FIRST PART
The grave of the living
Winter 1794
What boundaries stop those who indulge in crime,
to whom he always shouts: only to heaven do I realize it?
Who removes his arm from the crime he pursues
if there is no heaven to judge and punish him?
Isak Reinhold Blom, 1794
It is the month of January of the new year 1794.
This morning they came to bother me in my room.
They took me out of bed and asked me to get dressed, as the New Year was beginning.
The dirt and the bugs had already roamed long enough and now it was time to smoke the stale air with small wood and sprinkle the floors with water and vinegar.
Still sleepy, I tied my pants, adjusted my boots, and draped my coat over shoulders that have become so thin that the fabric hangs loosely.
I went downstairs and onto the street for the first time in what could be weeks, in the light of a day that my narrow window had until today reduced to a mere splinter from the outside.
The linden trees in the garden have been stripped of their leaves for months, but the debt left by autumn has already been paid off by winter with the first snowfalls.
The branches were decked out in robes whose tails covered the ground as far as the eye could see.
The sun was shining, its rays glinting in the whiteness with an intensity that gave way to other colors.
I was so dazzled that I was forced to cover my eyes.
Other sick people huddled in the stairwell or waited staggering in the snow, cursing under their breath as their shoes gradually became damp and cold.
I did not feel like putting up with the company of any of them, so I walked away and took the path that goes to the seashore, where the pristine frost promised me a sweet solitude.
The shallow water had frozen and formed a kind of promenade along the shoreline, only beyond that the water could be seen running and churning.
The air was biting, but the rays of the sun were most comforting and, although I still did not feel fully recovered, I decided to take a walk through the ice, which is undoubtedly, at this point, so thick that it reaches the seabed .
A wolf between Rousseau and Sade
In the distance, to the left, the houses on Skeppsbron Street looked like a row of yellow teeth in front of the pointed church spiers, and beyond it loomed the crouching mass of the Royal Palace.
In an attempt not to attract the attention of this sleepy predator, I turned my gaze to the path I was coming from and was able to see the entire valley in a way usually reserved for navigators.
The city has turned its back on this area, called Danviken, and it seems that time has done the same: here, the days are short and the nights long.
Two hills cut out the sky on either side and cover the path of the sun with snow, as most of those who share the hospital with me know.
Many of them suffer only from old age: their sons and daughters have prepared a place for them here to ensure adequate care during their last years, but they never seem to find a time to come and visit the elderly, who soon return. to childhood due to inattention.
A little further on, following the course of the water in the direction of Finnboda, rises the madhouse.
From where I was standing you could count seven floors arranged in a staggered fashion on the hill, as if the building were a grand staircase destined for a giant.
The madhouse is a constant source of gossip in the corridors of the hospital: it is said that the number of crazy residents far exceeds what it should house.
Many of the windows are boarded up with wooden boards, others have bars.
When I got a little closer, I seemed to hear a reverberation coming from within, a kind of listless hum that aroused my curiosity and suddenly transported me back to the days of my childhood, when a similar rumor inevitably pushed me to sneak up on him. the hives until, in time, I learned to associate it with the threat of sharp stingers.
I suppose, in this case, the sound comes from the madmen: it is the hum of their helpless insanity, crammed into too-small rooms.
From time to time buggies arrive with good people from the city who, after giving a few coins to the guards, enjoy a visit to the facilities, horrified and amused in equal parts with the mischief of the insane.
Hospital patients who still have the courage to dedicate themselves to such a thing watch carefully the visitors who leave, and grin wickedly when they see their faces bewildered by what they have just witnessed.
Pushed by reasons I cannot explain with certainty, I decided to head there.
Pus-yellow in color, like an ulcerative sore, the madhouse occupies the place of an ancient salt mine separated in its day from any other building by its impure vapors and, today, by the guests it houses.
At the entrance I found an inscription in which words were read that were engraved in my memory: «A deplorable ambition, an unhappy love has engendered the inhabitants of this house.
Whoever reads this, know yourself! »
Couldn't these angular words carved into the stone be perfectly intended for me?
No one stopped me and I discovered that the great gate was not locked.
As soon as I opened it, a stream of mixed noises erupted, those that a short time before I had only been able to identify as buzzing.
Now, on the other hand, I could make out many voices, chattering, groans, howls and giggles ... In the hall, the light was dim and it took me a while to make out a little man who stood perfectly still, as if he had been awaiting my arrival.
I greeted him with a slight nod, and he strode toward me with eager steps.
His gaze was intense and his eyes revealed a mocking curiosity;
her voice was soft and graceful.
- Welcome!
You have arrived just at the agreed time, I congratulate you on your punctuality.
I didn't know what he was talking about, and no doubt the expression on my face must have betrayed my bewilderment, but he continued casually and, with a gentle bow, pointed to the staircase.
- If you are so kind as to follow me, I will show you the rooms.
Not being able to deny that it was curiosity that had led me there, it seemed to me that the most appropriate thing was to do what the man suggested - although it was clear that I had been mistaken for another person - so I followed him to a patio interior surrounded by four walls that, from so high, seemed to seek the sky.
