ANGEL
As I sit at my computer I glance from time to time at the bedroom. When I was drunk it seemed a hell of a good idea to bring this touching, rejected wild-animal cub into my pad. An animal that may grow as much as two meters tall.
But even now, when I’m totally sober, the animal has something absolutely captivating about it. Is it just a professional’s appreciation of its visual grace?
Or is it that as soon as I see something beautiful I have to possess it? With my camera or with my eye or with my hand? Through the shutter or by shutting the door?
Even though I won’t know what to do with it?
But nothing changes the fact that the creature’s still small. And sick. And weak. And totally abandoned.
I print off a whole load of Internet material, without feeling it’s any help. I return to netzoo and click on EVOLUTION.
I learn that “convergent evolution” refers to species that develop in ways resembling each other without there being any close zoological relationship. Good examples are the shark, the ich-thyosaur, and the dolphin, which have developed from completely different vertebrate forms: the shark from fish, the ichthyosaur from land-dwelling reptiles, and the dolphin from land mammals. Nevertheless, they’ve all developed into streamlined, finned and tailed animals in the same ecological group: swift piscivorous marine predators. There are many other examples: grassland-dwelling flightless birds, such as the emu, the ostrich, and the extinct moa; or such semi-aquatic marine creatures as seals, sea-lions, and herbivorous sirenians, notably the dugong and the endangered manatee.
I’m getting more informed than I ever wanted to be. According to the entry, convergent evolution means that, in widely separated terrains, the same atmospheric and environmental conditions can, through their physical properties, produce similar kinds of living organisms from totally different prototypes. Cases of convergent evolution are, on the one hand, the trolls and the Southeast Asian cat-apes, derived from a small arboreal animal slightly resembling the mustelid or racoon, and, on the other, the apes and hominids derived from proto-primate mammals. Both occupied the same ecological niche, where bipedalism and prehensile forefingers were survival factors for the species . . .
Nothing to help me, though.
I look at my computer. It’s just a machine.
I’ll have to try elsewhere.
I can only speculate about the effect of the telephone ringing at Dr. Spiderman’s—at my old flame Jori Hämäläinen’s, that is—“Hämähämä-hämäläinen,” because getting worked up always makes him stammer. Hämähäkki being Finnish for spider, he’s naturally been dubbed “Spiderman.” Eight rings before he replies, and his voice reveals he’s ready to flip his lid.
First I fumble for the customary “How are things?”, etc., but I know that this road will soon be blocked.
“Sweet Angel, golden-haired cherub,” comes Spider’s slightly nasal, taunting voice. “It’s not very long ago you gave me a very nasty kick in the gluteus—after scarcely a couple of months of your angelic blessings. So what, I wonder, makes you call me now? And especially at this early hour.”
I splutter something about how I thought we’d agreed to be friends.
“I was beginning to think your mother had talked some sense into you—she always did dream you’d be partners with a real doctor, didn’t she?” Spider lashes out, making me blush. Then his tone changes, sounding almost interested. “You didn’t manage to net that guy, did you?”
It’s already coming home to me that this call is a terrible mistake, but Spiderman goes on relentlessly.
“There you were, your great blue eyes moist with tears, trying to stammer out that I’m not your type, that I’m not the right one, and how ‘you’d be wounding me if you went on with a relationship where you yourself couldn’t be a hundred percent committed.’ And meanwhile you were going on about that other guy the whole time.’”
Was I really? Hell, it was possible. As if I could have possessed him by talking about him, throwing his name about, would-be casually.
“You really relished his name on your tongue. Martti, Martti—Martti this and Martti that. Guess how flagrant and repellent it sounded. And it was crystal clear that all your would-be serious, pretty little speech meant was this: you wanted me out of the way, so you could be free to step on the gas when this object of distant adoration—obviously your right-and-proper future commitment—gave the green light. Or what?”
I’m speechless. Incapable of saying anything.
“So then. What do you want?”
I clear my throat. This isn’t going to be easy.
“What do you know about trolls?”
