by Rein Raud
Lidia could clearly remember when nothing was yet lost. So what if her husband the pilot had disappeared off to Moldova with a hairy-legged stewardess, eventually to father a baby Moldovan. Whenever she saw herself in the mirror she knew she could get anyone she wanted, as long as her soul truly yearned for him. That memory stayed with her, although she’d never yearned enough for anyone to keep him close for long. Of course she had her visitors, and if one were to have a proper look in her cupboards, then the odd shirt, pair of underpants or worn-out toothbrush would be sure to turn up. But what now? Back then the school director had told her she should wear more modest dresses when teaching children who were at that tricky age. Both of them knew very well that Lidia Petrovna would never have entertained any improper thoughts. But now things were different. Permanently so. It turned out that her soul had longed for something else. She had just wanted to be yearned for herself, even if she knew that there would be a price to pay.
Raim could clearly remember when his whole life was still ahead of him. When he was at school he’d gone to acting club and found he was pretty good at it. If he’d been born a decade or so earlier he would have been beckoned by a lucrative career playing the brutish SS officer in one of those countless Soviet war films with more or less identical plotlines. But since he could not be born until his parents had decided they did not want to live out their long conjugal life alone, that option was not viable, nor was the prospect of studying to become a solicitor or doctor – in other words, making a career for himself as his parents would have wished. There had been a fleeting moment when he weighed up going in the opposite direction – Komsomol, international youth camps, romantic evenings by the campfire and Czech girls with names like Libuše. But he wasn’t ready to betray his ideals. And he didn’t particularly care what his parents thought. What was he supposed to make of two people who had been so ready to make compromises for the sake of an easy life? Exactly.
Lidia Petrovna is sitting in the kitchen in her dressing gown, smoking. Over the years she’d developed the ability to see herself from one remove, to make an accurate and sometimes harsh appraisal of herself, although that never caused her to change her behaviour, it didn’t help her avoid constantly stepping into the same traps. And now it had happened again: she found herself waiting for those visits with her flesh, but not with her soul. After that first crazy afternoon (she’d eventually put the flowers in the vase and cut the cake into slices), she took a long time getting herself ready for their next meeting. She carefully chose the clothes to wear, the snacks to serve, the background music. She knew that they would never go to the opera, or a concert, or for a walk in the park. That was all right. It wasn’t the most important thing. But now, when she didn’t even apply cream to her face, or perfume her body in the places where she longed to be kissed? She took a cold, sober look at herself and concluded that this was a woman who had let herself go. Eventually her flesh would grow soft too, and the routine would finish off anything that was left.
Raim leans against the door frame, looking at her and thinking: how did I ever manage without her?
“I have to go now,” he says, because he really does have to.
“It’s not a good idea for it to be the same person every time,” Indrek had told Raim. “You really should spread the risk. You might have such a pro tailing you that you don’t even notice.”
Raim had just got the latest consignment of films from Li and was supposed to go and meet Maarja to pass them on.
That had been an hour ago. Now Indrek was pacing up and down in front of the Kosmos cinema. He’d already thought up a reason why he and Maarja should go and see the jointly produced Soviet-Polish film Witch’s Lair, about a space expedition to establish contact with wild tribes on a planet where evolution had gone off course, and work out where the concrete roads and sharp tools had come from. Indrek had decided that the film was just right after reading in the periodical Screen that it tackled sensitive topical issues using the medium of science fiction and allegory. Besides it was much safer to hand over the package in a darkened cinema. The main thing was that Maarja wouldn’t turn out to be some prude waiting for her prince. Then they could go to Aigar’s place – he’d gone to the countryside and left his keys with Indrek. They could light some candles and listen to Carl Orff’s Carmina Burana, and see how things went. Hopefully she’s not having her period.
And there she was. Not alone, as Indrek had hoped, but with a friend, the one with the long plait of dark hair, who was standing to one side and waiting for her.
“Raim couldn’t come,” Indrek said, quickly glancing left and right before taking the films out of his jacket pocket.
“Ah,” said Maarja, putting the films into her bag. “Pass on my best wishes then.”
They looked straight at each other for a moment.
“Bye then,” Indrek said sullenly before going into the Kosmos cinema. Even if nothing had come of his other plans, it was still worth going to see the film.
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“Excuse me, do you mind if I sit here?” the young man asked in Russian.
Maarja looked up. He actually had no reason to ask, as there was no one else apart from a couple of middle-aged lovers sitting by the window there on the second floor of the Black Swan, and there were plenty of other places available. But Maarja remembered this young man well: one time he’d been coming up the stairs just as she was leaving, another time he’d walked past her at the tram stop, and one time, or maybe even twice, she’d seen him drinking a cup of coffee and maybe a brandy by the counter here.
