by Rein Raud
From his pocket he removed a roll of bills bound by a rubber band, and counted out onto the counter a stack that well exceeded the antiquarian’s expectations. At that same moment, a large-weighted clock living its own secret life on the wall struck noon; a clock, which certainly ran when it was maintained, but the hands of which had been snapped off by time.
“This should be more than enough,” Brother said. “Please have it brought to the Castle Hotel.”
“Does that mean you won’t be staying at my place anymore?” Laila asked in surprise.
“I plan on staying in town for a little longer now, and I don’t want to be a bother,” Brother said. “But I’ll come by tonight if that’s alright.”
He nodded to the goateed antiquarian and walked out, his long coat fluttering behind him.
“That’s just like my brother,” Laila said, and blushed like a schoolgirl given a flower.
The notary was the first to stir. His letter, sealed in an almost starched snow-white envelope and marked with his large initials, was delivered to Brother while he was in his hotel room watching an old Western about a nameless gun-slinging hero, who had been hired by the men of a small town to defend it against robbers being released from prison. The hero had just been promised a free hand in the town to do as he pleased as compensation, and one of his first acts was to appoint the dwarf barber’s assistant as both the new sheriff and mayor.
“I was asked to wait for a reply,” the courier said at the door.
Brother had already seen the film once before and knew what happened next.
“Tell him I’m coming,” he said.
“And so, you say,” the notary continued, gracefully holding the ornate handle of a heavy teacup, through which his finger didn’t fit, “that is, you claim, that the point of your visit is not to dispute your sister’s rights to have acted exclusively as inheritor of your parents’ estate, and naturally proceeding from that also not to appeal for the annulment of the amendments in ownership that transpired as a result of legal acts executed on the basis of mandates signed by your sister?”
“I already said that I came to visit her.”
“Because—I hope that as a reasonable individual you understand me in this—if you ever should, by chance, happen to develop a similar intention, which wouldn’t surprise me in the least, by the way, because it would be natural that you require the utmost clarity in these matters, meaning, if you should ever decide to undertake something along those lines, then I would simply like to tell you—not that I might be trying to somehow hint at anything, certainly not that—but I would simply like to say that firstly, you should, in that case, be prepared to prove any of your claims on the basis of significantly more documentation, you see, because as long as you’re simply a brother who is simply visiting his sister, then it’s, so to say, your personal matter—you do understand what I mean—but if you decide to be a brother who wants to dispute your sister’s signature to certain documents, then the matter becomes, so to say, public—you do understand the difference, don’t you—and that would in turn lead to a consequence, which indeed brings me to the second point that I’d like to make, for you see, you’ve only been in this town a few days, while I, on the other hand, have spent my whole life here, as a result of which I do believe that in some sense it might be prudent for me to advise you in this, you understand—to enlighten you about the circumstances, so to say.”
“You invited me to tea. I came. Let’s drink tea.”
The notary’s hands trembled slightly as he refilled both cups from the heavy teapot.
“What I’m trying to say is that several very esteemed persons in our town, I would say so much as the very pillars of our little community—you can probably imagine whom I’m talking about, can’t you—in short, if things should, for some reason, go the route I mentioned before, if the circumstances should maybe change and you develop the desire to become involved in this issue, then several people could be, how should I put it now, unpleasantly surprised, which might not necessarily be the most favorable course of events, neither for your sister nor yourself, because, you see, there are particular rules in the capital and elsewhere around the world in general, but we have our own here, you do realize, and we’ve become accustomed to them, although you yourself might not be, nor should you, since I certainly understand that you’ve had more of a nomadic lifestyle, but on the other hand, your sister really hasn’t, now, has she, and she also has the greater share of her life still ahead of her, so I can only hope that you will, by all means, give full consideration to any step you take beforehand. You do understand what I’m saying, don’t you? Right? So, what do you say?”
“For us, things have gone the way they’ve gone. Now, we’ll see how they go for you. Pass the sugar, please.”
“Things are bad,” the notary said, and lit a cigarette.
“Things are worse than bad,” the lawyer said, waving to disperse the cloud of smoke. “Things are worse than worse than bad.”
“Easy,” the banker said. “First of all, we should find out more about him.”
A rat-faced young man—the lawyer’s assistant, whose name was Willem—came to empty the ashtray. He said nothing.
“We should figure out who he is,” the banker continued.
“How, I wonder?” the lawyer asked.
The banker was a strong man who had already begun to watch his health and had managed to achieve enough in his lifetime to answer yes-or-no questions with a single word.
“We should play cards with him,” he said.
Cloves always came on Thursdays, and Thursday it was.
