nyökkäyksellä. Ja kuitenkin E. itse kuvitteli valinneensa tekstejä, jotka olivat sekä hauskoja että liikuttavia.

Noissa kahdessa henkilössä oli E:n mielestä jotain etäisesti tuttua, mutta hän ei silti pystynyt sijoittamaan heitä mihinkään yhteyteen. Toinen oli vanhempi mies, toinen nainen, suunnilleen samanikäinen kuin E. itsekin. Heidän hievahtamattomuutensa aiheutti E:lle jonkinasteista epämukavuutta.

Kukaan ei taputtanut hänen lopetettuaan luentansa. Lyhyen hiljaisuuden jälkeen kirjastovirkailija tarttui mikrofoniin ja ilmoitti: “Sana on nyt vapaa.”

“Minua kiinnostaisi se teidän niin sanottu dekkarinne, taisi olla ihan esikoinen. Oliko sen nimi nyt Kuolleet eivät kadehdi tai kadu tai mitä lie”, nuori mies aloitti.

“Kuolleet eivät kuluta”, E. korjasi.

“No se juuri. Kun se oli minusta niin tavattoman huono, että minä oikein ihmettelen”, nuorukainen jatkoi.

“Ikävä kuulla”, E. sanoi. “Monet kriitikothan olivat siitä aikoinaan hiukan toista mieltä. Se sai itse asiassa monessa lehdessä hyvin myönteisiä arvioita. Mutta tietysti jokaisella lukijalla on oikeus omaan mielipiteeseensä. Kirjailijahan ei voi kaikkia miellyttää, harmi kyllä. Onko teillä jotain kysyttävää siitä kirjasta?”

“Ei sen kummempaa. Sitä minä vain ihmettelen, että kuinka niin kehno kirja voi saada niin paljon kehuja? Olivatko tuttavianne ne kriitikot?”

Nyt kirjailija alkoi tulistua. Hän tunsi punan leviävän kaulalta poskipäihin, ja tiesi, ettei se kaunistanut häntä.

“Mitä te tuolla tarkoitatte? Te ette kai sentään ehdota, että minä olisin lahjonut kriitikot, mitä?”

Nyt virkailija katsoi asiakseen puuttua keskusteluun.

“Jospa kysyjä tarkentaisi, mikä hänen mielestään siinä kirjassa oli niin huonoa”, hän ehdotti.  

“No juoni nyt ainakin”, nuori mies oikein innostui. “Kerta kaikkiaan uskomaton! Semmoista nyt ei vain todellisuudessa tapahdu. Logiikka petti ihan kerrassaan. Ja henkilökuvaus oli tönkköä, kun taas kieli – miten sen nyt sanoisi – se kai oli olevinaan jollain lailla runollista. Nämä nyt alkuun tulee mieleen.”

Yleisö oli hieman havahtunut, ja joku hihitti kuuluvasti salin perällä. Se oli sama vanhempi nainen, joka oli E:n lukiessa tujottanut häntä niin lakkaamatta, kuin vaanien. Naisen suu ja kampaus, ohuista hiuksista koottu poninhäntä, saivat E:n nyt muistamaan hänen kerran tuntemaansa tyttöä. Tuohon tyttöön liittyi muisto, joka ei ollut aivan miellyttävä.

“Kiitän kritiikistä”, kirjailija sanoi. Kirjastovirkailija rykäisi ja otti mikrofonin: “Onko muita kysymyksiä. Tai näkökulmia. Sana on vapaa.”

Se sama vanhempi mies, joka oli tuijottanut häntä tilaisuuden alusta saakka ilmeettömin kasvoin ja joka vaikutti E:stä hämärästi tutulta, pyysi puheenvuoroa.

“Haluaisin keskustella kanssanne Solzhenitsynin novellikokoelmasta Asian etu”, hän sanoi.

Kirjailija yllättyi.

“Jaha, Solzhenitsynin novelleista. Hmm. Muistan kyllä lukeneeni niitä ammoin, mutta siitä on tosiaan kauan. Miksi haluaisitte puhua nimenomaan siitä teoksesta?”

“Koska kolmekymmentäviisi vuotta sitten te varastitte juuri sen kirjan kirjakaupasta. Huhtikuussa. Eikö vain?”

“Mistä te puhutte?” E. melkein haukkoi henkeään. Tämä oli jo ansaitsematonta. Hän tunsi saaneensa iskun palleaansa.

“Kyllä te sen muistatte, turha näytellä tietämätöntä. Eikö vasen käsi tiennyt, mitä oikea teki?”