The corners of the patio were littered with dirt and debris, probably thrown from the windows of the various floors that were not boarded up with wooden slats, almost all with broken glass.
In one corner there was a group of madmen in dirty shirts who swayed droolingly and their faces puzzled.
My guide noticed me looking at them and waved his hand dismissively.
- Ignore them: they are like cattle in human form, and they don't make too much of a fuss unless they are scared off.
I have much more interesting patients to show, join me, join me.
A couple of steps allowed us to leave the courtyard on the opposite side, and after we had climbed a little further, my host stopped by a door that led into a corridor, cleared his throat, and began a short speech.
- At first, we had twenty-seven cells here, each one designed to house a madman with some comfort.
I don't know how you see the world, gentleman, but in my opinion it is not surprising that the demand immediately showed much higher than anticipated: the city deprives people of their reason and the madmen come to us in an endless stream .
Then he unbolted the latch that blocked the door, stepped aside, and invited me inside.
At the sides of the long corridor that opened before me were rows of heavy doors from which came a deafening roar: the bellowing and wailing mingled with the sound of hands scraping the walls and the banging of fists and furniture against the doors.
- There is little left until lunchtime.
They may have lost their wits, but their stomachs are okay and hunger helps them gauge the passage of time.
He walked down the hall, pausing from time to time to point out some other interesting detail.
As you can see, we have reinforced doors, and most of the cells also have an interior door that is even better prepared to withstand shocks.
Many of these madmen are so alienated that we cannot even let them out, hence we have these hatches through which the urinals can be emptied without anyone having to enter the cell.
Unfortunately, not everyone is trained to take advantage of that advantage, hence the resulting stench.
Note that even the stoves are supplied with firewood from the corridor, although we can only light them during nights when the cold is most bitter because our resources are scarce.
In this sense, overcrowding has turned out to have a positive side, as it allows us to keep rooms at a reasonable temperature.
Would you like to watch?
At that point, and putting a finger to his lips to tell me not to make noise, my companion carefully opened one of the hatches.
He was at eye level for a person of average height, but he had to stand on tiptoe.
After peeking inside the cell, he smiled and waved me closer.
It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the darkness of the cell where a half-naked man was absorbed in a slow sway to the tinkling of the links of the chain that held one of his ankles against the wall.
Next to him, tied to the other walls, were three others, sitting on piles of straw, and when I saw that the four were rubbing their erect limbs with their dirty and shiny hands, I jerked away, moved by revulsion.
My companion then invited me to continue walking and took me to the back rooms.
- Here we have the dark rooms, for the moment reserved for a sad group of inmates: those in whom the French disease has advanced so much that the mercury remedy is no longer useless.
You can't see anything in there, so I'm sorry I can't show you;
even so, it is not that it is very interesting either: you would only see noses without septum and other ravages of the disease, although their fits of rage are worth watching when inspired.
For the rest, they have all been left speechless, literally speaking, because the tips of their tongues have suffered the corrosion of the plague.
At that point, a growing malaise and an implacable urge to leave that place left by the hand of God invaded me and return to the barren beach that, suddenly, seemed more enviable than paradise itself.
However, my guide made no move to move and stood still before me, as if waiting for a question that I finally decided to ask him.
- What kind of cures are offered to these bastards?
The little man nodded fervently, as if he had been waiting to tell me.
- As science declares, insanity originates when sanity is suspended by external or internal circumstances, and we know that it can only be recovered if the patient receives an equally resounding shock as the one that has made him lose his mind, for That is why we have a leather hose that can squirt a sudden stream of cold water into the cells.
Before, they used to be inoculated with scabies in the hope that the itching would triumph over the madness, but now it is already on the walls, so the inmates are infected without our help ... Of course, we have other methods, but I think we can leave it here for this occasion.
It is possible that the latter was improvised after seeing me look for support on the wall for fear of fainting.
At last he turned to show me the way out, but when we passed the cell of the four men again, I suddenly felt his hand on my shoulder.
- I see that I have left the hatch open, but it is going well that way, because there is one last thing that I would like to show you.
Then he made me approach the door again, where the same scene as before was still unfolding.
Do you see that corner over there, where some of the gentlemen have relieved themselves because the chamber pot was full to overflowing?
He brought his mouth close to my ear and his voice dropped to a low whisper.
It is the site that we have saved for you: it will be entered soon, we will be waiting for you!
At that point I leaned back and could see that his mouth had twisted into a derisive smile that revealed teeth as scarce as they were sharp.
- You are so young and beautiful ... with a slim body and alabaster skin: your cellmates will be delighted to welcome you, that I can assure you.
- Who ... who are you?
- I asked puzzled.
He narrowed his eyes to look at me maliciously.
- Well, that changes according to the day: yesterday it was Charles XII himself, lost in the happy memories of when I led my boys among the snowy branches of the firs of Polish Mazury, where, to our great joy, we dedicated ourselves to killing babies with the heels of the boots in front of their parents.
We were on our way to the Poltava massacre, so if I had come yesterday, I might have heard the lead bullet echoing inside my skull every time I shook my head.
