The Death of the Perfect Sentence

by Rein Raud

  The Death of the

  Perfect Sentence

  Rein Raud

  translated by

  Matthew Hyde

  © Rein Raud 2017

  First published in June 2017 by

  Vagabond Voices Publishing Ltd.,

  Glasgow,

  Scotland.

  ISBN 978-1-908251-70-1

  The author’s right to be identified as author of this book under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 has been asserted.

  Cover design by Mark Mechan

  Typeset by Park Productions

  The publisher acknowledges subsidy towards this translation from the Estonian Cultural Endowment

  The publisher acknowledges subsidy towards this publication from Creative Scotland

  For further information on Vagabond Voices, see the website,

  www.vagabondvoices.co.uk

  The Death of the

  Perfect Sentence

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Ten Years Later

  I am aware that the following story contains departures from the historical truth. The spot where pickets were held from spring to autumn was not in fact visible from the café where the two men were sitting. The statue of Kalevipoeg referred to does not exist, nor did the sculptor who might have created it. And even if it had stood where I put it, I doubt that it could have been used in the way described. And so forth. Memory is unreliable. Time speeds up. Successive summers merge into one. I can only apologise.

  As is written in the classics, any similarities with real events are coincidental, but all names have been left unchanged.

  There are two of them, sitting on the café terrace, at the far end by the railing, from where there is a good view of the square, and one of them is holding a pair of binoculars for that very purpose. They could be brothers judging by the similarity of their faces, which are expressionless and unremarkable. On closer inspection, it’s difficult to say exactly what makes them seem alike. They are both wearing exactly the same type of suit: dark, poorly fitting, evidently standard issue. Totally unsuitable for today’s warm weather. And they both have the same kind of glass on the table in front of them, one-third full of mineral water.

  There is no one else there. It’s quiet, apart from the barely audible murmur of the street. Earlier there was a group of young punks as well, but as soon as the two men arrived, the scruffy lads’ and the blue-haired girls’ beer-addled banter turned into an agitated whisper, and they got up, paid their bill, and left. From then on the two men had the whole place to themselves.

  They don’t exchange a single word. They just sit there looking over the railing, towards the square. Not that it looks in any way different from yesterday, the day before yesterday, or the day before that. Worried, weary people walking past avoiding each other’s gazes, the occasional tourist wandering around distractedly, a Communist Party slogan hanging on the wall of the grey building, and outside it the same pickets who have already been there for several weeks, holding banners demanding “Occupying forces out of Estonia!” and “Release Aare Murakas!” You can show your support for the latter with a signature. Some people do. There is a large glass jar for you to donate your rapidly depreciating roubles in support of the struggle for freedom. Some do that too, and the jar is already half full. Friends and strangers come up and shake hands, others wave from a distance. Some of them chuckling, some wary, others looking around with frightened expressions on their faces. In case anyone spots them there.

  Those two men are not in the slightest bit interested in who Aare Murakas is or what he may or may not think about things, nor do they consider the forces whose withdrawal is called for to be occupation forces. But neither are they particularly worried about the pickets. Not just because they don’t take the whole independence movement very seriously. It’s just a bunch of kids after all. Has a mosquito ever floored an elephant? These two men have never read the Bible, and for them David and Goliath is just a Jewish legend with no bearing on reality. Something is about to happen here nevertheless. That is why they’re sitting on this café terrace right now.

  A young man and woman walk up to the café and have already started to sit down when they notice the two men. The young man says a couple of words, out of earshot, to the woman, then they both stand up and hurriedly leave.

  The pickets’ faces are clearly visible through the binoculars. They are recognisable from the intelligence files, especially Ervin, a lanky young man with curly red hair and freckles, who is the reason they are there. Ervin is edgy. His companions have no idea why. They probably don’t even notice that he is hopping from foot to foot, as if he needs the toilet. Perhaps he really does. But even if he doesn’t, Ervin is known to be the restless type. The two men know what the problem really is: Ervin has made his choice. It’s not surprising that a person who is about to do something life-changing is a little edgy. Because Ervin is the only one who knows the two men are there. He also knows that one or the other of them is watching him constantly waiting for him to give the sign. That’s why he’s so edgy. And he can’t even think about going to the toilet until he has done what he has to do.

  By now the waitress is fed up with these two men. The mineral water in their glasses has not gone down; a normal customer would have downed two beers in the length of time they’ve been there. This is a café, after all. People come here to eat and drink. There are other places to sit and birdwatch. The waitress is fully prepared to point all this out to them. Expressionless faces and out-of-place dark suits clearly don’t confer any special privileges. She approaches their table and opens her mouth to speak. That’s when she notices the bulges in their breast pockets and the bulky walkie-talkie on one of their knees. And so she says, “Would you like anything else?”

  “No thank you,” one of them replies.