Nyt E. tunnisti miehen, joka esitti hänelle yllättävän syytöksen. He olivat istuneet vierekkäin latinan pro-kurssilla. Ja pahinta oli, että mies oli oikeassa. Hän oli tosiaan niihin samoihin aikoihin varastanut kirjan pääkaupungin suurimmasta kirjakaupasta, tavallaan epähuomiossa (vaikka voiko siitäkään olla enää varma), mutta joka tapauksessa varastanut. Hän oli alkanut lukea romaania hyllyjen välissä ja sitten kävellyt kirja kädessään suoraan ulos. Ja oli vieläpä maininnut tapauksesta – teostaan – naureskellen juuri tuolle samaiselle opiskelutoverille.

Saliin oli laskeutunut hiljaisuus, sähköinen tuulikin oli laantunut. Kirjailija E:llä oli vihdoin yleisön jakamaton vaikkakin huvittuneen pahansuopa huomio.

“Nuorena sitä tulee tehdyksi kaikenlaisia erehdyksiä”, E. sanoi ensin nielaistuaan, sitten karautettuaan kurkkuaan ja lauseensa lopuksi naurahtaen.

“Eikö teillä ole muuta sanottavaa?” mies kysyi.

“Se oli virhe kuten juuri sanoin”, E. toisti. “Oikein typerää.”

“Ei pelkkä virhe. Rikos!”, mies huomautti tylysti.

E. ei osannut sanoa tuohon mitään, rikoshan toki näpistyskin on, vaikka nyt jo vanhentunut. Nyt se oli tunnustettu, vaikka ei ehkä anteeksiannettu. Hänen pelastuksekseen nuorehko nainen pyysi puheenvuoroa. E. oli näkevinään tämän silmissä vilpittömyyttä ja hitusen myötätuntoakin, joka auttoi häntä säilyttämään ryhtinsä.

“Minulla on kahdeksanvuotias tytär, joka haaveilee kirjailijan ammatista. Mitä minä äitinä voisin tehdä sen eteen, jotta hänen unelmansa toteutuisi?” nainen kysyi.

E. puri kieltään, puri oikein tuntuvasti. Hänen teki kovasti mieli vastata: “Tapa itsesi!” mutta hän pidättäytyi sanomasta niin kauheaa asiaa ääneen niin miellyttävälle äiti-ihmiselle. E:n oma äiti oli kuollut, kun hän oli lapsi, ja hän oli lukenut sellaisen tilastollisen seikan, että varsin monien kirjailijoiden toinen tai molemmat vanhemmat olivat menehtyneet heidän lapsuusaikanaan. Mikään muu onnettomuus ei antanut niin hyvää potkua tulevalle kirjailijuudelle.

Sellaista vastausta hän ei voinut antaa, mutta ainakin hänen olisi pitänyt kehottaa: “Hyvä nuori rouva, te jonka silmät ovat niin suopeat ja säteilevät, katsokaa minua! Katsokaa ja miettikää vielä kerran. Näette edessänne kuluneen ihmisen, joka on käyttänyt vuosikymmeniä pää- ja sivulauseiden rakenteluun, sanajärjestyksen ja välimerkkien pohtimiseen, täsmällisen adjektiivin löytämiseen. Onko hullumpaa puuhaa? Tässä näette miehen, joka ei koskaan ollut täysin tyytyväinen ainoaankaan työhönsä. Miksi toivotte viattomalle lapselle sellaista tulevaisuutta?”

Mutta hän sanoi: “Jos äidillä tai isällä on sellainen erityinen toive lapsensa tulevaisuuden suhteen, hänen olisi tarjottava mahdollisimman paljon monipuolista luettavaa lapselleen, sekä tietokirjallisuutta että fiktiota. Ja hyvä olisi lukea lapselle myös joka ilta ääneen”, kirjailija vastasi kesysti. “Se kehittää kielitajua.”

“Onko muita kysymyksiä?” virkailija kysyi. “Jos ei, halukkailla on nyt tilaisuus saada kirjailijalta omakätisiä nimikirjoituksia. Muistakaa, että ne nousevat arvossa sitten kun kirjailija on kuollut.”

“Oliko tuo nyt tarpeellinen huomautus?” kirjailija mutisi virkailijalle. Yleisö oli jo lähdössä salista kovaäänisesti keskustellen ja nauraen. Kukaan ei tuonut kirjaa signeerattavaksi siitäkään huolimatta, että ennen pitkää – ja E:sta tuntui kurjuudessaan, että jopa hyvinkin pian –  sellainen raapaisu saattaisi kohota arvoon arvaamattomaan. Se, että häneltä ei haluttu nimikirjoituksia, ei tosin E:tä surettanut, hän halusi vain päästä pois salista, ulos mustan talvitaivaan alle niin nopeasti kuin suinkin. Mutta se ei vielä käynyt päinsä, sillä poistuvien selkien takaa lähestyi hymyillen, erikoisella tavalla hiipien, sama vanha nainen, johon hän oli jo aikaisemmin kiinnittänyt huomiota, tuijottaja ja hihittäjä. Kirjailija tarttui jo valmiiksi kynäänsä, mutta yllättyi, kun nainen ei ojentanutkaan hänelle kirjaa vaan pelkän paperilappusen.

