Angel, a young photographer, comes home from a night of
carousing to find a group of drunken teenagers in the courtyard of
his apartment building, taunting a wounded, helpless young troll.
He takes it in, not suspecting the dramatic consequences of this
decision. What does one do with a troll in the city? As the troll''s
presence influences Angel''s life in ways he could never have
predicted, it becomes clear that the creature is the familiar of
man''s most forbidden feelings. Troll is a wry, beguiling story of
nature and man''s relationship to wild things, and of the dark power
of the wildness in ourselves.
內容試閱：
Troll A Love Story By Johanna Sinisalo Grove Atlantic, Inc.
Copyright ? 2000 Johanna Sinisalo All right reserved. ISBN:
0-8021-4129-3 Chapter One Dusk Crept Through the Greenwood ANGEL
I''m starting to get worried. Martes''s face seems to be sort of
fluctuating in the light fog induced by my four pints of Guinness.
His hand''s resting on the table close to mine. I can see the dark
hairs on the back of his hand, his sexy, bony finger-joints and his
slightly distended veins. My hand slides toward his and, as if our
hands were somehow joined together under the table, his moves away
in a flash. Like a crab into its hole. I look him in the eyes. His
face wears a friendly, open, and understanding smile. He seems at
once infinitely lovable and completely unknown. His eyes are
computer icons, expressionless diagrams, with infinite wonders
behind them, but only for the elect, those able to log on. "So why
did you ask me out for a drink? What did you have in mind?" Martes
leans back in his chair. So relaxed. So carefree. "Some good
conversation." "Nothing more?" He looks at me as if I''ve exposed
something new about myself, something disturbing but paltry: a bit
compromising, but not something that will inexorably affect a good
working relationship. It''s more as if my deodorant were inadequate.
"I have to tell you honestly that I''m not up for it." My heart
starts pounding and my tongueresponds on reflex, acting faster than
my brain. "It was you who began it." When we were little and there
was a schoolyard fight, the most important thing was whose fault it
was. Who began it. And as I go on Martes looks at me as if I
weren''t responsible for my behavior. "I''d never have let myself in
for this ... if you hadn''t shown me, so clearly, you were up for
it. As I''ve told you, I''m hot shit at avoiding emotional hangups.
If I''ve really no good reason to think the other person''s
interested I don''t let anything happen. Not a thing. Hell, I don''t
even think it." Memories are crowding through my mind while I''m
sounding off-too angrily, I know. I''m recalling the feel of Martes
in my arms, his erection through the cloth of his pants as we
leaned on the Tammerkoski River bridge railings that dark night. I
can still feel his mouth on mine, tasting of cigarettes and
Guinness, his mustache scratching my upper lip, and it makes my
head start to reel. Martes reaches for his cigarettes, takes one,
flicks it into his mouth, lights his Zippo and inhales deeply, with
deep enjoyment. "I can''t help it if I''m the sort of person people
project their own dreams and wishes onto." In his opinion nothing
has happened. In his opinion it''s all in my imagination. I crawl
home at midnight, staggering and limping-it''s both the beer and the
wound deep inside me. Tipsily, I''m licking my wound like a cat: my
thought probes it like a loose tooth, inviting the dull sweet pain
over and over again-dreams and wishes that won''t stand the light of
day. The street lamps sway in the wind. As I turn in through the
gateway from Pyynikki Square, sleet and crushed lime leaves blow in
with me. There''s loud talk in the corner of the yard. A loathsome
bunch of kids are up to something in the corner by the trash
cans-young oafs, jeans hanging off their asses and their tattered
windbreakers have lifted to show bare skin. They''ve got their backs
to me, and one of them''s goading another, using that tone they have
when they''re challenging someone to perform some deed of daring.
This time it''s to do with something I can''t see, at their feet.
Normally I''d give thugs like these a wide berth-they make my flesh
crawl. They''re just the sort that make me hunch up my shoulders if
I pass them in the street, knowing I can expect some foul-mouthed
insult-but just now, because of Martes, because I don''t give a damn
about anything and with my blood-alcohol count up, I go up to them.
