Карин Тидбек - Amatka

Herein follows a summary of the observations, examinations, and interviews not included in report 1.

The employees of Amatka’s clinic use the commune’s own products exclusively. When asked about her opinion of products from other manufacturers, such as Amatka’s First Independent Chemist, a senior physician replied that the products have not been available long enough to assess the effects of prolonged use. Therefore, the clinic administration has no interest in new products.

Employees at Amatka’s mushroom farms have expressed a need for a milder laundry detergent. The fungicides in the detergent used for their protective clothing cause many farmers to develop rashes and flaking skin. The skin reactions can be treated with creams, but return as and when treatment stops. No other needs have been expressed.

My general impression continues to be that except in the case of the mushroom farmers, there’s a sense of unease when discussing innovation and new products. Establishing anything but the commune’s first products seems to have been a struggle. Introducing even newer ones might be very difficult. I will, however, continue my investigations.

The bookshelves in the library had been reorganized to make the gaps less obvious. Evgen sat behind his desk, writing index cards. When Vanja came in, he looked up and gave her a guarded smile. He looked less devastated.

“Hello again,” Vanja said.

“Welcome back,” Evgen said. “How are you getting on with number seven?”

“I like it very much.”

“Keep it a while. It gets better every time you read it.”

“I forgot to register it properly last time.” Vanja put the book down on the desk.

“Right, right.” Evgen took the library card from the pocket inside the cover and wrote something on it.

“Have you read any of her other poetry?” Vanja asked.

Evgen looked up. “What other poetry?”

Vanja hesitated. “I heard… I heard she wrote other poetry as well.”

Evgen rubbed the library card between his fingers. “Nothing that’s been published,” he said eventually. “Except the hymn.”

“A hymn?”

“Yes. But it’s not considered part of her work.” Evgen shrugged. “I can show it to you.”

He walked over to a bookcase in a different part of the room and drew out a thin booklet. “Here.”

The booklet was printed with the title A Book of Songs by Amatka’s Best Poets . Evgen opened it, turned a couple of pages, and held it out to Vanja. It was a call-and-response chant.

Vanja looked up at Evgen. “It seems…,” she started, “sarcastic?”

Evgen gave her a tight smile.

An awkward silence descended on the room. Evgen seemed about to speak a few times but stopped himself.

“Listen,” Vanja said finally, “I was wondering if you have any historical information on… on hygiene habits?”

Evgen blinked. “Hygiene?”

“Yes. Because I’m actually here on an assignment. For a hygiene company. And I thought that maybe you might have some books or documents about that kind of thing.”

Evgen stared into space for a few seconds. Then he said “Hygiene, no, no books. But the letter collections.” He stood up and walked around his desk, heading for a door at the far end of the room. “Follow me.”

It was a long, narrow room, almost like a corridor. Shelves running the length of the walls were stacked with meticulous rows of gray boxes. Vanja walked along the shelves. The boxes weren’t marked BOX. Their rough surfaces were only labeled with years and subject words.

“Where did these boxes come from?” she asked. “Are they…?”

Evgen nodded. “Good boxes. They’ve been here from the start.”

He pulled out a box and put it in Vanja’s hands. “What’s this?” Vanja locked her elbows to get a better grip.

“Letters and journals. Some people I came to think of.”

“Do you know this archive by heart?”

Evgen reached for another box. “I sort all the documents that come in when someone’s died. All biographical texts are to be preserved.”

“But you haven’t always been here, have you? How do you know so much about them?”

“I like reading.” Evgen waved his box at the door.

He set his box down on the table in the middle of the library. Vanja put hers on top. Evgen took a pair of thin gloves from his pocket and handed them to her.

“Like I said, letters and journals,” Evgen said, and opened the first box. “This one contains letters from one Kettuns’ Daniel. He frequently wrote to his brother in Essre about some sort of eczema he had. His brother sent the letters here a couple of years ago, after Daniel’s death.” He pointed to the other box. “Journal entries and letters from pioneers in that one. Some of them mention, uh, bodily matters.”

“Is this paper, all of it?” Vanja asked. “Good paper?”

“It is. And I won’t let the committee have it.” Evgen made a face. “Yet.”

“That’s good.”

“There’s coffee in my thermos,” Evgen said. “In case you need it.”

Vanja smiled at him. He returned the smile, warily, and sat back down at his desk. Then there was just the rasp of his pencil on the index cards.

Like Evgen had said, Kettuns’ Daniel’s letters were all addressed to a brother, Vikuns’ Tor, in Essre. The oldest letter had been written ten years earlier; the last one was three years old. Daniel had written about one letter every other month and almost exclusively about his body.

Dear brother,

I hope you’re well. Over here things have been a little rough lately. The eczema and all that is getting worse. I wash as little as I can and rub on rich creams but it keeps spreading. The doctor says it’s not psoriasis but it sure looks like it to me. I’ve read about it at the library. Bathe less and keep moisturizing, that’s what the doctor keeps telling me. I’m only supposed to take baths every other week and just wash with a cloth and soap for the rest. The doctor says the intimate soap is the best but I don’t like the smell. Then I’m supposed to use the rich cream. I rub it in and rub it in but I just get kind of greasy. It just sits on top of the rash. Well, that’s enough about that.

Vanja leafed through the pages. Detailed accounts of Daniel’s hygiene habits, his opinions on various soaps and creams, his ruminations on himself. He never referred to his brother’s replies. But the eczema grew steadily worse.

Well, I don’t know what to do. Nothing’s helping. That crusty eczema on the backs of my knees and on my back and in the crooks of my arms, they’ve spread to my scalp. The skin feels sort of brittle and it hurts when I touch it. The scurf on my scalp itch and run. The doctor says it could be a psychosomatic reaction. He means I’m a hysteric. He didn’t say “hysteric” but I could hear that that’s what he was thinking. He asked me how I was feeling. Fine, I said, except for the eczema. I don’t want to go back there anymore. I feel so small when I have to show them all my defects and ailments. Like I’m whiny. I almost wish I had a broken leg or something because then at least there would be something properly wrong with me. Then they could say “you have a broken leg” and fix it.