John Lindqvist - Handling The Undead

'Yes,' Flora said. 'But they're not walking around with axes, are they? No. The zombies in that movie are just like the basilisk, just like Gollum. They're just made up. It isn't like that at all in real life.'

'What's it like in real life?'

'In real life…' Flora stared at the black monitor. 'In real life they're nice. At least, they don't want to hurt anyone.'

'Are you sure?'

'I'm sure. Now go to bed.'

Svarvargatan 22.15

The clock on the bedside table said quarter past ten when the phone rang. Magnus had been breathing evenly for a long time and David eased out his tingling arm, walked out into the kitchen and picked up.

'This is David.'

'Hi. My name is Gustav Mahler. I hope I'm not calling too late. You wanted to speak to me.'

'No, it's… nothing,' David caught sight of the bottle and the glass, poured himself some. 'Honestly… ' he took a big gulp, 'I don't know why I tried to contact you.'

'I see,' Mahler said. 'That happens sometimes. Cheers.'

There was a click on the other end and David raised his glass, said, 'Cheers,' and took another gulp.

There was silence for several seconds.

'How's it going?' Mahler asked.

And David told him. Whether it was the wine, the bottled-up anguish or something in Mahler's voice-the barriers came down. Not caring whether the stranger on the other end was interested, he told him about the accident, the awakening, Magnus, the visit to the State Pathologist, the feeling of having fallen off the edge of life, about his love for Eva. He talked for at least ten minutes, only pausing because his mouth was dry and he needed more wine. While he poured, Mahler said, 'Death has the capacity to isolate us from each other.'

'Yes,' David said. 'You'll have to excuse me but I don't know why 1…I haven't talked to anyone about…' David stopped with the glass half-way to his mouth. A chill shot through his stomach and he put the glass down so violently that wine splashed out. 'You aren't going to write about this, are you?'

'You can…'

'You can't! You can't write about this, there are a lot of people who… '

They lined up in front of his eyes: his mother, Eva's father, his colleagues, Magnus' classmates, their parents… all the people who would find out more than he wanted them to know.

'David,' Mahler said. 'I can promise you that I won't write a single word without your approval.'

'Do you mean it?'

'Yes, I mean it. We're just talking right now. Or more precisely: you're talking and I'm listening.'

David laughed, a short laugh that came out in the form of a snort and pushed mucus into his nose, stale tears. He drew a finger through the spilled wine, forming a question mark. 'What about you?' he asked. 'What's your interest in this? Is it purely… professional?'

The other end grew quiet. David had time to think that the connection had been broken before Mahler answered.

'No. It's more… personal.'

David waited, drank more wine. He was starting to get drunk. He noted with relief that his state of being was starting to lose definition, his thoughts were slowing down. In contrast to earlier in the day this was a state in which he could rest. There was a person on the other end of the telephone line. He was drifting, but he was not alone. He was afraid the conversation would end.

'Personal?' he asked.

'Yes. You trusted me. I'll have to trust you. Or… if you want to put it another way we'll both have something on each other. My grandchild is with me, and he's… ' David heard Mahler take a gulp of whatever he was drinking, 'he is… he was dead until last night. Buried.'

'You're hiding him?'

'Yes. Only you and two other people know about it. He's in bad shape. The fact that I called you was mostly because I thought perhaps you knew something.'

'About about what?'

Mahler sighed.

'Oh, I don't know. It's just that you were there when she woke up and…I don't know. Maybe something happened that could be useful.'

David replayed what had happened at the hospital in his head. He wanted to help Mahler. 'She spoke,' he said.

'She did? What did she say?'

'Well, she didn't say anything that… it was as if the words were new for her, as if she was testing them. It was… ' David heard it again: Eva's metallic, raspy voice, 'it was pretty awful.'

'I see,' Mahler said. 'But it didn't seem as if she… remembered anything?'

Without thinking about it, David had forced that moment at the hospital from his consciousness. Had not wanted to go near it. Now he knew why.

'No,' David said and the tears pricked his eyes. 'It was like she was completely… empty.' He cleared his throat. 'I think I have to… '

'I understand,' Mahler said. 'Let me give you my number in case… well, in case you think of anything.'

They hung up, and David sat at the kitchen table, polishing off the last of the wine and devoting twenty minutes to not thinking of Eva's voice; of her eye, as it had looked at the hospital. When Magnus went to sleep he lay as if crucified in the middle of the bed, his arms thrown wide. David shifted Magnus over to one side, undressed and lay down next to him.

He was so exhausted he fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

Koholma 22.35

'What did he say?'

Anna walked into Mahler's room only a couple of seconds after he hung up. Mahler rubbed his eyes, said, 'Nothing in particular. He told me his story. Horrible, obviously. But nothing that helps us.' 'His wife, was she…

.'

'No. It was basically the same as with Elias.'

When Anna had gone back to the living room and the television came on, Mahler looked in on Elias. He stood there a long time staring at the little body. Elias had downed yet another bottle of brine, yet another bottle of sugar water over the course of the evenmg.

It was like she was completely… empty.

But Eva Zetterberg had only been dead for half an hour. Was he wrong?

Was it true, as Anna said, that nothing of Elias remained in the tiny creature lying in the bed?

When he stepped out onto the patio the air was new. During the long drought he had forgotten that the air could feel so rich, so much like nourishment. The darkness was dense and filled with scents from a

landscape that the downpour had restored to life.

Does some… intention exist?

Elias had been dead and withered. Something that was not rain had brought him back to life. What? And what was keeping him alive if he was empty inside?

A seed can lie dormant for hundreds and thousands of years. Dried or frozen in a glacier. Place it in moist earth and it sprouts. There is a power. The green force of the flower. What is the power of the human being?

Mahler studied the stars. Out here in the country they were more numerous than in the city. An illusion. Of course the stars were always there, and in numbers infinitely greater than the sharpest eye could discern.

Something touched him. An insight, inexpressible. He shivered.

In a rapid succession of images he saw a blade of grass break through the seed casing and struggle toward the surface, saw a sunflower strive toward the sky, turning to the light, saw a small child pull itself to its feet, hold its arms out, jubilant, and everything lives and is drawn to the light, and he saw…

It is not inevitable.

The green force of the flower. Not inevitable. Everything is effort, work. A gift. It can be taken from us. It can be given back.

Attachment 2

15 August

Initial Examination: Attempt No.3 (cure) [Soc. Dept. Confidential]

The supply of nourishment to patient 260718-0373 Bengt Andersson was interrupted 2002-08-15 at 08.15.

Catheters for saline and glucose solutions were removed in order to observe the patient's reaction. The patient showed no signs of decline by 09.15. ECG blank, EEG as before.