Today?
Today my names are more than anyone can count: they have called me the Adversary, the Evil One, Beelzebub, Belial, Pedro Botero ... you can simply call me Satan.
We are waiting for you: you know better than anyone that this is where you should be.
I don't know what kind of reply I would have made if we hadn't been interrupted by an alien voice that rose above the commotion in the cells.
- Tomas, you know well that you have nothing to do around here!
We have told you a thousand times not to take licenses just because sometimes we let you take the air.
Get back to your cell immediately!
A man shorter than my companion and wearing a dirty jacket had just stepped into the door at the end of the hall and was walking toward us at a brisk pace.
My makeshift guide leaned a little closer looking at me with sly eyes.
- I'll say goodbye with a riddle.
It is often said that I am limited to my infernal realm, locked in hell, how then can I find myself here, among people of flesh and blood?
Clues are everywhere - remember everything you have seen and be very careful when you return to the world.
At that moment the other man, who was probably a member of the asylum staff, came up to us, took this Tomas by the arm and, with his broad face bathed in sweat, tried to drag him down the corridor.
Seeing that the madman was resisting, he grabbed him by the lapels with one hand and with the other he gave him a series of slaps until the blood from his nose and tears began to mix in the same stream that fell down his chin.
Tomas began to sob, resigned and momentarily bent;
then his orderly shot me an embarrassed look.
- Sometimes we do not lock the door of his room and he goes out to reconnoitre around the asylum or even goes down to the hospital.
There are only two of us who take care of the madmen, so I would be extremely grateful if you could keep this incident a secret.
I hope Tomas has not bothered him, he has some very singular occurrences.
Relieved that the misunderstanding had been resolved, although affected by what Tomas had told me, I went back out into the courtyard and passed the apathetic madmen, who swayed at the foot of the walls as if seeking their warmth.
When I finally left the enclosure, I stood for a moment contemplating that tomb for the living and suddenly it was as if the world was tuning its strings taking my mental and emotional state as a reference.
I noticed a change in the daylight, even though there was not a cloud in the sky.
I looked up with narrowed eyes and what I saw filled me with horror, because it was as if an unknown beast had taken a bite into the sun itself, which looked like a slice of bread that had its teeth sunk.
I could barely contain a scream of panic and my knees started to buckle.
Seized by the deepest terror, I was curled up and trembling for a long time in the snow, until I dared to open my eyes again to see that the light had returned.
It had been an eclipse, nothing more, as my tutor tried to instill in me with so much effort in his day: the interposition of the moon between the sun and the earth, in this case at an angle that did not completely hide the solar disk. .
That probably didn't last more than a few minutes.
I hurried back down the path, following my own footsteps.
Finally, I closed my bedroom door behind me, curled up on my austere bed, and covered my head with the blanket.
I had made a mistake going out, a mistake that I will not make again even if they try to force me to smoke with burning branches.
They have asked me to be patient and have assured me that sooner or later they will find a cure for my illness.
In the meantime, I must keep calm and avoid the company of other people.
Tomas may have been a madman, but he has made me remember my shame, the misdeed I committed and that the eyes of my neighbor always bring me to memory with great pain on my part.
From now on, I must resign myself to passing the daylight hours as if in a lethargy.
Sometimes they provide us with thebaic tincture, which numbs the body and mind, relieves anguish and aches and, in my case, allows me to get through the day immersed in a cloud in which I can hardly recognize even the most obstinate visitor.
Unfortunately, I have to share these expensive drops diluted in water and seasoned with sugar or honey with many other people, and the reserves are often depleted.
(In any case, we are fortunate, since I have heard that the hospital also has the doses that actually correspond to the madhouse.) I have decided to pretend: on the days when they do not offer me drops, I will rock back and forth, or I will hug my body, hum a monotonous melody and stare into the void until the patience of my visitors is exhausted and they leave me alone again so that I can recreate myself in my guilt.
I will dedicate myself to this until dusk and night, at which time, finally, I will be able to dedicate myself to writing without anyone seeing me.
My benefactor has asked me to write in order not to forget the details of the unfortunate events that have pushed me into this deplorable state, and perhaps also to reconcile myself to the actions that have brought me to this barren shore of the Baltic and to the Danviken hospital.
I have been told that I am not the master of my own senses, but that perhaps my situation has a remedy;
that he shouldn't blame me for something that, more than a crime, was a whim of nature.
However, I have little hope.
In my head there is a storm unleashed and in my chest, a void.
I raise my hands before me: they are red and cannot be washed, they are the tools of a murderer.
All my life I had been devoid of love, so I never imagined what it would be like when it arrived: beautiful but terrible, a fever in the blood, a despot in a ball gown.
And I did not imagine how low it would make me fall, like someone who falls into a dark canyon from which it is never possible to get out again.
If I was granted one wish, it would be the following: never to have loved.
The absence of love would also have saved us all this: I would not be between these two hills left by the hand of God and she would not be ... Well, enough is enough: let us rest the pen.
I'm not yet ready to write about the end of this story, and the beginning will have to suffice for tonight.
