Below is a letter some of you may remember. I still remember it. Virtanen was in her eighties, single all her life, and an original resident in our building, completed in 1952. When the sun slants into the stairwell, the ghostly image of "Virtanen" is still clealy visible on the mail slot above the "Bergman" of the current resident.

From 31 January 2002

Coming home from work, I saw a police van outside my building's open door. I wondered what could be up. As I came through the door, Tatu, fixer of houses, was standing in front of an old lady named Virtanen's open door on the first floor. He shot me a nervous look. Two police, looking like they'd rather be putting down a prison riot, were shifting about the cluttered rooms. Newspapers were stacked up and down the halls, a pile of mail was spread across the entry, scattered when the door opened. But most striking of all was the reek filling the whole staircase like something from the pits of hell.

I never excepted to experience first hand the smell of rotting human flesh, but life proves a more varied experience than I had hoped.

Tatu is a very nice man, living on the same landing as Miss Virtanen. As the house maintenance man, he must have been the one to find her. As I walked by he said, "You'd better not let Matilda out to play for a while."

Later Tatu came up to say it would be a few hours before they came for the corpse, since handling her would be difficult. Miss Virtanen had been dead for over a month. "Her condition is not so good," he said.

It is sad to realize that people die so alone. That no one asked about her, or she wasn't missed in over a month. I wonder if she died before Christmas. If so, it seems she missed a lonely holiday. I hope she had no children. When the new people move into her apartment, I wonder if they'll know. Life is so strange, the building honeycombed with life held this dead cell, too.

I went on my balcony later that evening, but had to quickly retreat. Her sick sweet stink filled the cold air since they'd left her balcony door open to air the place out. I've smelt it before with animals, but this was different, I knew this was no ordinary animal.

At dinner Matilda reported that the smell was caused by a giant crab that died. The crab was in the building across the yard. Sanna, a friend of hers, was the source of this information. I imagine her mother told her this rather than let her know that their next door neighbor had been rotting on the other side of the wall for so long. I am of a mixed opinion on what to say in this situation, so I said, "Well, I wouldn't believe everything you hear."

"But Ida (Sanna's older sister) told it to me, too. She's more believable," Matilda replied. So I left it at that for the time being.

"The crab" was then extensively discussed over dinner. Paraphrasing one of the more unfortunate parts:

Matilda: "Why can't I go out?"
Me: "They need to come and get the crab."
Matilda: "Why don't they just eat it?"
Me: "When a crab smells like that, you don't eat it."

There was a lot more, but you get the point.

Well, I guess that was good therapy. Sorry to mention it, but it just seems to extraordinary to not mention.