  Indrek walked slowly past the Kiek in de Kök tower and along the tarmac road which led down one side of Harjumäe Park. Almost no one apart from the odd map buff and a couple of city government staff knew that its official name was Soviet Street. Indrek was in a good mood, and he had some time on his hands, even if he now only had a couple of ten-rouble notes left in the wallet in the pocket of his construction brigade jacket, and they had to last him for a while yet. As far as his parents knew he was still working with that construction brigade, building some stupid barn at a collective farm out in some stupid backwater. In the old days they used to pay you properly for that kind of work. Now you got peanuts. It may have seemed a large sum of money in spring when the wages were agreed, but by the time it reached Indrek’s wallet, if it actually got there, it wouldn’t buy him much. And there was just so much happening across the country. In Indrek’s view the kind of people who were happy to build some stupid barn out in some stupid backwater while history passed them by or ran roughshod over them fully deserved their fate. That wasn’t for him. He’d reached the age of majority, having turned eighteen two months ago, and now he was allowed to drive a car, get married, vote and be elected. He was ready to make his own choices. Living at his father’s house in Keila was no longer one of them. So he’d been in Tallinn for three weeks now, staying here and there with different friends, his hand firmly on the pulse of history. It was beating in different places, in different ways, but he wasn’t too bothered about all the friction between the political forces. That was just a surface tremor, they were all working to a common goal.

  And while all that was going on Indrek was also busy trying to find himself a soulmate. When a whiff of freedom is in the air, people open up too, and start seeing endless open avenues all around them. Or at least that was what he hoped.

  Indrek was a spotty-faced youngster w
ho read a lot, and he’d chipped teeth too. Sometimes he managed to meet a girl who didn’t need to be told who the Strugatskys or Bradbury or Lem or Simak were, and everything would go quite well. That is until he tried to put his arms around her and bring his face close to hers. Then he would discover, much to his surprise, that their earlier bond was broken, or completely lost, even if they could carry on talking about the same things almost as before. When he later saw that same girl dancing with one of his friends, with her arms around him and her vision dimmed by a romantic mist, he felt completely crushed. Maybe his teeth were the problem. The dentist was to blame for the state they were in. During his school years, one dreaded day in the dismal depths of winter, the nurse would look round the classroom door and yell out the names of the pupils who had to see the dentist. They would come back clutching new dental records, and one by one the whole class would go. Two or three dentists set themselves up in the school nurse’s office, where they checked every single pupil. Their equipment was old and basic, and the resulting pain was excruciating, but the dentists were in a hurry, they had several hundred children to get through. When the dentist first checked Indrek all she could do was let out a shriek. What horrible teeth! Naturally it meant a lot of tedious work, seeing that same spotty boy again and again, until she could put a tick in the box and place Indrek’s dental records on the other pile. And she did all that with equipment which was even older and more worn out than she was. Of course Indrek looked forward to those appointments even less than the dentist. Once during Christmas his first two fillings fell out, leaving him facing the New Year in much the same situation as before. It didn’t help matters that Indrek liked to suck sweets as he read; in fact he scoffed them and could polish off a whole bag of Goose Feet chews or Golden Key toffees without noticing. But one year things were different – Indrek somehow got hold of a book about scientists from the Loodus publisher’s “Golden Book” series, published during the first Estonian Republic. There he learned that the inventor of the microscope, Antonie van Leeuwenhoek, never had a single problem with his teeth, because he rubbed them with a goose feather every day after brushing, just as his mother had taught him. Indrek couldn’t lay his hands on a goose feather, but he decided that a flannel would serve the same purpose, and this proved to be right – next autumn he found that for the first time he didn’t have a single cavity. But having proven his hypothesis to himself, his perseverance did not last. By the time he finished middle school his parents were forced to completely replace his rotten front teeth. What happened to the rest of his teeth was going to be his own business.

  Why am I talking about Indrek’s teeth at such length? Don’t ask.

  Indrek walked down Toompea and thought about turning off to sit outside the café for a while, since spring had at last fully broken out and it was the time of day when you could find company there. But today it was quiet at the café. Just two men sitting there, looking out of place in black suits, one of them observing someone or something on the other side of the square through binoculars. Indrek suddenly stopped, and the realisation of what this meant came to him in a moment, faster than lightning, like an electric shock. He’d previously had a vague awareness of it, but then it existed only theoretically, in books, or somewhere deeper down, in the horror stories which the other boys had tormented him with at night when he and his elder brother were first sent to Pioneer camp for summer. Now, however, that abstract evil had begun to spread its poison; that blackest of cats was right there in front of him, it had stepped across the threshold and into his life. What else could those two men have been put there for?

  He faltered for a moment and then, as if on a whim, turned off the road and descended the steps to the square, stopping when he reached the theatre posters. There was no way those two men could have noticed him slowing down momentarily, but he could still sense their presence behind him.

  His friends were standing there in the picket and evidently didn’t suspect a thing.

