The One Hundred Years of Lenni and Margot, Marianne Cronin [top fiction books of all time txt] 📗

been an error and the two men had been given the wrong information, each hearing the other’s fate. The man who passed away had in fact been healthy, and the man who had lived was the one with the fatal illness.

If I am the only one left who still believes I might live, then it is only a matter of time before I accept my doom and I end up dying. If I had had my test results swapped, would I be out there somewhere now, at college or working, or wandering the streets of Sweden searching for my mother, feeling well and looking rosy? If the mind is so powerful that it can kill a man with no illness and save a man who’s dying, I would never want to give my brain the opportunity to kill me by not believing that I might get better.

When I’ve passed people in wheelchairs in the hospital before, I have never really considered that they are low down. Very low down. I never realized how small it could make you feel to be half the height of everyone and not even strong enough to generate your own motion. Everything looked bigger from the chair, like I was a child again.

The shiny floor underneath my wheels changed from blue to orangey-red to a grey with coloured lines as we passed the different wards and made our way to wherever we were going. I didn’t speak and neither did she. I was glad. And not because I was trying to use the silence to make her feel bad, but because the way I felt, I didn’t know if I would crack a joke or burst into tears. I didn’t know if I was going to laugh along with life, or if this was it, proof that the only way was down and then down once more, into the earth, to wait in the dark for the coming of Vishnu, or the Buddha, or Jesus, depending on who’s the better at timekeeping.

When we got closer, New Nurse slowed down, checking the numbers on doors until she took me into an emergency ward. There were beeps and machines and the white sunlight was cutting into the room, slicing the beds into slivers of light and shade. In one of the beds, there lay a man. His beard was coarse and dirty, and his hospital gown was dirty too, spotted with blood at the neck. Standing beside the bed was a doctor. New Nurse stopped the wheelchair and I looked up at them.

The doctor leant down to my level and shook my hand. ‘You must be Ellie,’ he said, ‘thanks so much for helping us out with this.’

‘It’s Lenni, actually.’

‘Oh, sorry. Lenni … Gosh, that’s an unusual name.’ He was posh and embarrassed. He ran a hand through his hair.

‘It’s Swedish. Obviously …’ I gestured to the situation we were in at that moment.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Swedish. Splendid.’

I accidentally laughed at his awkwardness. He put a hand up to his chin.

‘Anyway, Lenni,’ the doctor said, ‘this is Mr Eklund. He came in about a week ago. He’s of no fixed address and we’ve had a nightmare trying to get a Swedish translator, with it being the bank holiday. We need to tell him that he’s booked in for surgery tomorrow. I also need to find out if he’s in pain. This is, er’ – he ran his hand through his floppy hair again – ‘it’s, um, a completely unorthodox situation, so you must let us know if you feel unable to do it.’

The doctor was fairly attractive and his blue eyes made me shiver. If I can use my mind powers to survive another ten years, I thought, we could get married. I told him I was fine, but that my Swedish hadn’t been used for a while, so I might need to warm up.

Mr Eklund looked tired. His silvery beard needed to be washed. His face was cut, and he looked like he hadn’t eaten properly in months, but his eyes were bright and observing me from under his bed covers.

The doctor gestured to the seat beside Mr Eklund. I got up out of the wheelchair quickly, trying to prove how incredibly healthy I am. I shuffled over and sat beside Mr Eklund.

‘So to start, Lenni, if you could just introduce yourself and ask him how he is, and then we’ll take it from there,’ the doctor said.

‘Hej, jag heter Lenni Pettersson.’

Mr Eklund turned, and in complete astonishment asked, ‘Svensk?’

I nodded.

He sat up in his bed, regarding me with grateful surprise. He scratched at his beard. The backs of his hands were covered in purple bruises. It looked like someone had stamped on them.

I asked him how he was.

He laughed and looked down to his feet, where New Nurse stood guarding my empty wheelchair at the end of the bed. I’ll tell you as though he said it in English.

‘I’m dying,’ he said.

‘You would think that would get you more places, but actually it doesn’t.’

He leant forward in the bed. ‘What?’

‘I thought it would get me more things. I thought people would be nicer.’

‘You’re dying?’ he asked, folding his hands across his chest.

I nodded. Mr Eklund looked pained at my fate.

‘They want to know,’ I said, ‘how you’re feeling.’

‘I feel like I’m dying,’ he said, and he laughed.

‘They want to operate on you tomorrow.’

‘It will be a waste of their time,’ he said, ‘I know it’s going to take me.’

‘Do you want me to tell them not to?’

He thought about this, a bruised hand going up to scratch his eyebrow. ‘We might as well let them try.’

I nodded, and translated his sentiment to the doctor who watched with interest.

‘It’s nice to hear someone speaking Swedish,’ Mr Eklund said. ‘How did you end up here?’

‘Oh, it’s a long story,’ I told him, ‘I won’t bore you with it now.’

‘Do you miss Sweden?’

‘Sometimes. But I can’t go back.’

‘No,’ he said, as though the realization that he would never