“Mitä tämä on?” E. kysyi neuvottomana. Hän huomasi, että pehmeä kellertävä paperi näytti siltä kuin se olisi repäisty vessapaperirullasta. Eikä ainoastaan näyttänyt. Kun E. nosti katseensa naisen kasvoihin, tämän hymy oli vaihtunut pilkalliseksi ja pahanilkiseksi virneeksi. Silloin E. tunnisti hänet. He olivat melkein seurustelleet lähes neljäkymmentä vuotta aikaisemmin, mutta vain melkein. He tapailivat parina viikonloppuna, mutta sen jälkeen nainen oli takertunut häneen kuin iilimato, soitellut päivin ja öin ja puhunut, puhunut, puhunut lakkaamatta. Ja aina itsestään! Nyt E. muisti ne soitot. Tuo ihminen oli vuodattanut E:n korvaan elämänsä koko kurjuuden seikkaperäisesti eikä ainoastaan yhtä kertaa vaan yhä uudelleen ja uudelleen: työpaikkakiusaamiset, dieettinsä, bulimiansa, ruusufinninsä, kilpirauhasensa, keskenmenonsa ja kaiken, mitä kaavinnassa tapahtui. Hän oli katkaissut orastavan suhteen brutaalisti ja nopeasti, se oli silloin tuntunut ainoalta mahdollisuudelta.

“Ei, tämä on jo liikaa”, E. sanoi. “Tähän minä en suostu.”

“Kuinka niin liikaa? Mitä te tarkoitatte? Onhan teidän toki annettava nimikirjoituksia”, kirjastovirkailija sanoi. “Kaikki kirjailijavieraat antavat. Se kuuluu sopimukseen.”

“En anna!” E. toisti.

“No mutta!” virkailija sanoi, katsoi häntä kulmat koholla kuin huonosti käyttäytyvää lasta ja taputti vaativasti paperilappusta hänen edessään. Molemmat naiset tuijottivat häntä odottavasti. Häväistynä ja poissa tolaltaan E. riipaisi kuin riipaisikin nimensä lappuseen, mutta niin kiivaasti, että kynä teki huokoiseen paperiin reikiä ja viiltoja. Hän ei ehtinyt edes nostaa kynäänsä, kun nainen jo tempaisi signeeratun paperilapun kynän alta, silmäili sitä tyytymättömänä ja tokaisi: “Nythän se on käyttökelvoton!” Hän rutisti paperin pieneksi mytyksi, heitti sen kirjailijan korvan ohitse paperikoriin ja sen sijaan että olisi nyt hiipinyt kuten lähestyessään kirjailijaa, hän suorastaan marssi niin että korkojen kopse kajahteli pitkään käytävän kivilattialta, kun hän oli jo kadonnut näkyvistä.

Kun sali oli autio, nääntynyt E. nousi hieman horjahtaen pystyyn ja kysyi virkailijalta: “Oliko tämä ilta etukäteen järjestetty?”  

“Mitä tarkoitatte?” Virkailija katsoi häntä tyhjästi. “Tietysti nämä tilaisuudet ovat aina etukäteen järjestettyjä. Auditorio varattiin jo kolme kuukautta sitten ja mainoskin oli viikko sitten paikallislehdessä”, nainen selitti.

“Niin, vielä palkkioasiasta”, kirjastovirkailija jatkoi kiinnittämättä sen kummempaa huomiota kirjailijan järkkyneeseen mielentilaan ja äskeiseen kuohuttavaan tapaukseen. “Onhan teille kaiketi ilmoitettu, että me emme enää tätä nykyä maksa esitelmöitsijöille muuta kuin matkarahat edullisimmalla julkisella kulkuneuvolla. Tällainen tilaisuushan on tavallaan ilmaista mainosta teikäläisille. Väkeäkin oli oikein mukavasti paikalla, ihan minä ihmettelin. Ehkä kaupungilla ei tänään ollut oikein mitään tapahtumia. Meillä on ollut nimekkäämpiäkin kirjailijoita, joilla on ollut vähemmän kuulijakuntaa. Niin, ja jos tulitte omalla autolla, korvaamme polttoainekustannukset. Kuittia vastaan tietysti.”

E. ei pystynyt sanomaan tähän enää mitään vaan virkailijaa hyvästelemättä harppoi eteisaulaan ja kiskoi takkinsa naulakosta. Parkkipaikalla jäätävä tihku suli hänen pälvikaljulleen ja viilensi nopeasti tuskanpunaisena hehkuvan otsan. Hän oli astunut talviseen säähän ilman päähinettä ja käsineitä. Ne olivat unohtuneet hattuhyllylle, mutta rännän ruoskatkaan eivät saaneet häntä palaamaan takaisin taloon. Toinen, vaivoin pidätelty ja kuumempi kosteus poltteli hänen silmiään: itsesäälin katkerat kyyneleet.