He had already managed to empty the bottle of beer he was carrying with him, and had already managed to place the flower he had brought into a vase with water. He had already managed to go grocery shopping and to buy everything he always did. And while Laila made dinner, he had already managed to check and see whether the bathroom faucet was still leaking, and it was, and he had already managed to fix it, so that now it should definitely hold. He had already managed to read through both today’s and yesterday’s newspapers, and to listen to the radio a little on top of that. He had already managed to eat his favorite cabbage rolls, as many as he could stuff down, and this time was unusually somewhat astonished by why Laila had made so many of them. He had already managed to ask what news was to be heard, and without waiting for the reply, had also already managed to say how fantastic it was that at least one person—he, Cloves—hadn’t left Laila alone to wilt in bleak solitude. This time, unusually, he had already managed to start to feel somewhat incredulous over why Laila hadn’t already made the bed and gone to wash up.
Then, the sound of footsteps made by knee-high boots echoed from the stairway, and a knock sounded at the door.
“Good evening,” Brother said.
“Hello,” Laila said.
“Good evening,” Cloves said.
They stared at each other until all was clear.
“It appears it’s time for me to go,” Cloves said, and stood.
How could he have known that once, long ago, the flower he brought would stand in the vase for the entire week, but then, little by little, it started to wilt already by Monday, then it barely lasted until the weekend, and now it was thrown out with the Friday-morning trash? Laila strove to remember what kind of a job the man even held. Director of the post office’s delivery department? A clerk at the stationmaster’s office? Bookkeeper for the brass band? She couldn’t remember.
“I’ll get going, then,” Cloves said at the door, his flushed cheeks sagging, his spine slightly arched, and his gut hanging slightly over his waistband. Laila realized that she was seeing the man for the second time in her life today, as something obviously had to have impressed her the first time; but maybe then, long ago, each time before he looked at her, Cloves himself hadn’t always known exactly what he saw.
“I don’t understand,” Brother said. “I don’t understand how you’ve allowed the world to step on yo
u like this.”
“Because I hoped it would step over me,” Laila replied.
“Even so.”
“But did I really have a choice?” Laila asked. “I wanted, I really wanted to have a friend, too. But none of them saw me. Do you think that when they looked at me, they saw a scrawny girl with pale, thin lips and potato-colored locks, hiding her hands behind her back? No. They saw a tall, blue marble staircase; arching, golden thatched roofs; and a white stretch limousine parked outside—so what that it’d been a long while since anyone could drive anywhere in it. They saw my grandfather’s surname and all of his ancestors since time immemorial peering over his shoulder. And when the mirage faded—and that happened as soon as they really heard anything I said—then they fled, helter-skelter; some didn’t even say goodbye. You know, when that whole degrading process was over and they’d tricked me out of everything we once had, and I ended up here, penniless, unable to do anything about it and with only a bunch of memories breathing down my neck, then at first, I really wanted to scream and cry, but afterward, I realized that I was actually glad. Glad that it’s all over now. That I’m free. That I’m myself. And that from then on, things would go both as well and badly for me as they might, but that it’d only be my own doing.
She gulped.
“It’s hard for me even now,” she continued, “when someone greets me out of habit, as if I’m still the way I was then. I don’t know what to say to them in return, but they still do it—my old tutor Mrs. Salt or Mrs. Cymbal or the twin boys Hendrik and Hindrek—or, well, they’re not quite boys anymore—whose mother used to be the Villa chef, or else Gabriel, you know—the bachelor photographer, with whom I was in love for a while in high school, against my will but all the more hopelessly. How can’t they see that I’m not the one they knew?”
“I understand,” Brother said.
“No, you don’t,” Laila sighed. “You still think that I’m just like you are. Strong. Someone who can handle anything.”
“No,” Brother replied. “What I think of you isn’t something I don’t see, because that’s just the way I love you. But it seems like you’ve let yourself be bent the other direction. Maybe it’s easier, but it’s definitely not right, and blaming the world for it is even worse. You can stay hungry even while walking between tables heaped with delicacies if you never reach out your hand.”
“I want nothing from them. Nothing at all.”
“That’s what I just said.”
I bet it’s a telegram, or else a catalogue big enough to not fit in the mailbox, sent from some department store, for example, the woman thought while rushing down the stairs—for who else would ring their doorbell at this hour? Passing by the kitchen, she glanced in and noticed a scrap of paper lying on the table—but she’d have time to deal with that later; as usual, her husband had left her a grocery list and instructions on what he’d like for dinner. Right now, she adjusted the folds of her bathrobe, brushed her hand through her somewhat messy hair, and opened the door.
Standing on the front steps was a complete stranger, muscular and tanned, far from unimpressive, wearing knee-high boots.
“I understand that you’re in need of a gardener here,” the man said.
“Yes, that’s true—my husband and I have discussed fixing up the garden a couple of times,” she said. “But we haven’t settled on anything more specific than that,” she added immediately. “We mow the front lawn here ourselves, but it’s awfully overgrown out back, and there really is so much beautiful land there.”
“That’s exactly why I’m here,” the man said. “May I come in?”
“Of course,” she nodded, instantly forgetting everything her husband had instructed her about talking to strangers.