She could remember his eyes.
Let’s make it clear from the start, this wasn’t any ordinary young man.
“Of course, please do,” Maarja said.
“Sorry to disturb you, it’s just that it seems like it’s not the first time I’ve seen you here, so I thought…”
“Yes,” said Maarja.
“I have to go now,” said Alex, “but I hope that this won’t be the last time.”
“Yes,” said Maarja.
“Let’s meet again, either here or somewhere else.”
“Yes,” said Maarja.
Karl could still remember that strange feeling of emancipation which overcame him the first time he consciously did something in a way his mother wouldn’t have wanted. He didn’t love her any less, but needed to assert his right to make his own mistakes. And to take responsibility for the consequences, even if that was the less enjoyable part of it. He had old-fashioned values, and no desire to go with the times. He couldn’t understand people who had no problem doing so; he’d never been able to resign himself to the idea that this is how things are and this is how they have to be. He would’ve liked to have been a character in a Chekhov play, to be able to suffer a wasted life with dignity and nobility. But unfortunately he’d been born in a time and place where there was nothing dignified or noble about a wasted life – although that wasn’t in any way his fault of course.
He’d been horrified to read about how the Soviet authorities had driven the chemist Jüri Kukk to take his life in a hunger strike, and others who’d been martyred for the cause of Estonian independence. So he’d joined the opposition forces to try and stop things like that ever happening again. Not so that they would happen to him too. He knew that the situation could not last much longer as it was: in all probability he would be sent to Seewald psychiatric hospital and pumped full of drugs until the world around him turned into amorphous semolina. Until he no longer cared. But however things turned out, he would never get his own life back now. Just like after a car crash, when you wake up in a wheelchair, or like a blaze that destroys your home. Some things remain, some things persist, but nothing can be as it was before. He’d heard about some
one being taken all the way to Moscow, for “examinations”, as they put it. There, you didn’t even dare to eat the food: you could hide tablets under your tongue and spit them out later in the toilet, but you couldn’t protect yourself from what they put in your porridge.
Of course, there was one other option: dropping out of the game altogether. Sorry guys, I honestly thought I was stronger. But my nerves won’t take it any more. They’re watching me all the time, at least it feels that way. It makes no difference. When we get our free Estonia back we will remember these times and we’ll laugh about it all. But right now I just can’t go on. I played along for as long as I could, but now I’ve had enough. The security services probably already realised that themselves, otherwise they wouldn’t have let me out.
And don’t think about telling me any more.
Well, that goes without saying.
I reckon that the other guys have already guessed it themselves. I’m not in good shape. I can’t take it any more. I’m not up to the work; I never was. I just thought that if I didn’t do it, then who else would? And yes, it was more honourable to bang my head against a brick wall than pretend that it wasn’t there. That’s just who I am. That’s me. The days were still almost bearable, but at night it got worse. But I don’t need to tell them anything. They can see for themselves. That officer, that damned stamp collector, Särg, he can already see it (I can’t help thinking it’s a strange coincidence that he has the same surname as Anton, even if he seems like a completely different kind of person). But it’s a good thing I was resolute right from the start: don’t know … never happened … no idea what you’re talking about. Of course it’s all clear in their heads, but that’s not going to hold up in a court of law. It’s just some tough guy talking, nothing more. If they had witnesses, then it would be a different story. Of course they could find that wino. But why bother with that? They had no problems inventing witnesses. Like, for example, some random mum at the playground who saw from a distance … although we obviously won’t reveal that she is our agent, will we. But they won’t go to court. That much is clear. The days when you could cover up that kind of thing are behind us. The press would smell a rat. They’d pick up on the story. Eesti Ekspress, not Voice of the People of course. No one reads that one any more anyway. The lads would take care of things, they’ve got the contacts. And the KGB knows that all too well. That’s why they’re still keeping me here. But for how much longer?
I can’t take it any more.
I’ve got to think up some ruse. Let’s suppose – and I’m not saying I’m going to do this – let’s suppose that I agree to what they want, then I’ll get out and I’ll tell the lads right away. Although that won’t be enough for Särg of course. He’ll insist that I tell them everything I know. But I’ll just tell them that I don’t know anything. Who did I get that envelope from? Someone gave it to me at an agreed spot by the picket; I’d never seen the guy in my life before. How did he know who I was? I made a prearranged sign. How did I know where to take it? A card came in the post, that’s the God’s truth. Who talked me into it?
Someone who is already locked up. Or has left for the West, then they can’t check up. Madisson, that’s who.
That won’t work, it happened too long ago, I’d have to work out how to explain what I’ve been doing in the meantime.
There must be something I can do. There always has been before.
