Am I Dying Soon?

       Currently, there were three things Mikkel could watch forever and a day: other people working while he hadn’t to, Sigrun being Sigrun, and Emil being ridiculous. In Reynir’s home village, he had plenty of it all. Staying at a farmers’ place and NOT handling cattle felt like a luxury. A deserved one. Mikkel had worked hard to keep the hapless Icelander alive and believed he was entitled to a free full-board vacation. Sigrun surprised him by not whining and complaining about boredom, as was the case during their long-drawn stay on the quarantine ship. It turned out she liked both chatting and companionable silence, long walks and dancing, and dresses, and napping till noon—everything a sensible human would like (except for dresses). And she still wanted him to go to Dalsnes with her, despite his oversophisticated and overexercised sense of humour. He realised very well that people didn’t enjoy being ridiculed. But whenever a chance came to put a witty comment in, he couldn’t resist. The beauty and intricacy of a phrase or situation would prevail over courtesy or even common sense. His whole job history and a record of failed romantic affairs served as proof of that. But now there was Sigrun, who still liked him as a whole, with wits, girth, and sideburns. He couldn’t believe his luck and tried to protect her against the best (read “worst”) of his jokes by placing them somewhere else. And for that, there was Emil. An easy prey, especially when the Swede grew one more butt for jokes beside his education gaps, vanity, squeamishness, and all other delightful traits. Now he also had a thing for their Finnish scout. After the two had gone missing for several days in the Silent Denmark, their odd friendship advanced to the next stage in a leap. Especially when Reynir went to the Academy of Seiður and his room was left at the disposal of the boys. Well, Emil’s attempts to keep their relationship secret looked... amusing. His boyfriend didn’t even try to be discreet and wasn't at all uncomfortable with leaning, hanging, or lying on Emil, and his hands or elbows could come to rest at absolutely any part of the Swede. The latter blushed but never shooed Lalli away. Mikkel chuckled and looked out a window in the dining hall of their hosts’ house. The glass reflected the interior to some degree. Emil was clearly thinking that no one watched him since Mikkel didn’t face or look at the boys’ table directly and screened them from Sigrun. Feeling safe, Emil would wipe some crumbles off Lalli’s lips or put a strand of ashen hair behind the ear. In return, Lalli would nip anything sweet from his hands and bite him for fun. Today the boys displayed their usual morning ritual of sharing food. Lalli swept his beans and spinach into Emil’s plate and poked his thigh under the table, and Emil gave him his own bun and jam and yet another candy. Mikkel processed the scene and then recollected every time he saw the boys near or inside the local bakery, or the giant paper bag of licorice rolls (called “cinnamon rolls” as a nod to an unavailable Old-World spice) they had brought from Reykjavik, or Lalli’s sneaks to the kitchen... An idea of a nice joke formed in Mikkel’s mind. Not a hundred percent sure thing, but worth a try. Now he needed to catch Emil somewhere alone, without Lalli or Sigrun around. Lalli might ruin his contrivance, and Sigrun might fall for it. A convenient moment occurred right after breakfast when the target headed to the bathroom. Mikkel followed. “Hey, Emil,” he pondered, looking in a mirror over a washbasin. The loo itself was separated from the anteroom with a water sink by a cardboard cabin, not reaching the floor or ceiling. The boot toes seen under the cabin door were completely like Emil's, but an extra check wouldn’t do any harm. An angry “Occupied!” in Swedish was quite enough. All right, the victim was trapped and had no choice but to listen. Unfortunately, with doubled portions of beans, spinach, and other wholesome meals, Emil should not have any digestion problems and wouldn’t stay put for long, so Mikkel had to get directly and rather indelicately to the point, without a proper lead. “Now there is a fun thing.” Remembering that Emil found Danish pronunciation rather unclear, Mikkel tried to talk distinctly. “Did you know that there is an interesting