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tickle against his forefinger and thumb, and before its tiny
heart had beat its last, its plucked wings and legs were on
the bench. Like a ship with no oarsman a fly would sail
around and around the small tin-lined sea. It kept trying to
reach the edge, and every time it had almost found
purchase with two or three legs, it would be mercilessly
shoved away, until eventually it gave up fighting for its
wretched life.
In the tobacco tin, which Tóvó had stashed behind the
Heegaard stove’s lion feet, there were often nineteen dead
flies. A piece of twine was wound around the container, and
when he took the lid off, it smelled slightly of rot, but
mostly of kardus. The flies that had not been tortured to
death lay with their wings pressed tight against their bodies
and their skinny legs curled up, like they were begging
forgiveness for their very existence.
Whether tortured, crushed, or drowned, the flies all had
one thing in common: they were victims in the war Tóvó
single-handedly waged against the measles. From what he
understood, measles were a kind of fly, too. One single
glance from their itty bitty measles-eyes and people
immediately grew feverish and began to cough and rave
madly. Some also sang madly, humming words mixed with
guttural sounds, until they either gave out and fell asleep or
became blue in the face and stopped breathing.