John Lindqvist - Handling The Undead

Elvy could not bring herself to do anything to stop it. She wasn't afraid, but she had no idea what she should do.

It was Tore, there was no sense in pretending anything else. But how was this possible? She had felt for his absent pulse; had held the little hand mirror to his mouth and seen that he was no longer breathing. She had heard the ambulance driver say it, she'd been given certificates confirming the fact that Tore was dead, deceased, gone.

The resurrection of the flesh…

He brushed past her and went on into the house. A cloud of chilled hospital smell reached her nostrils; disinfectant, starch… and something sweeter, more fruity underneath. She quickly pulled herself together, grabbed hold of his shoulder and whispered, 'What are you doing?'

He paid her no attention, and continued his steps-jerkily, as if each one was an effort-in the direction of the other bedroom. His room.

It struck her suddenly that for the first time in seven years she was seeing him walk. Stiffly, as if unused to his new-found body, but walking nonetheless. Straight to the room where Flora was sleeping.

Elvy turned around, grabbed hold of both his shoulders from behind and whisper-shouted, 'Flora is sleeping in there! Let her be!’

Tore stopped, the cold from his body seeping through the cloth into her hands. After they had stood like this for several seconds, a memory rose up: those times when Margareta was little and Tore had come home drunk. The daughter sleeping in her bed, Elvy playing sentry in the hallway to prevent Tore from stumbling into Margareta's room and dribbling endearments over the terrified child.

She's sleeping! Let her be!

Often it had worked. But not always.

Tore turned around. Elvy tried to fix him with her gaze, nail him to the wall as she had done forty years ago. Make him stop moving, start talking. But it was like trying to pin a tack to a bowling ball; her gaze slipped, could not pierce his and for the first time she began to be afraid.

Despite the shadows on his hollow cheeks, the sunken lips and the missing twenty kilos, he was still significantly stronger than she. And in his eyes there was no emotion, no recognition. She could not bear to look any longer and backed away, defeated.

Tore turned and continued towards the room. Elvy tried to grab hold of him again, but just as his shoulders slipped from her grasp, the bedroom door opened and Flora came out.

'Nana, what…'

She caught sight of Tore. A whimper escaped her and she threw herself aside, out of the way of his cold determination. Tore appeared not to notice her and entered the bedroom as Flora stumbled and fell over the armchair and crawled toward the balcony door. She

sat down on the floor, wide eyed and screaming at the top of her lungs.

Elvy hurried over to her, took her in her arms and stroked her hair, her cheeks.

'Shushh… shushhh… it isn't dangerous… shushhhh.'

The screaming stopped. Elvy felt Flora's jaw muscles tense under her hand. Her body started to tremble and she leaned towards Elvy, still tensed, her gaze directed at the bedroom. Tore had walked over to his desk and sat down, as if he had just come home from work and had a little paperwork to get through before going to bed.

They saw his arms moving, heard the quiet rustle as the papers moved over each other. They huddled there for a long time unable to move, until Flora freed herself from Elvy's arms and sat up straight on the floor.

Elvy whispered, 'How are you going there?' Quietly, so Tore wouldn't hear.

Flora opened and closed her mouth, made a half-hearted gesture at the coffee table, at the bedroom. Elvy looked over and saw what she meant. The cover of Flora's video game, Resident Evil, was on the coffee table. Flora mumbled something and Elvy leaned forward.

'What did you say?'

Flora's voice, less than a whisper, was quite clear, 'This is… ridiculous.'

Elvy nodded. Yes. Ridiculous. Laughable, except that neither of them was laughing-and the facts remained. She stood up. Flora fumbled at the hem of her robe.

'Shh…' Elvy whispered. 'I'm just going to see what he's doing.'

She crept up to the bedroom. Why were they whispering, why was she creeping if all of this was so ridiculous? Because the ludicrous, the impossible, is located at the outermost limits of existence. One wrong move, the least little disturbance, and it falls. Or rises, roaring. You never know which. And you have to be careful; take precautions.

Elvy leaned against the doorpost, but only Tore's back and one elbow, pulled in, were within her line of vision. She took a step into the room, sliding along the wall to get another angle.

Is he looking for something?

Ghosts coming back to put something right. The fruity smell had grown stronger. She rested the tips of her fingers against the wall as if to maintain contact with reality.

Tore's white, stiff hands moved across the desk, over the photocopied texts of psalms they'd sung at the funeral, blank stationery, the copy of today's newspaper that Flora had brought. He lifted a piece of paper to his eyes, moving his head back and forth as if he were reading-

Only a day, one moment at a time

– whereupon he put the paper down, and picked up a new piece with the same text and read it with equal care.

'Tore?'

Elvy started at the sound of her own voice. She had not been planning to say anything, it just slipped out. But there was no reaction from Tore. Elvy relaxed. She did not want him to turn around, do anything or-

God help me

– say anything.

She shuffled out of the room along the wall and closed the door gently behind her, listening. The paper sounds continued. She pulled the armchair up to the door, jammed the chair back under the door handle and wedged in a couple of books so that the handle wouldn't turn.

Flora was still sitting on the floor in the same position as before. Tore's return was inconceivable, quite beyond Elvy's comprehension, but she was afraid for Flora's sake. This was too much for her sensitive girl.

Elvy sat down next to her, and it was a relief when Flora asked, 'What's he doing?' since it meant she had not completely dissociated; she was interested. And Elvy had an answer for her.

'I think,' she said, 'that he is pretending to be alive.'

Flora gave a little nod, as if this was just the answer she had been expecting. Elvy didn't know what to do. Flora shouldn't be anywhere near this, but Elvy couldn't see how she could get her away. The buses had stopped running and Margareta and Goran were in London.

She couldn't have called her daughter anyway. Margareta might be generally better socially adapted than Flora and Elvy, but her capacity for hysteria, on the few occasions when it did break out, was enormous. Margareta would come over, and she would take care of everything. Margareta would be speaking very rapidly in a high-pitched voice, and if the smallest detail went wrong she would start to claw at her face.

Damn Tore.

Yes. As Elvy sat wrestling with the problem, she began to feel increasingly hostile toward Tore, whose fault this all was. Hadn't she already done enough? Hadn't she done everything that could possibly be done?

Wait a minute.

Something occurred to her and she smiled, in spite of everything. Of course it was only theological hairsplitting; but didn't it say, 'For better or for worse, until death us do part?' She looked over at the closed door. Tore was dead. Therefore this was no longer her responsibility. She'd made no promise to the priest, forty-three years earlier, to have, hold or cherish anyone after death.

A sound from Flora. Elvy asked, 'Sorry? What did you say?'

Flora looked her straight in the eyes and said, 'Aaaaah.'