viral disease, people of the Old World called it an acquired immunodeficiency syndrome —” “Lame name,” came a muted reply. “— AIDS for short. Rather lethal. To put it in general terms, the virus was undermining natural immunity, and then any simple, non-lethal infection would kill you. It was believed to bring civilization down, but then rather effective medicines were developed, and the honour of the doomsday disease went to the Rash. Hmm, I wonder if it could compromise immunity to the Rash too." “Why are you telling me all of this?” Now the response was rather tense. “Oh, I haven’t gotten around to the most interesting part yet. It was not passed as easily over the air as the Rash. It could be transmitted by the exchange of body liquids, such as blood transfusion, or sexual contact. Male homosexuals were believed to be especially susceptible to it. Probably due to the higher average number of partners.” The rustle of toilet paper stopped behind the door. “I don’t know why that should be interesting,” Emil replied, a bit shaky. “I’m not concerned.” “Oh no, of course not.” Mikkel did not have any problems suppressing a smile or keeping his voice level. “But what about Lalli? Sometimes he makes the impression that it might concern him.” The silence settled for another moment. “No.” Emil retorted at last and rustled with fabric. “Did you ask him?” The door flew open almost into Mikkel’s back. “I got it!" Emil snapped. “It’s another dumb joke of yours! I’m not falling for it.” And with a triumphant smile, he reached out to the outer door but then stopped, blushed, and squeezed past Mikkel to the wash sink. Mikkel smirked and occupied the vacated cabin. He had to outvoice the running water for a final stroke. “I assure you, this time I am not making it up. Just think why the Icelanders would put even the immune majority of our team under quarantine.” “Because they are moronic cowards,” Emil retorted and walked out with a snort. All right, the bait was placed, and the next move belonged to Mother Nature. *** Emil felt jittery. Or, rather, falling into an abyss of panic. Just yesterday, he escaped yet another Mikkel’s prank and managed to get all irrational doubts and anxieties off his mind. But today… Lalli held his chin and pushed Emil away instead of a morning wake-up kiss, and even growled a bit. After some cooing, Emil pried gently Lalli’s hand off and watched in stupor at several rough reddish spots on the chin and tiny dots on the neck. Emil’s mind short-circuited. Could it be? Frankly speaking, Emil was not very sure what the Rash should look like. Certainly there were educational posters at school, but they were drawings, not photos, and faded with age. And the only person with confirmed Rash he met… Tuuri. All he had seen was just a glimpse of darker skin patches on her neck in the dim evening light as Mikkel pulled her soaked jacket collar down to confirm what everyone had already known. And Emil had done his best not to look at her while he had been arranging her pyre in the forest shadow. Sure, Lalli was immune, but what else could it be? Lalli was always… untidy during scouting and would often return smeared in troll matter all over. Yes, he didn’t show any signs of infection in the weeks of their trip and quarantine. But who knew how this stupid “aids” worked? What if... What if it delayed another disease? Damn, Mikkel hadn’t said anything really important, like what the symptoms were or the incubation period of the aids itself. Yet asking Mikkel again for details... Emil cringed. He would totally crack if the Dane said something terrible again, and Mikkel would, he totally would! Asking Lalli? No, Lalli didn’t know; he could not know, or he wouldn’t have been so careless during the expedition. Oh, Lalli… Mikkel hit a nerve here. The skinny Finn accepted and indulged in their—oh crap, it’s a romance!—with such ease and grace and showed such truly inevident tricks that Emil couldn’t help wondering if Lalli had experience in spades. But it would mean Emil was just one of many for him, so Emil had managed to convince himself that Lalli was naturally perfect in all physical exercises not involving lifting loads. And now the suspicions crept back and turned into certainty without any questions. What would Emil ask anyway? Maybe his Finnish or Lalli’s Swedish would be enough, but just... how? “Did you bang many men before me?” Gross.  