“I’m not interested in long-term employment,” the man explained. “But if you’d like, I can restore the Villa’s garden to its original state relatively quickly, so that if you employ someone to maintain it more permanently afterward, it’ll be extremely easy for him to handle. Don’t worry—I’m experienced. I’ve managed to get by at a number of countryside manors in England, and then we also fixed up a couple of hunting lodges near Wittenberg—although I worked together with locals there, since Germans don’t trust foreigners all that much with those jobs. I learned quite a lot of new things from them, too, I might add.”
“Very impressive. Perhaps you’d like some tea or coffee . . . or maybe something else?”
“A glass of water, if you’d be so kind. If I may, then I’ve got a piece of paper here—a contract—that I’d leave for you to look over. You’ll certainly want to discuss it with your husband, too.”
“Absolutely—we always make these kinds of decisions jointly.”
“Just as I thought. And I presume he’s the Villa’s actual owner, is that correct?”
“No . . . in truth, the house and assets are in my name. My husband is an entrepreneur, and he thought it would be better that way; I don’t really understand that much about it.”
“Whatever is more convenient for you both,” the man said, and smiled. “If I may, then I’ll stop by tomorrow at the same time, we’ll fill in the blanks, and I’ll get to work.”
“I’ll expect you then.”
The days when I also have some piece of unexpected news to tell my husband are so pleasantly uncommon.
She remembered it later that evening, when her husband returned home.
“You know, Mikk, an odd man came here offering to be our gardener.”
“Great,” Mikk said without lifting his eyes from the newspaper.
“So, today’s that day again,” Laila said and smiled when she entered the antique shop.
“That it is,” the antiquarian replied, beaming. He had gone to the barber to have his goatee neatly trimmed; was wearing his best blue suit, a white shirt with a starched collar, and a black tie with a gold pin; and had even rummaged around to find his walking cane with a carved bone lion’s head.
“I’d like to see the car that doesn’t stop when I raise it to cross the street,” he said, chuckling.
The store was fairly full: one young married couple—two endearing souls who hadn’t lost anything significant in their lives yet. Laila realized at once that they could be shown even the store’s most prized treasures, since they didn’t have the money to buy anything, anyway. It was obvious that everything in the shop spoke to the woman. But when Laila started placing dollhouse furniture on the counter in front of her, she fell completely silent, almost motionless, as if she were utterly pooled into her eyes. Judging only by their youth, it was apparent that they couldn’t have been married for very long yet, and therefore the husband didn’t know his wife well enough to grasp what was happening. Nevertheless, Laila eased his impatience with a large portfolio containing old world maps, and removed the ribbon tied across a walnut chair to prevent people from sitting on it so that the man could inspect the papers at a table. The antiquarian would normally be cross with Laila for doing something like that, but not today—today was that day.
The antiquarian’s son was visiting from the capital. On business, but even so.
“I won’t return after lunch, in all likelihood,” the antiquarian said. “Felix said he wants to talk to me about something, and it might take a while.”
The long-faced man was silent.
“And that’s your final position on the matter?” the notary asked. “If so, then we of course understand that we won’t be able to convince you otherwise, but it’d be proper all the same if you’d at least attempt to somehow justify your decision.”
“Especially since we’ve covered your travel expenses,” the lawyer added.
The long-faced man stared at them at length.
“Fine, I’ll explain,” he spoke. “Over the years, I’ve developed my own reputation in certain circles, and I don’t undertake anything that could cast doubt upon it. People don’t play cards with me merely to win. They play in order to beat me. So that in the event that they should win, s
omething amazing will happen. Something that’ll be spoken of for years to come—something that might make a name for them. That is also the reason why I can certainly lose a few hands here and there—it’s impossible to play the game otherwise—but I always leave the table as the winner. When you called me here, I presumed that you also understood it’s never about how the cards fall. Those I play with have personally decided the game’s outcome long before they sit down at the table. They’ve wrapped themselves up so tightly in the desire to beat me by any means possible that all I have to do is put a few links in place, and the chain that firmly binds them is complete. A few fall victim to their own recklessness, a few to their cautiousness, but everyone who challenges me gets the same end result; that’s how I make a living. Earlier, you led me to a restaurant where he dines so that I could see him. I observed him from a distance for a while, as I always do with my opponents. If you’ve ever watched him with the gaze of a predator readying to pounce, then you’d have refrained from it likewise. Never before have I seen someone who so perfectly lacks any kind of resolve to win. I believe that if I’d proposed to him that we spend an evening at the card table, he would certainly have agreed, though only because he hardly declines a single opportunity that presents itself to him. Yet, the outcome would have been entirely unpredictable. It’s possible that I would have managed to devastate him, but it’s just as possible that he would destroy me. I watched how he eats: he forks food into his mouth in exactly identical sizes and amounts, but it was obvious that he is completely indifferent to how it tastes. That wasn’t the only thing I saw, but it was the simplest. There is no way I can play him.”