There’s a howl of demonic laughter in my ear. “Angel, darling, now I must have your permission to be inquisitive. Are you writing an essay for school?”
I mumble something stupid about having a bet on it. “You know,” I wind up helplessly, “about the sorts of things they eat.” I can feel the receiver radiating embarrassed silence into Spiderman’s ear.
He finally bursts out, “You ring an expensive veterinary surgeon at eight-thirty on a Sunday morning to ask what trolls eat?”
I know Spider can be a prick and always is, given the chance, but then he’s never been able to resist an opportunity to show off his knowledge either. I’m right. A familiar lecturing tone creeps into his voice.
He starts ticking items off. “Frogs, small mammals. They rob birds’ nests. Sometimes they’ve been reported to prey on lambs in outlying fields, but that’s probably just rumor. There’s a theory that they fish with their paws, like bears, which I’ve no reason to doubt. Hares. Game birds. Now and then a reindeer-calf caught by the leg can end up as a troll’s dinner. Sometimes they harass white-tailed deer, too. They eat carrion when they come across it. A full-grown individual requires a kilo or two of animal protein a day. Any more questions?”
I nod at the receiver and let out assenting noises.
“Definitely carnivores, but not omnivorous like, for instance, bears. Similar digestive system to cats. So if you’re betting that trolls gnaw at spruce shoots by moonlight, your money’s down the drain. And if you want more information, Angel, my fairy queen, go to the library and consult Pulliainen’s The Large Predators of Finland.”
And then, cuttingly, he hangs up.
IIVAR KEMPPINEN, FINNISH MYTHOLOGY, 1960
As with the folklore of other peoples, Finnish mythology finds a significant place for not only ghosts and fairies but many demonized animals, particularly the bear, the troll, the wolf, the snake, the lizard, the frog, the weasel, the shrew, the wasp, the death-watch beetle, and the louse. Demonic animals differ from ghosts and fairies in that they are usually clearly visible and recognizable, with the exceptions of the shy and secretive troll and the weasel. Sometimes, however, a demonic creature is so closely identified with fairy existence that a creature—the troll, for example—may be offered sacrificial food on an altar stone; and a pet snake has been accused of being a witch’s “familiar spirit” (Finnish Folklore Archives, Karttula, Juho Oksanen, No. 10129; Sortavala, Matti Moilanen, No. 2625).
Demonic animals have been much discussed in international scientific literature, and various theories have been presented. Finnish folklore itself has its own explanation for the demonic resonance and significance of the above animals: they are predatory or otherwise baneful beasts generated by Pohjola or Manala, the Underworld or Hades of northern Finnish folklore, and sent to be a torment and a scourge on the face of the earth. As representatives of the malign powers of Manala they are hated but at the same time propitiated and placated. Thus, if anyone does harm to these semi-supernatural creatures, such as a pet snake or frog, they will bring misfortune on themselves.
Tapio, the tutelary genius of the forest, personified the spirit of the forest, and as such is one of the earth sprites (Ganander, 1.89; Gottlund, 1.350). The genius of the gloomy forests is also called Hiisi, or Demon. Thus Tapiola and Hiitola, as names for the forest, m
ean they are the dwelling places of Tapio or Hiisi. But sometimes the forest itself is given the appellation Tapio or Hiisi, without any reference to a guardian or the forest fauna (SKVR VII 1, No. 810, 823). Similarly the Karelians refer to the forest people as Hiisi’s people, and Hiisi has acquired a demonic reputation as a representative of the malign forces of Manala. In the parish of Hiitola the forestlands are called Hiisi’s hills (Hiijje miät in the Karelian dialect), where bad Hiisis, or demons, are said to live. Also, in a Karelian dialect, metšh (Finnish metsä, forest) means “the devil” (Kujola, 1.234–35). This identification of the forest people with the underworld’s people, the Demon’s people, has clearly occurred because the dark forest, with its bears, wolves, trolls and other bugbears, was frightening, so that it was an easy transition to equate it with Manala, the fabled breeding place of the beasts of prey, given birth to by the Mistress of Pohjola, the Northland (§313).