Besides, what’s the point of asking? It didn’t matter now because it was all over, and Lalli would — Another bucket of metaphorical cold water washed over Emil. If Lalli was infected, then he, Emil Västerström, was infected too, with aids AND the Rash, and would die soon too? That was downright unfair! After all the hard times they had gone through in Silent Denmark! And they were so young, they hadn’t spent all their earnings yet! There was just nowhere to spend money in this backwater village except for cakes and— Stop. The village. Weren’t all people non-immune here like the dumb redhead stowaway? What if Emil had breathed on anyone? Sure, he wanted some fame, but not as the scum who smuggled the Rash to Iceland! He groaned as if he had already the Rash all over. I’ll-die-Lalli-will-die-everyone-will-die-I’ll-… “What?” Lalli yanked his hand out of Emil’s frantic grip and did his trademark don’t-be-weird glare. Emil tried to get off the mental carousel but fell into another loop instead. What-should-I-do-what-should- “You are ill,” he said aloud, startling himself but not Lalli, who snorted at the evident comment. The next phrase got out on its own, too. “We’ll go to a doctor.” Yes, they’d go to a normal human medic. Emil remembered glimpsing a red cross sign somewhere in the village. A doctor would tell them what to do and how to initiate a containment protocol—if they had such a protocol at all—but at least a real specialist, not a substitute like Mikkel, should know what to do. Holding to this new, a bit more positive thought, Emil dragged Lalli downstairs and out, and downtown by a wild curvy path. Very curvy path, since he kept turning into side lanes or at least crossing the street whenever any passer-by appeared in view. No need to endanger even more people than they had already infected. Emil didn’t remember well where that red cross was, and the walk could last forever, but suddenly Lalli stopped dead in his tracks and pointed a finger at the desired house, completely overlooked by Emil and his panic. Staring at the white painted door and a signboard with “Yfirlæknir Gunnar Ólafsson” and something like an opening hours table, Emil realised another lapse in his plan. An Icelandic doctor amidst Iceland wasn’t supposed to speak or understand Swedish. How would Emil explain all the intricacies of their situation? For the first time in his life, he regretted his choice of school subjects. And uncle Torbjorn with aunt Siv had already left, and the old Norwegian too. The flabby Finnish woman still dallied around and might translate for Lalli, but Lalli didn’t know all the grisly complications, and there was no way Emil could explain it to him. So, it was all back to Mikkel again. A new vicious circle was interrupted by the doorbell as the doctor in a proper white coat, carelessly unbottoned, appeared on the porch to look down at the two speechless visitors. Emil looked up and up. The doctor was as tall and broad as Mikkel, which didn’t add confidence. And he said something that didn’t sound like a greeting. Emil hurried to speak up before Herr Olafsson could get bored and go back. “I, um… We have a problem here, an emergency, but I don’t know how to explain it, it’s very complicated. So, my friend has the Rash.” Herr Olafsson stayed unnervingly calm. Instead of producing another bit of Icelandic, he said just, “Ah, rash. Come in, I will look.” That didn’t sound as grave and urgent as Emil feared or hoped. For a second, he wondered why some understanding occurred between them, but that wasn’t a top-priority thought. The top priority was to pull the faltering Lalli inside and have him sit on a couch and cower at the careless manner in which the doctor inspected Lalli’s face way too close without a mask or gloves. Maybe he was immune, but Emil had to warn him about the aids thing! “But he has also, I think, another infection that destroys immunity to the Rash! Really, you’d better wear a mask!” “Why?” No, the doctor was really not a Swede. “What immunity? Vitleysa, er, witless... Ó, you mean, útbrot, Guðs bann? No, it is not that rash. Just rash.” Lalli glared at Emil. “Not Rash, stupid!” “Not Rash?” Somehow, Emil forgot how to speak Swedish. His brain shut down and did not produce any words. Meanwhile, Herr Olafsson