That’s all in the past, Monta had said — with that accidentally, but firmly dismissing Andrejs’s usual landslide of memories. She keeps drawing her fingertips down the side of her glass. Monta feels guilty. She wants to bring her father out of the cave he finds so comforting. Wants his attention for the physical, flesh and blood Monta sitting across from her father on a woven metal chair. He can’t reach that Monta anymore because he’s still scattered somewhere in the past as Ieva Eglīte’s misplaced object.
She’d be grateful if he’d listen to her selflessly. And he’d listen to her selflessly if he had any room in his heart. But he doesn’t, Monta senses that. That’s what we are, she thinks. A lost love tames the soul and drains it dry.
Why the fuck did you kill Aksels, Dad?
But she’ll never ask him. The question has to do with an entirely different life of his. It would startle him. Maybe he’d feel pain like a snail being suddenly scraped out of its shell with a spoon?
He’ll never talk about it. And it’s his pride and his downfall.
They hug each other reservedly, then draw away and really look at each other. Then Andrejs leaves on the train, suspended by endless silver tracks that never intersect, never intersect.
And a few station stops later, his head drops to his chest as he falls asleep.
Conversations under Shifting Skies
Under Shifting Skies
“Have you ever been outside of yourself?”
“Outside myself? Sounds like an illness to me.”
“What kind?”
“Schizophrenia. Like one minute you’re one person, but someone else the next.”
“That’s not what I mean. It’s not an illness. It’s… Alright. Imagine you’re you. You’re with yourself at all times. You’re inside yourself, somewhere. I mean… Well… I don’t know where people normally go when they’re inside themselves.”
“Probably not to their feet.”
“But maybe there are people who do go into their feet.”
“Could be.”
“Of course. Nothing but the feet. A person could be in their big toe, too.”
“Or somewhere bigger — the knees, the hips, the ribs.”
“Higher.”
“The heart, then.”
“Sometimes the heart… Yeah. But for the most part I think people are within themselves around the eyes.”
“Not the ears?”
“It’s pretty much the same thing. On the border between the eyes and ears. At the temples. You’ve been there, somewhere, within yourself the whole time. The whole time you’d call your life. For a while I used to be in my fingertips. When I was a baby, before I could walk.”
“Yeah. That was a long time ago.”
“But we were talking about how I’m outside myself.”
“So talk.”
“I used to be very much inside myself. Inseparable. I was one with my actions.”
“Remember that time you slit your wrists?”
“I do. It was pretty bad.”
“Pretty bad? That’s putting it mildly — it was horrifying. It was pouring that night and the water blacked out the windows, the streetlights, and the roads. Mom brought you to the hospital… It was a nightmare.”
“I was completely inside myself then. But now it’s even worse.”
“What’s worse than a car full of blood?”
“There are things. Trust me.”
“Like?”
“Like… I’m not sure how to explain it.”
“Try putting it simply.”
“There’s nothing simple about it.”
“Then try details.”
“Details… So you know what it’s like right before it rains?”
“Like now?”
“Like now. And hear that bird cry? We’re in the city but we can still hear it. A rainbird. The trees are rustling, the treetops shifting. You don’t want to touch anything because it’s all sort of muggy. Painful.”
“Right, so anyway! Now you’re talking about the weather and some bird, but you wanted to talk about you.”
“But it’s all the same. It’s about that feeling, some kind of out-of-body feeling.”
“Experience — the right word is experience.”
“I don’t care which one’s right.”
“Then you risk saying what you don’t mean.”
“I often wonder if it’s even possible for others to understand.”
“Explain.”
“See, it’s as if I’m always somewhere outside myself. Watching myself from the sidelines. Take love, for example. Watch how love takes over your body. It kisses, hugs, makes others happy, makes them sad. Your body changes shape, you’ll have a kid, then more kids, or maybe none at all. You’ll have a home somewhere, warm nights under a melting sky. Arguments, fear, gentleness. But none of it happens to you — it happens to a body you call yourself. The body you’re watching from the sidelines.”
“You’re sick.”
“Maybe, yeah.”
“Your forehead’s hot.”
“It’s always hot.”
“So what are you saying — that even now, while we’re talking, you’re… So that’s why you’re looking at me so sadly? I noticed that strange look in your eyes a long time ago.”
“And you’re not worried?”
“I thought it was like the calm before the storm. I’m not sure if I should be worried or not. Maybe I should be.”
“How do I look? Describe it!”
“Like… Like you’re trying to absorb everything around you… Through your eyes. Yeah, like you’re trying to come back, into one piece. It’s in your eyes. Like you need to anchor yourself to something. That’s what you look like — like despair.”
“And there you have it.”
“Maybe you need to see a doctor.”
“What for?”
“Because you feel split in two, even around me.”
“Split in two! My god, don’t be ridiculous!”
“What? You’re the one who said you were split in two.”
“I never said that, Pāvils! You weren’t listening.”
“Sorry, but—”
“I’m not split in two! I’m outside of myself, alright? Outside myself. It’s not so bad when I’m talking with someone. When I’m talking with someone it’s always… detached.”
“What do you mean?”
“When two or more people are talking, they contemplate, speak, discuss. They’re someplace slightly outside themselves. Like in a shroud of thoughts. People tend to use phrases like ‘Remember when…!’ or ‘Next summer I’d like to go to…’ They converse. They’re detached, see? They’re back in that memory, or they’re in next summer. You can see it in their eyes, or how they twirl their hair around their finger as they daydream. They’re traveling. They’re outside themselves and there’s nothing strange about it.”
“I’ll be honest — it gets harder and harder to talk to you as the years go on. You make people uncomfortable. For example — no, don’t get offended — but I even feel uncomfortable talking to you. The look in your eyes is so tense. So heavy. You’re wrong, you know. When you and I talk, I tell myself life isn’t like that. Life is about life, not useless and continual concentration. It’s bad to be so serious! Why do you want so badly to get back into your eyes when talking to me?”
“Because I can’t anymore.”
“Can’t what?”
“Get back inside myself. When we’re done talking, Laura will toddle over with a ball and say ‘Daddy, let’s play!’”
“And I’ll go.”
“And you’ll go and you’ll be you — Pāvils. Pāvils who’s kicking a ball, who’s Laura’s father, who loves Vita, who’s writing his doctorate.”