ANGEL
On the bed a lusterless black flank is heaving feverishly. Wild-cat digestion.
I dash to the fridge and poke about frantically. Orange marmalade, kalamata olives, fresh but already somewhat wilted arugula, imported blue cheese.
A cat. A cat. What do cats eat?
Cat food.
And in a flash I recollect something: what’s the guy’s name downstairs? Kaikkonen? Korhonen? Koistinen? The man with the young foreign wife. They’ve got some sort of a pet. Once I saw the man opening the front door, about to go in, and he was carrying a red-leather harness.
So they’ve got a cat, for I’ve seen neither of them walking a dog.
PALOMITA
Sleep’s a well—I float up from it like a bubble. The water’s black honey. My arms and legs are trying to stir in the syrupy night. I drag my lids open, so my eyes smart.
I’m damp with sweat and my heart’s starting to race. For a moment I think the sound I hear is the bell on the bar counter back at Ermita. The bell that orders me out of the back room. But luckily my hand touches something, my eyes open, and I’m surrounded by the gray-blue of the room’s make-believe night.
I’ve been in a very deep sleep, as I always am when Pentti’s away. When I’m alone, as soon as I drop off I feel I’m spinning downward. I don’t need to tense every bit of my body, like when Pentti’s beside me. No need to wake up at every sound. Pentti, when he’s asleep, sounds like someone suffocating.
The ringing isn’t at all like the horrible silvery bar-bell at Ermita. It’s tinnier and rougher and makes you jump. Ring-ring-ring it goes in the empty hall that Pentti’s removed all the coats from and locked them up in the closet for the time he’s off on his trip. I slip my slippers on and get my bathrobe off the chair. The bell rings again and again, as if someone’s in a terrible state. I get the footstool out of the cupboard and climb on it to peep through the peephole.
It’s the man from upstairs who’s ringing the bell. He’s fair and tall and curly-haired. I’ve seen him once before on the staircase outside.
I’ve learned always to look through the peephole. Pentti doesn’t want me to open the door to anyone except those he’s told me to. The peephole’s a well, where little crooked people live. Many times a day I get on to the stool and look out at the staircase. There aren’t often people there, but whenever I see one it’s a reward. The man rings the bell once more, and then he tosses his head. He’s giving up.
I’ve no idea why I do. But cautiously I open the door.
He’s speaking Finnish fast, and I can only pick up a word here and there. The words are twisty and misty, and they’ve long bits that ought to be said with your mouth open right to the back. Lucky for me I don’t have to depend much on Finnish, as Pentti hardly says anything and I don’t go anywhere.
The man says, “Excuse me.” He says his name, which I can’t hear properly, but it sounds like Miguel. He says he’s from the floor above, and he keeps on asking for some sort of food and repeating some word I simply don’t know.
It seems to be dawning on him that I don’t understand. Up to now he’s only been able to see his own problem, but now he’s beginning to see me. He begins speaking English, which I understand better, though not very well either, because at home we spoke Chabacano and Tagalog in the village, and they had to cut school short for me.
“Cat food?” he asks. “Do you have any cat food you could lend me?”
In spite of myself, a smile crosses my face. We haven’t got a cat. Pentti wouldn’t put up with anything like that. Once, when he was drunk again, he took a lucky doll I’d been given by Conchita at the bar and flushed it down the toilet. He’d noticed I used to nurse it in my arms sometimes, before going to bed. The doll clogged the drain, and Pentti had to pump away with a plunger for ages before it flushed clear again.
I shake my head and say no, no cat food. I ask if he speaks Spanish, but he signals no, with troubled eyes. I grope for some English words, trying to help. Just around the corner there’s a small store that sells almost everything. One evening Pentti sent me to get some beer there, gave me some money and a piece of paper with the order scribbled on. I handed them over to the shop keeper, and he handed me back six cold brown bottles. I didn’t know I was supposed to get a receipt, and when I got back Pentti said I’d kept some of the change. Myself, I did think they were a bit expensive. I haven’t been back to the little shop since, but I do remember it was stocked with almost as much stuff as the market.
