The doors open.
A dirty parka, a bare and absurdly skinny neck, a drooping mustache, and a red nose. Surprised at the unexpected attention, the old man stands staring like a fox caught red-handed in the henhouse.
The driver says:
“Hop on board, sir!”
The old man rubs his knotted, red fingers over his knit cap and then waves them at the bus driver as if in farewell. He turns sideways and continues his way down the path to Mārica’s house, bumbling:
“No, no, I’m headed there, y’see…”
“Pff, you!” The driver shouts and shuts the creaky bus door. “Why’re you hanging out like some ghost on the side of the road?”
The bus drives on and a dark veil once more falls over the landscape. But the dawn has already torn a red seam in the east.
Why am I not going back to the seaside and Gran’s, to the west? Ieva thinks. What’s pushing me in the opposite direction? What will I find there? I don’t know anything.
All I know is that back is back there and forward is up ahead. Right now it’s time for the road ahead. Life’s desires have fermented in my veins and formed strength, much like birch sap will ferment in a bottle to form a champagne that can shoot out even the strongest cork. The time will probably come when I’ll spend summer sitting peacefully in a lawn chair finding joy in the flowers, and I’ll use the long northern winter nights as a black cover, a hiding place, a fen, so I can regrow my clipped wings.
The time will also probably come for low tide. When I’ll skulk back to Kurzeme, to my birthplace — in the dark, along the sandy dirt roads, by smell. Along the seashore, the manure, the blue anemones, the fragrant paths of thundering storm clouds, clutching my last, crumbling pretzel to my chest. And some early morning bus driver will notice me, pull me out of the eternal night with glaring headlights, blind me, stop and open the doors in welcome.
And I’ll say to him — No, no. I’m headed there, y’see.
Keep Your Fingers Crossed for Us, Brother
Pāvil!
Hello, hello, hello! The college that accepted you doesn’t even realize yet how lucky they are!
You’re going to fly for the first time — and all the way to America… Hm… You’re going to starve to death because, if we’re brother and sister, then we have a lot in common, and I can tell you one thing for sure — I CANNOT eat in planes! Hopefully it’ll be totally different for you, you’ll stuff yourself full of hamburgers one by one.
I know you’re getting ready to leave, so I won’t bore you with a long letter. Just one juicy quote — yesterday some of the local women were teasing Roberts when he looked at them: Roberts is so old that the only sexual organ he has left is his eyes. Hoho!
Also — I went to a Student Symphony Orchestra concert, Inguna’s friend played first flute. And in the “style of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue!”
Really, really hope to hear back from you!
— Ieva
P.S. I think Troyat’s Les Eygletière is an awful book. There isn’t a single protagonist! It’s the first time I’ve noticed one missing. Maybe my realization is to the book’s credit?
P.P.S. The meaning behind our initials: I — tension, emotionality; P — shyness, distance, loneliness. Does that fit?
* * *
Greetings, American!
How are you? Are you already placing your hand over your heart when you hear the national anthem?
“When the euphoria of a first meeting fades, you must quickly find a new acquaintance to maintain happiness and so life doesn’t lose its edge. Year after year passes by in smiles and tired jokes, and the road is littered with hundreds of temporarily — for a week or two — amused people.”
As you can see, I’m reading the ocean book again. Doncho and Julia. All alone in their watery wanderings.
If Gran and Roberts were to finally kick me out and I’d somehow have to get through life on my own, I don’t think the results would be good — I’d make it to the bottom of the front steps, and that would be it. I don’t know anything about the world! So many people know what pain is (right now the time is 13:10 and the radio just started to play Dārziņš’s “Melancholy Waltz”—how perfect!), what misfortune is, but they live on and shine, and are happy. I’m spoiled rotten. I have everything, but I’m always depressed. Sad. Brother, it’s awful. I want to understand: what’s wrong with me, who am I, why is this happening?
“. . people are not limited in their abilities, but are rather limited in what they demand of themselves. In a moment of need, or even if we’ve made the conscious decision to, each of us is capable of mustering the kind of strength we never even thought we could possibly possess.”
Hm… It’s a nice thought, I’m waiting for that moment of need. I could even get angry at myself in the end. If I could… The book has answers to all of my questions, and simultaneously reprimands me for them. Because I believe books. Maybe unnecessarily?
“Fear is a product of either nerves that are shot, or a stupid upbringing.”
I don’t want what I immediately write down, but my hand moves like a sailboat across the paper, on its own accord. I think my fear comes from somewhere deep down. From the day Mom and Dad decided to split us up and left me with Gran and Roberts. I can’t imagine a better childhood than what I had. Books, books, books, the sea, and Gran with her muddy boots and white handkerchief in the potato field.
But each time I see Mom and Dad I suddenly feel a horrible emptiness tearing through me somewhere deep, deep down. Like in a desert. I’m not condemning their decision, I know about Mom’s illness and your condition, but I still can’t entirely understand the separation. We’re polite, but say nothing, and I’m really scared that I’m not loved. So be it, I think, it’s not within our power to end it. I’m glad you got in touch with me, and were so sincerely and from the bottom of your heart able to convince me there was no reason to be afraid. The desert sprouted plants. Now you’re my flower, my brother. A wonderful gift.
I hope you’re not tired of reading all these whiny letters — I can’t, I don’t want to, I don’t know how… The only people who I respect are probably you and Gran. And Jonsy, the woman from Iceland who I met on my trip to Sweden. She’s so courageous!
“Man is a curious creation. I’ve observed a close connection between my mood and the wind. Today, with a fresh trade wind blowing, everything in my body rejoices.”
Across the Atlantic with Dju—yaha! Where does one find a trade wind in Latvia?
Write me!
— Ieva
* * *
Hello, my dear brother!
Life is horribly complicated, or else horrible and complicated. I’ve suddenly realized — everything is happening to me and it’s awful. I can’t avoid it anymore, I’m not as flexible as I was as a kid or a teenager, I’m stiff as a pole, and each splash of mud lands right onto my soul. I must be destined to live the life of a lightning rod. Right now I’m just one big compromise. In my mind I want to boss everyone around. Let them call me mentally incompetent! Out of the box and without boundaries. But on the surface I’m so quiet…
. . the meek will be spit out…
Oh but I know, I know already! But I can’t let loose, because I’m not alone anymore.
. . if my life was just mine and mine alone…
My boyfriend is a gloomy person with an entirely wrecked world outlook and with a cruel relationship — scores to settle — with this life. And I don’t understand why this life has chosen him for me. And I agree with him on everything because I don’t have the heart to hurt him (“E tu, Brute?”), I stand silently by him and hope for peace, but… I at least learned one thing during my short time in Stockholm — always look at everything from both sides. A shitty trait! It’ll never let me just be.