Read Online Troll: A Love Story by Johanna Sinisalo - Free Book Online
Authors: Johanna Sinisalo
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time.
Angel’s eagerly telling the tale to Spiderman, gesticulating, going on about something of the utmost importance and occasionally letting his hand rest casually on Spider’s arm. Spider’s narrow hound-dog face is wearing a disbelieving expression that repeatedly veers toward the euphoric. He’s been thinking that this Angel was as far out of his reach as one dancing on a pinhead.
In the days when Angel and Spider were breaking up, someone saw Angel in some bar or other with a peculiar bearded weirdo, goggled and hairy, not one of us. A nasty rumor had it that Angel was making an all-out pass at a hetero. But here he is, rubbing up the Doctor as if nothing happened.
Angel Hartikainen. His real first name I’m sure I’ve never even heard. A man of thirty, he still has a seventeen-year-old cherub’s face, crowned with a golden cloud of curls, and not a tiny hint of receding temples.
It’s a knife-thrust in my belly. Ever since I first saw Angel I’ve known I want him.
DR. SPIDERMAN
His golden head bends closer to me, so I catch the scent of his aftershave. It’s a new one on me, woodlandish and metallic, strangely arousing.
Angel’s telling a long, meandering tale, the purpose of which is beyond me. He seasons his story with lively details and finally arrives, with conspicuous casualness, at the main point: that his uncle has somewhere found a wolverine’s cub—or was it a lynx’s kitten?—and brought it home and fed it, and it’s pissed in a corner, ha ha, and then they’ve got it to eat something, but it’s nevertheless rather listless, apathetic, weary, dull-coated. For ages apparently they’ve been wondering what on earth’s bothering the creature. And Angel’s leaning toward me as if expecting me to join in on the idiotic affair.
“My Angel, since when have you supposed that a veterinary surgeon’s idea of fun and relaxation consists in listening to guff about some sick specimen of nature?” I ask. Angel doesn’t relent.
“Well, he can’t contact the zoo. He might not be given permission to keep a wild animal, so . . . They’re just . . . thinking . . . about . . . what might be up with it.”
“No wonder they haven’t sorted that out, since they haven’t even found out whether it’s a wolverine or a lynx.”
“Well, that’s my fault—not remembering! It’s some predatoryanimal, a large one—what sorts are there? Or does that make a big difference in deciding what’s up with it?”
I bang my beer mug on the table. Clearly Angel’s determined to go on about his uncle’s wolverine the whole evening, unless I produce a diagnosis.
“Not necessarily. Generally speaking, every wild animal carries some sort of internal parasite. A full-grown animal hardly notices it, but it may well weaken a cub.”
Angel’s eyes light up. He pulls his chair still closer to me, as if I’d begun talking about some exotic and slightly perverse sexual technique. The guy gets a real kick out of internal parasites, I reflect, taken aback.
“In all probability it’s roundworm,” I go on, and Angel drinks in every word from my lips. And in the midst of my astonishment I begin to be very amused. “The whipworm and hookworm are possible but rare. It could be a beef tapeworm, but the roundworm is the most common. It’s found regularly in all the large predators.”
“So where would it have picked it up?”
“From its mother. A parasite in an inactive state passes into the young through the blood circulation in the placenta, and hormonal activity then wakes it up, as it were. In other words, the disease can’t be prevented. A cub in poor condition can grow tired and become ill, even die.”
“I suppose it can be treated?”
“I’d think your uncle is a bit late with his animal: it’s either got better by itself by now, or otherwise your uncle may have got some new but not particularly fine-quality wolverine mittens.”
Angel closes his eyes slowly, as if he were trying with all his might to
Angel’s eagerly telling the tale to Spiderman, gesticulating, going on about something of the utmost importance and occasionally letting his hand rest casually on Spider’s arm. Spider’s narrow hound-dog face is wearing a disbelieving expression that repeatedly veers toward the euphoric. He’s been thinking that this Angel was as far out of his reach as one dancing on a pinhead.
In the days when Angel and Spider were breaking up, someone saw Angel in some bar or other with a peculiar bearded weirdo, goggled and hairy, not one of us. A nasty rumor had it that Angel was making an all-out pass at a hetero. But here he is, rubbing up the Doctor as if nothing happened.
Angel Hartikainen. His real first name I’m sure I’ve never even heard. A man of thirty, he still has a seventeen-year-old cherub’s face, crowned with a golden cloud of curls, and not a tiny hint of receding temples.
It’s a knife-thrust in my belly. Ever since I first saw Angel I’ve known I want him.
DR. SPIDERMAN
His golden head bends closer to me, so I catch the scent of his aftershave. It’s a new one on me, woodlandish and metallic, strangely arousing.
Angel’s telling a long, meandering tale, the purpose of which is beyond me. He seasons his story with lively details and finally arrives, with conspicuous casualness, at the main point: that his uncle has somewhere found a wolverine’s cub—or was it a lynx’s kitten?—and brought it home and fed it, and it’s pissed in a corner, ha ha, and then they’ve got it to eat something, but it’s nevertheless rather listless, apathetic, weary, dull-coated. For ages apparently they’ve been wondering what on earth’s bothering the creature. And Angel’s leaning toward me as if expecting me to join in on the idiotic affair.
“My Angel, since when have you supposed that a veterinary surgeon’s idea of fun and relaxation consists in listening to guff about some sick specimen of nature?” I ask. Angel doesn’t relent.
“Well, he can’t contact the zoo. He might not be given permission to keep a wild animal, so . . . They’re just . . . thinking . . . about . . . what might be up with it.”
“No wonder they haven’t sorted that out, since they haven’t even found out whether it’s a wolverine or a lynx.”
“Well, that’s my fault—not remembering! It’s some predatoryanimal, a large one—what sorts are there? Or does that make a big difference in deciding what’s up with it?”
I bang my beer mug on the table. Clearly Angel’s determined to go on about his uncle’s wolverine the whole evening, unless I produce a diagnosis.
“Not necessarily. Generally speaking, every wild animal carries some sort of internal parasite. A full-grown animal hardly notices it, but it may well weaken a cub.”
Angel’s eyes light up. He pulls his chair still closer to me, as if I’d begun talking about some exotic and slightly perverse sexual technique. The guy gets a real kick out of internal parasites, I reflect, taken aback.
“In all probability it’s roundworm,” I go on, and Angel drinks in every word from my lips. And in the midst of my astonishment I begin to be very amused. “The whipworm and hookworm are possible but rare. It could be a beef tapeworm, but the roundworm is the most common. It’s found regularly in all the large predators.”
“So where would it have picked it up?”
“From its mother. A parasite in an inactive state passes into the young through the blood circulation in the placenta, and hormonal activity then wakes it up, as it were. In other words, the disease can’t be prevented. A cub in poor condition can grow tired and become ill, even die.”
“I suppose it can be treated?”
“I’d think your uncle is a bit late with his animal: it’s either got better by itself by now, or otherwise your uncle may have got some new but not particularly fine-quality wolverine mittens.”
Angel closes his eyes slowly, as if he were trying with all his might to
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