Miguel wrinkles his forehead. I feel sorry for him. I can’t understand why he can’t run those two blocks to the deli/newsstand, which is almost a little department store, but I’m eager to think of some way to help him. I think about cats, I think about what they eat. Cats swarm in the harbor. They love fish.
I leave the door open and rush into the kitchen. I open the freezer and take out a packet from a big bag of frozen fish Pentti bought on sale. The packets rattle like firewood. I go back to the door and push a frosty packet into Miguel’s hand.
“The microwave. Put it in the microwave,” I say, clearly. Those are words I’ve often heard, and I know them well. Miguel stares at the packet of fish and shifts it from hand to hand because it’s so cold.
He squeezes the packet. Thanks flow from his lips in a mixture of English and Finnish. And then he’s off, hopping up the stairs, a man with an angelically beautiful face and hair like a wheatfield in sunshine. I hear the door slam shut on the floor above.
ANGEL
I must try to pay this back in some way, I reflect, as I push the fish into the microwave. She must be a Filipina, for she speaks a little English and Spanish; she looks Asian. Is she more than sixteen years old? A bought bride, she must be, purchased for the old geezer down below at some marriage market.
And they have no cat. My face glows: I ought to have been quicker on the uptake about that pretty, soft, red-leather harness.
I set the microwave on “defrost” and start it. When the humming begins, the troll’s ears perk up. It gives a jerk but, as nothing’s threatening it, it calms down again. The smell of fish spreads through the room. I take the dish out of the microwave and test the fish with my finger. It’s warm around the edges and has begun to turn pale; it’s frozen in the middle, but most of it is at room temperature and a gelatinous gray. I slice some pieces off the defrosted bits, put them on aluminum foil, and take them into the living room. The troll’s nostrils tremble, but it shows no interest in what it smells. I take some fish in my hand and sit on the edge of the bed. The troll opens its eyes slightly and regards me with its vertical pupils. I hold a piece of fish close to its nostrils, its mouth. It sniffs at the fish faintly, wearily, then closes its eyes again and turns its head away almost humanly. It curls its black slender bony back towards me, and its belly gives out a very, very small but recognizable sound: the rumble of hunger.
AKI BÄRMAN, THE BEAST IN MAN:
An Enquiry Concerning the Kinship Between Man and Wild Animal in Myth and Fantasy, 1986
The transformation of a human being into an animal, or an
otherwise close metamorphic kinship of human and animal, is an almost universal feature of world mythology, a mythical stratum evidently based on the “animal roles” of shamanism and totemism. In general, the animal metamorphoses and animal kinships manifested in various cultures are connected to some fearful beast of prey endemic to the cultural area in question (in Asia the tiger, in South America the jaguar, in Europe the wolf, and in Scandinavia the bear, as well as, and in particular, the troll). The essences of the human and the animal are intermingled, and a complex narrative tradition develops around the animal, involving—as in werewolf stories, for example—definite regularities, such as the effect of the full moon, the slaughter of the werewolf with a silver bullet, methods of becoming a werewolf, and so on. In the case of Finland, perhaps a larger proportion of this type of recurrent narrative material is associated with the troll.
Owing to the pseudo-humanoid external characteristics of the troll, the Finnish narratives concerning the origin of the troll have acquired a Christian coloring. According to one version, the trolls came into being when Adam and Eve had given birth to so many children they began to feel shame about it, and they hid some of their children in caves, intending to keep them from God’s notice. The children ended up by living so long beneath the ground they changed into trolls. Iceland harbors a similar story. Another Finnish version relates that the trolls were born during the Deluge. People were lazy and could not be bothered to follow Noah’s example and build arks; instead they ascended the hills in order to escape the flood. The time spent in the caves brought its own punishment: when the waters abated, the people had turned into trolls. These narratives clearly indicate that trolls were considered representatives of a degenerate species of the human race. Similar conceptions pertain to, among other creatures, anthropoid apes in many primitive cultures.