Could it be seen as a form of rape – in the metaphorical sense? When finally, having been asked many times, Raimond’s father hung up his son’s school graduation photo on the wall – so what if it wasn’t exactly where his wife thought it should be – and then interrupted her as she watched her favourite TV series to plant a lip-smacking kiss on her cheek. Or perhaps it wasn’t. In any case, mother didn’t think so, she just let it happen, just like nearly everything else which she let happen to her. Without really noticing, and certainly without objecting, just like on those rare occasions when she let Raimond’s father put his hand up her nightie and spent a few minutes on top of her and inside her, breathing heavily. After all, marriage consists first and foremost of obligations, so when one half fulfils their side the other half must do so too. A decade or so later people started to say no, it doesn’t have to be like that if you don’t want it to be. But she didn’t know what she wanted. And neither in fact did Raimond’s father. They could both entertain the idea that things could be different, but those thoughts came from the shade, not the light. Of course if someone had asked either of them why they tolerated it, then neither of them would have been able to answer, since neither of them would have understood the question. Tolerate what? It’s just life, isn’t it? It’s just what it is. Rape? Come off it.
So is it any wonder that when people asked the same question about something which was far more profound, far more serious, they only managed to scrape the surface.
Outside, the weather was untypically chilly, the sky was clouded over, and the wind was blowing. It looked like rain.
How can I explain that they should only be afraid of things which are seriously scary? Maarja thought. She had one fear of her own which was as unfounded as they often are, but all the more pernicious for that: it’s evening, she’s in bed, having managed to get into the ideal position for falling asleep, lying completely motionless, so that her conscious self starts to extinguish itself from her body, and she is no longer joined to her arms, legs, back, since they are resting so gently against the quilt that they have no reason to make her aware of them. And then suddenly fear impinges on her consciousness: what if she will never be able to move again, not ever; what if she ends up lying like that for good? Her consciousness and her body are now independent of each other, living their own lives, but what kind of life can this be if it doesn’t move, her body that is? But I can, Maarja tells herself, I can move right away if I want to, it’s just that I don’t want to, I’m in the very best position right now. Eventually she does move, just to dispel the fear, even if she has known right from the very start that nothing is holding her fast, that she won’t find such a good position again. Of course she’d heard about the illnesses which suddenly paralyse the whole body, leaving you locked in, so that you have to go through the rest of your life with nothing more than your memories. You never know what the future holds.
Generally the meetings took place in Tallinn every other Tuesday, and in Helsinki on Thursdays, so the delegation would arrive on the train from Leningrad on Monday evening, travel by ferry to Helsinki on Wednesday, and arrive back in Leningrad by Friday evening, no point wasting the weekends after all. But this time it turned out that one of the important people from Karelia Trade, without whom it was impossible to progress, suddenly had to go to Ireland for a couple of days, so the meeting in Helsinki was moved to Friday. We’re sorry about that, said the secretary of the Finnish work group, but to make up for it we’ve booked you rooms in the Seurahuone Hotel, where the bar is open until four in the morning; there are several nightclubs nearby, and some of our guys will be happy to join you to explore Helsinki on Friday night; naturally, you are our guests. Which was nice of them, since there was nothing else to do there.
If this had happened on one of the first occasions, then Alex would have been very worried about having to spend a whole twenty-four hours hanging about this side of the border with the suspicious films in his pocket. But by now he was used to it. What’s more he was carrying Eduard Margusovich Põldmaa’s business card in a safe place in between the pages of his notebook. By now he knew him to look at as well, and you couldn’t tell he was a spook by his appearance. He looked more like the boisterous joker type, the life and soul of the party, and was certainly popular with the girls from Leningrad Paper Industries.
So now they had to stay in Tallinn a day longer, which meant that they had a free evening. The ministry booked them some tables at the Viru cabaret, but there weren’t enough spaces for everyone and it was made pretty clear to Alex that he would have to entertain himself. He c
ould think of nothing better.
He set off on the familiar route from Kadriorg Palace to the Black Swan, wondering if that same girl would be there this time. Or maybe this Wednesday was exceptional in every way, and she hadn’t managed to get to the park to sit and doodle in her sketchbook. But no, there she was, sitting there looking as if she were waiting for him.
“Hello again.”
He put his coffee and meringue down on the table without asking. He knew that he didn’t need her permission any more.
“Are you expecting anyone?”
“You,” the girl said with a laugh, but Alex couldn’t work out whether she was joking or not.
And thus it transpired that on that fine July evening, there in the ruins of the Pirita Cloisters, the Finnish pensioners who were waddling about between the walls of the church building which was burnt down during the Livonian War were joined by two young people. What’s more, these young people dared to clamber on to the unearthed cell walls, up on to the half-collapsed roofs, walk up the steps which were worn smooth, and sit on the as yet untouched grass mounds, which must have hidden all kinds of secrets.