prompted the patient to open the mouth and poked there with a small metal stick. Lalli yelped. The medic nodded to himself. “It can be allergy or intolerance. It happens. Different food or water.” He turned to Lalli. “What you eat, today, yesterday, before that?” Lalli looked back helplessly at Emil and muttered something long in Finnish, of which Emil understood only “cake” and “Swedish”. Oh yes, he was asking to translate what everything Lalli ate was called. And Emil started listing. After weeks and weeks of Mikkel’s non-food and more weeks of more non-food on the quarantine ship, he relished normal human meals and remembered almost everything. And his and Lalli’s little games of exchanging treats and feeding each other made the menu hard to forget. In twenty minutes, Emil finished a week-worth report and came up with other urgent questions. “So, is it infectious? Shall I keep away from him? And I hope it heals without leaving traces in, in the face?” “No, no, of course,” Herr Olafsson replied after a really long pause and some brow furrowing, but brightened at last. “Vá, two big cakes one day.” He seemed impressed and even gave a whistle. “So what?” Emil scoffed. “In the expedition and quarantine, we’ve missed our birthdays, so now we are entitled to catch up. And I could eat a whole cake or two alone when I was a child, and it didn’t do me any harm.” “It did not?” The doctor made a blank look, resembling Mikkel in an uncanny way. “But it did. You are… can get fat quickly. You stay at Árni Ragnasson’s, right? Not far. But you breathe too bad for such short way. And,” Herr Olafsson addressed Lalli, “you are from..?” Lalli blinked and replied, “Suomesta,” then wrinkled his nose and added, “Finland.” “I thought so,” the doctor continued. “False allergy reaction, most likely to sugar. In the form of rash and mouth sores. Finland is poor country. Little pure sugar. He is not used to it. Here you eat too many sweets. No sweets anymore. Drink more water. For mouth, I give you… kamille, herb, to instill and flush mouth after eating. Or soda is good for flushing too. I write it for SigrÍður. If rash stays, come again, I will look. Understand you?” Lalli nodded, and Emil suddenly became giddy with relief and lumped on the couch next to his friend. How could he forget that there are all sorts of other diseases and sicknesses? “Phew. Just sweets. Not the Rash. Not the —” He stopped. Maybe the Rash floated up in his memory first (and effectively displaced any other thought) because he had heard about it not long ago. Yesterday, right. From… “Damn, Mikkel! He pulled my leg again! How could I believe in some dumb disease? Destroying immunity, hah! He did make it up. Thank you, Herr Olafsson.” “Ólafsson. Or, better, Gunnar,” the medic grumbled, less good-hearted, and Emil blushed. When would he learn to make perfect first impressions? He thought in haste of something to say to change the topic. Oh yes, why not ask why the doctor knew that nearly-Swedish language? The man had a strange but familiar pronunciation. Better than Danish. “Are you from Norway?” Emil voiced the only remaining variant. “No. Not quite,” Gunnar Ólafsson replied. “I worked in Norway two years. Awful. They never follow prescriptions. I hope you are not from Norway, you do as I say.” “Sure. I’m from Sweden, and Lalli, oh, he has said already. So, yes, no sweets. Water. Flush mouth.” Emil reported, grabbed Lalli’s elbow, and sprang to his feet to leave when another Icelandic-tinted bit of Norwegian hit him. “But AIDS is… exists.” Emil froze. Turned slowly back. Words caught in his throat. “Please tell me you’re joking too!” he pleaded. A threat to his inborn immunity was too much for his worldview. “Why?” The doctor looked genuinely offended by such mistrust. “In Academy of Medicine in Reykjavik, we studied old-world diseases. For, how to say…” He added something totally unintelligible and continued in a normal manner. “It was. In Old World. Not today. Many ill people died of Rash, surviving died of AIDS because, it had medications to live long even after infection. But medications were very difficult to make, and were not made after end of world. In ten to twenty years maybe, no one is left now. So don’t be afraid. And it was not so contagious as the Rash, not by air, only through blood or—" “I know how!” Emil hurried