  As Karl walked across the bumpy paving towards the grey building his heart was racing. It would continue to do so for the next half an hour. Today certainly wasn’t the first time he’d put himself in danger, and it felt the same as it always did. It was necessary for freedom, for all of us. But the panic pulsating in his ears as he moved his arms and legs through sheer force of will – that was entirely for him to deal with.

  He spotted the pickets from some way off and decided to wait at a safe distance, hoping that one of his friends would notice him. Who knows, someone might still be watching the picket from a distance, even if the authorities had apparently got used to it by now. Evidently it had been decided somewhere high up that dispersing the picket would do more harm than letting it be. But he still didn’t want to provoke any trouble. He noticed one of the guys approaching – they were all younger than him: his own university days were behind him and he’d already endured two years of pointless, mind-numbing work. The youth was short, with thick-rimmed glasses, a sports bag slung over his shoulder; he looked like he could still be at school. Nothing other than the struggle for freedom had any meaning for the likes of him. Karl liked to think that these guys could learn a thing or two from him. He would have been surprised to find out what they really thought of him – after all he didn’t smoke and wasn’t into sport. And he was always so smartly dressed. He obviously took trouble over his appearance: his shirts were ironed, trousers pressed, shoes polished. A presentable exterior was a prerequisite for internal order; clear thinking required cleanliness. But he didn’t know what he looked like to others: always pale and feverish, black hair dishevelled, constantly in danger of having a nosebleed.

  This guy must have been new, because Karl didn’t know his name. He beckoned Karl to one side, a couple of steps under the arch, and took a fatter than usual envelope from his bag.

  “Where did you get to?” he asked. “We have to hurry now.”

  “I know,” said Karl with a nod. “I couldn’t get away from work any earlier.”

  “Fair enough,” the lad said, and he darted off back on to the street without saying goodbye. A moment later he was back standing where he’d been before, leaving Karl in the courtyard counting to fifty.

  What was inside the envelope

  Neither Karl nor the young man (his name was Anton) knew what was in the envelope, nor could they have done. In the interests of clarity it shall be revealed that it contained a videotape (Video-8 format, cutting-edge technology at the time) and a dozen photographs of Soviet soldiers using sharpened sappers’ shovels to beat peaceful demonstrators who had assembled in Rustaveli Avenue in central Tbilisi to protest against Abkhazia’s secession bid from Georgia. Nineteen people died as a result, including seventeen women. It was clear from the pictures that the soldiers had initiated the violence and were taking advantage of the opportunity to attack defenceless protestors, rather than protecting themselves against an aggressive crowd, as the official version had claimed. That was what was inside the fatter-thanusual envelope.

  Karl made sure not to look at the pickets as he walked past them, just as he’d been taught. But that didn’t help.

  He still had to walk through the line of sight of the binoculars, which were pointed from the direction of the café.

  He didn’t notice the particular way in which Ervin ran his hand through his curly red hair at that very moment, but the two men sitting outside the café certainly did.

  What? An envelope which was fatter than usual.

  Where to? A certain tree hollow.

  The less time these two pieces of information were known to the same person the better.

  All that time Indrek had been leaning against the wall, lost in thought, unable to fully understand what was going on or how he should act. Or to be more precise: he suspected that what was happening was one of those occasional historical turbulences which could end up dragging down anyone who got too close, engulfing them in an indiscriminate torrent of events. Indrek had no intention of letting that hap
pen to him. But nor could he just stand back and watch. He had no time to warn Karl about what was happening. He didn’t actually see the envelope being handed over, but he certainly sensed that something significant was taking place right there and then. He was also aware that the two men had got up and left the café. A moment later they were already walking past him, and as in a dream he found himself unable to resist following them. They didn’t notice him – just as the adder slithering after the field mouse often doesn’t notice the eagle circling above. Indrek glanced back over his shoulder now and again so as to avoid making the same mistake himself.

  Karl was also looking about edgily, but he couldn’t see the people who were following him. They’d parted company: one was holding back a little distance from Karl, who had made his way round the back of the Estonia Theatre and was hurrying through Tammsaare Park, while the other was following at a steady pace roughly twenty metres back. Indrek had his work cut out just to keep up with them. In his haste he nearly tripped over a little boy who despite the warm weather was wrapped up in winter clothes and tottering about helplessly amongst the pigeons. Indrek had no choice but to stop and listen as the boy’s grandmother, who was dressed in a brown felt coat and lilac headscarf, explained to him in a shrill voice how he was supposed to walk in the park. Indrek apologised as politely as he knew how, looking about the whole time. For a moment it seemed he’d lost sight of Karl and the spooks who were tailing him, but it was just that the two men had swapped places. One of them had come to a standstill, and by the time Indrek passed him, just before reaching the Kaubamaja department store, the man had slipped under an archway and was speaking on his walkie-talkie. Fortunately he was standing with his back to the street. There were more people here, so dodging through the crowd attracted more attention, but the spooks were so sure of themselves that they suspected nothing.