Moottori sammui kahdesti ennen käynnistymistä, mutta ajaminen lumikinosten ahtauttamia katuja pakotti E:n huomion suuntautumaan pois juuri koetusta häväistyksestä.

“Se oli viimeinen esiintyminen”, E. vannoi itsekseen. “Ei koskaan enää!”

Vasta moottoritiellä käsineiden jääminen kirjastoon alkoi todella harmittaa häntä. Ne olivat joululahja hänen tyttäreltään, parasta nappanahkaa ja täsmälleen oikeaa kokoa. Epätavallisen hieno ja onnistunut lahja, sillä yleensä hän sai jouluisin tyttäreltään partavesipullon. Ehkä hän voisi huomenna soittaa kirjastoon ja pyytää postittamaan hansikkaat hänelle, jos hän itse maksaisi postimaksun ja jos ei joku jo olisi ehtinyt varastaa niitä…

Yrittäessään toipua ja rauhoittua E. ryhtyi ajattelemaan aikaa ja kuolemaa ja unohdusta. Ajan kuluminen on armoa, unohdus on anteeksisaamista. Kuluu sata vuotta ja toiset sata, ja mikä oli häpeää, mikä kunniaa, sitä kukaan ei enää muista. Meidän nimemme unohtuvat ja kaikki tekomme käyvät yhdentekeviksi kuin varisseet lehdet. Niin syyllisyys kuin kunniakin kuluvat pois, ja meidän ajatuksemme, pyrkimyksemme ja erehdyksemme ovat ohi kuin niitä ei olisi koskaan ollutkaan. Kukaan ei muista, että kerran olimme olemassa, kukaan ei tiedä, miksi olimme niin onnettomia, niin naurettavan onnettomia.

Hän muisti myös, miksi oli aikoinaan alkanut kirjoittaa. Oli ollut kokemus, suunnaton ja sanaton, jolle hän oli halunnut antaa sanat. Oli ollut hiljaisuus, jolle hän oli aikonut lainata äänen. Oli ollut näkymätön, jonka hän oli yrittänyt näyttää. Miksi kaikki tuo vaivannäkö? Nyt se pyrkimys oli jo melkein unohtunut, mutta E:ssa oli vielä jäljellä hitunen uskoa. Hän tahtoi uskoa, että vaikka hän itse ei koskaan tavoittanut sitä mihin etsi, se kuitenkin oli olemassa ja kenen tahansa löydettävissä, milloin tahansa.

Tyyntyen hänen mieleensä palautui säe, jonka hän aivan nuorena oli lukenut Spoon River-antologiasta: “Sisin ydin on valoa, ilmaa, vapautta.” Siinä lauseessa oli totuutta.

Nämä ajatukset saivat E:n horjahtaneen tasapainon palautumaan ja hän alkoi suunnitella seuraavan päivän ohjelmaa ja vierailua sairaalaan vanhan tätinsä luokse. Hän muisti taas tyttärensä yksinäisyyttä ja kuinka hänen pieni tyttärentyttärensä oli kerran kysynyt häneltä: “Pappa, miksi minä en osaa elää niin kuin muut lapset osaavat?”

Oli jo melkein yö, liikenne oli vähäistä pääkaupunkiin päin. Keli oli entistäänkin kehnompi ja rännän riekaleet liukuivat pitkin tuulilasia. Melkein samalla kohtaa kuin tulomatkalla hänen eteensä kaistoille nousi taas korkea varjovuori. “Nyt minua ei petetä”, E. ajatteli ja vauhtia hiljentämättä ajoi kohti yön sydäntä näkemättä ja oivaltamatta, että ihan vasta oli tapahtunut onnettomuus ja että molemmat kaistat tukki junan kokoisesta tukkirekasta irronnut perävaunu.

Vielä kauan sen jälkeen kun ajoneuvo ei enää liikkunut, kun se oli iskeytynyt piikikkääksi romukeoksi perävaunun kylkeen ja kun lasi ja liha, metalli ja luu, virtsa ja bensa, veri ja öljy olivat yhtyneet kaaoksen pimeydessä, E. itse kiisi yhä eteenpäin. Tuskan räjähdys oli irrottanut hänet kaikesta entisestä.

“Se oli toinen harha”, E. ajatteli. “Totta, se kaikki oli harhaa.”    Maailma oli pysähtynyt paikoilleen, hän yksin liikkui. Valoa, ilmaa, vapautta! Tyhjyyden yltäkylläisyydessä hän eteni kohti sanatonta, jota hän ei ollut osannut sanoa, kohti näkymätöntä, jota hän ei ollut osannut näyttää.

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