to stop the unnecessary, unnerving details and regretted it instantly because the doctor raised an eyebrow, looked precisely at Emil’s hand gripping Lalli’s elbow, then raised the other eyebrow. Embarrassed out of wits, Emil rushed outside. He’d live, and Lalli would live; that’s cool, but he’d better never walk in this part of the village till the end of this vacation. And he’d really, really never trust Mikkel’s stories anymore. Steaming and puffing, he nearly missed another Norwegian voice, or rather, a scream. “Emiiil!” Sigrun waved at him from across the street. “Have you seen Mikkel? We were going to hot springs—the ones you and Twig enjoy so much—and the big guy got lost!” “No, I haven’t!” Emil shouted back and added under his breath, "And I don’t want to,” but Sigrun had run closer and caught the last part. “What, got punked again?” “Mrr.” Emil resorted to Lalli’s vocabulary. “Absolutely not! But he tried. You know what he has said this time?” Still high on relief, he wanted to chat and share the new fantastic information. Without some minor details, of course. *** Mikkel noticed Emil running out of the house without breakfast, but with Lalli and a bewildered look. So, the bait was taken. Sigrun was sleeping late, and Mikkel decided to ambush the victim near the local healthcare station and provide interpreting assistance when Emil would realise his inability to communicate with an Icelandic medic. But it took Emil ridiculously long to cover a distance of less than one kilometre (not quite in a straight line, but still...). At last, he arrived, still wound up and with Lalli in tow. Mikkel lurked behind the nearest corner and hoped the Finn would not alarm Emil of the spy; he did not foster any hopes to stay unnoticed by the scout, and indeed, Lalli squinted at his shelter soon enough. But before any of them could intervene, the door opened, and the language issue somehow solved itself. Mikkel didn’t reckon with the Icelander knowing any continental languages. The boys were let in and, in half an hour or so, out. When they disappeared in the direction of their hosts’ house, Mikkel opted to visit his almost-colleague to check the results of his joke. "You are Mikkel, right?” the medic said right after Mikkel expressed interest in the complaints of the previous patients in Icelandic. That fact could not be denied. “I understand you," Chief Medical Officer Gunnar Ólafsson continued, clearly relieved that he didn’t have to strain his Norwegian any further. “Today I was extremely close to totally unprofessional conduct. It was too tempting to tell a certain pretty boy that a certain ailment still occurred in the human population. Or that applying brilliant green or carbol fuchsin to the face would cure his friend's condition and serve to prevent infection by... close contact. I did thwart the temptation and would probably regret it till the end of the week.” “Oh yes. Sure. It would have been so unethical. For a healthcare officer.” Mikkel smiled demurely. “And you?..” “And I am not a doctor. Nothing keeps me from temptations.” Gunnar Ólafsson sighed with envy. Mikkel didn’t sigh, but he did envy this temperance. That’s how you keep the same job for years. Done with small regrets, he bowed and hurried back to Sigrun. She wouldn’t be happy to wait for him. Sigrun met him halfway to the house, and she was not happy but more on the alarmed than angry side. “Hey, Big Guy, why do I learn it from Emil? Why didn’t you tell me that there’s a virus that kills immunity to the Rash?! He’s said it’s passed by banging around a lot, and hey, at home, that is our bestest way to let the steam off after a good fight! So, we’re not going to the hot springs. For two weeks—or how long do you say the quarantine should be for that thing?” Mikkel sighed. Once again, his joke backfired on him. Instead of a pleasant walk and an even more pleasant visit to hot springs, this day would be devoted to disabusing Sigrun of whatever distorted information Emil had provided her. For a second, Mikkel wondered if Emil spread the (dis)information on purpose to retaliate, but then he dismissed the thought. Sure, he’d be proud to see Emil learn from him to set up good pranks, but that was highly improbable. Still, it might be wise to go easy on Emil from now on. Just in case Lalli had learned to set up good pranks.