Vera Winkelvir

By Kirsten Hammann

Day 2 - June 19th
Every single morning Vera is sick. Not really sick, but in her torpor. The moment she wakes up, she´s made of ashes and has to breathe very, very carefully. Otherwise she´ll flatten out and blow away. Turn into a layer of dust on the sheet. Something a hand could brush away.
   All she has to do is start talking. It´s a litany and someday it may get shorter. And shorter. Until finally all she´ll need to say is:
   "My name is Vera. Somebody invented me."
   Every single morning she has to name herself and everything around her. They say that Vera looks like the things she surrounds herself with. They are Vera-like, so they´re a perfectly good reason for inventing a Vera.
   Since Vera-like things exist, there ought to be a Vera around to look like them.
   Vera Vinkelvir. Somebody invented her. They´ve let her out and given her some friends and other social connections. And a big red vinyl purse that Vera tries to suffocate herself in. She sticks her head down inside and pulls tight, and it´s uncomfortable as hell, she gets awfully dizzy, it must be her blood sugar,she thinks she´d better have something sweet, something peppermint and cellophane, something purple and glistening to curl her fingers around.
   There are some leftovers in the refrigerator: banana custard and macaroons and green berries. And dirty glasses on the table. They were for cocktails, and the cream is still in her mouth. Like a slow, buttery taste. But Vera needs sugar. She wants her name in peppermint frosting. With chocolate letters and marzipan roses. It makes her hair shinier, almost electrically gleaming. And longer. It´s about time to go to the hairdresser.To sit and gossip in front of the mirrors.
   It´s important for Vera to talk. When they put the white cape around her, she becomes less and less Vera-like. But it´s much too early. She´s completely out of breath. She has to talk double-Vera-talk to make up for the fact that they´ve concealed her Vera-clothes, her Vera-dress, her Vera Vinkel-form.
   Vera needs sugar. She wants to think about the lump of candy. It´s warm and chewy but light. It´s been pulled through a machine or by a pair of strong hands. The master candy-maker is the one who knows how many little air bubbles it should have. He pulls at the sweet stuff. Then it stiffens and is cut up and hardens. The master candy-maker is the one who decides how hard Vera has to suck, and how much her palate will crack, and how much she´ll like it.
   The candy crunches. Vera makes the whole thing fall apart and float in green spit. It crunches and melts and gets warm. It crunches and turns into a glob that gets stuck in Vera´s back teeth.
   Afterwards she feels a sense of nausea. Sweet, sweet nausea and regret.

Day 3 - June 21st
Vera Vinkelvir. Somebody invented her, and now they´d really like to see some results. When Vera shuts up, she starts to disappear.
   She can feel it when she stands up: life is draining out of her. She goes into the bathroom; she could stay in there forever. Not on the toilet for all eternity, but in there, uninvented and disappeared. Of course, there would be a body left behind, and a name-although quite a different name-and food in the fridge, but    Ha! That would be just like her! Spoiled brat, she could hang around like that forever. Vera and her weak plastic heart. A wheelchair invalid. To be fed every three hours. Nothing but trouble and spots on the carpet.
   Vera Vinkelvir. When she talks, she´s here. And yet things are about to go wrong for her. The words are bad. They´re like bad food. Ineptly prepared. Maybe close to the moldy stage. Limp leaves of lettuce. Dry crusts of bread.
   Nutritionless. It gives Vera a bad taste in her mouth. Sour obligations.

Day 4 - June 22nd
Just between you and me... Vera is a stubborn ass. She´s sitting in the corner, sulking, with her empty cellophane wrappers and furry teeth. Sugar shock, no doubt. She doesn´t feel like talking.

Translated by Tiina Nunnally