"This is private property, it belongs to the apartment building.
Trespassers will be prosecuted." A few heads turn-they sneer-and
then their attention goes back to whatever''s at their feet. "Afraid
it''ll bite?" one asks another. "Give it a kick." "Didn''t you hear?
This is private property. Get the fuck out of here." My voice
rises, my eyes sting with fury. An image from my childhood is
flashing through my brain: a gang of bullies from an older class
are towering above me, sneering at me, and goading me in that same
tone-"Afraid it''ll bite?"-and then they stuff my mouth with
gravelly snow. "Shove it up your ass, sweetie," one of these
juvenile delinquent coos tenderly. He knows I''ve no more power over
them than a fly. "I''ll call the police." "I''ve called them
already," says a voice behind me. The ornery old woman who lives on
the floor below me and covers her rent by acting as some kind of
caretaker has materialized behind me. The thugs shrug their
shoulders, twitch their jackets, blow their noses onto the ground
with a swagger and dawdle away, as if it was their choice. They
shamble off through the gateway, manfully swearing, and the last
one flicks his burning cigarette butt at us like a jet-propelled
missile. They''ve hardly reached the street before we hear anxious
running feet. The lady snorts. "Well, they did do what they were
told." "Are the police coming?" "''Course not. Why bother the police
with scum like that? I was off to the Grill House myself." The
adrenaline''s cleared my head for a moment, but now, as I struggle
to dig out my keys, my fingers feel like a bunch of sausages. The
woman''s on her way to the gate, and that''s fine, because my pissed
brain''s buzzing with a rigid, obsessive curiosity. I wait until
she''s off and start peering among the garbage cans. And there,
tucked among the cans, some young person is sleeping on the
asphalt. In the dark I can only make out a black shape among the
shadows. I creep closer and reach out my hand. The figure clearly
hears me coming. He weakly raises his head from the crouching
position for a moment, opens his eyes, and I can finally make out
what''s there. It''s the most beautiful thing I''ve ever seen. I know
straight away that I want it. It''s small, slender and it''s curled
up in a strange position, as if it were completely without joints.
Its head is between its knees, and its full black mane of hair is
brushing the muddy pavement. It can''t be more than a year old. A
year and a half at the most. A mere cub. By no means the huge bulk
you see in illustrations of the full-grown specimens. It''s hurt or
been abandoned, or else it''s strayed away from the others. How did
it get to the courtyard of an apartment building in the middle of
the town? Suddenly my heart starts thumping and I swing around,
half expecting to see a large black hunched shadow slipping from
the garbage cans to the gate and then off into the shelter of the
park. I react instinctively. I crouch down by it and carefully bend
one of its forearms behind its back. It stirs but doesn''t struggle.
Just in case, I twist the strap of my bag all around the troll so
that its paws are fastened tightly to its side. I glance behind me
and lift it up in my arms. It''s light, bird-boned, weighing far
less than a child the same size. I glance quickly at the windows.
There''s nothing but a reddish light glowing in the downstairs
neighbor''s bedroom. The glamorous head of a young woman pops up in
the window, her hand drawing the curtain. Now. In a moment we''re in
my apartment. It''s very weak. When I lower it onto the bed it
doesn''t struggle at all, just contemplates me with its
reddish-orange feline eyes with vertical pupils. The ridge of its
nose protrudes rather more than a cat''s, and its nostrils are large
and expressive. The mouth is in no way like the split muzzle of a
cat or a dog: it''s a narrow, horizontal slit. The whole face is so
human-looking-like the face of the American woolly monkey or some
other flatfaced primate. It''s easy to understand why these black
creatures have always been regarded as some sort of forest people
who live in caves and holes, chance mutations of nature, parodies
of mankind. In the light, its cubbishness is even more obvious. Its
face and body are soft and round, and it has the endearing
ungainliness of all young animals. I examine its front paws:
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