“How’s your health? Was it bad? And how is our first-born doing? Who does she look like — you or me? What color are her eyes? What does her nose look like? What color is her hair? Is she a loud crier? Is she healthy? Do you need anything — juice or fresh fruit, or something special?”
Immediately following these questions he starts in on choosing names—“our little girl is already tall, we should name her Skaidrīte, so she could be name-twins with Skaidrīte Smildziņa” (here he means the TTT team basketball player Skaidrīte Smildziņa). As far as names, he asks for time to think and for them to decide tomorrow if possible.
Then he writes a bit about the outside world. About how he slept poorly the night before, how he was only able to doze off toward morning. Woke up at half eight. Was late for work and called the hospital once he got into town to find out if there was any news. There wasn’t, and they told him to call after lunch.
He decided to call after two. He was eating when his mother called him and, after giving him an update, congratulated him. A coworker had been standing next to him at the time and had seen him turn red, then pale; then the coworker congratulated him, asked if it was a boy or girl, then went to spread the word.
The new father then called the hospital himself. They told him that “everything is very, very normal and your wife is lying in bed smiling” (it’s possible this is a standard line). “But I already thought as much,” he writes. “After that I didn’t want to work anymore. And tears kept welling up in my eyes for no reason.”
After this the letter includes a description of several congratulations and greetings from coworkers and family members. One person said that they should definitely drink something to the occasion. Another said his wife had experienced a beautiful dream.
By 15:00 Pauls couldn’t stand it anymore and went to beg his boss to let him leave early. His boss asked after the health of his newborn and his wife, asked, if his employee had hoped for a boy or girl. Pauls had grown flustered and answered that he’d hoped for both.
He has no new news, it’s already 16:15, and he has yet to cover the distance between himself and the hospital.
(And it’s true, he had to cover that distance to leave a care package and the letter with the receptionist, and to then slink along the side of the hospital garden in the hopes of catching sight of his wife through the window for a few moments.)
Second letter
(from Ieva’s father Pauls to Ieva’s mother Lūcija),
written in black ballpoint pen on lined notebook paper; the letter indicates that he wasn’t able to see his wife yesterday.)
In the second letter he again writes that he was chased off hospital property at six, so could she please immediately answer the following questions and only then read on.
1. How are you doing in this hospital?
2. How’s your health?
3. Could you write something more about the baby?
4. Are her legs bowed or do they look normal?
5. Do you need anything?
6. What’s new?
7. Is it true new mothers don’t get to see their babies for three days, and only then do you get to feed them yourselves?
8. What do you think of the name Helga?
Third letter
(from Ieva’s mother Lūcija to Ieva’s father Pauls),
in which she lovingly addresses her husband and thanks him for the care package, which she won’t be able to finish off, as “there’s a lifetime of things in it.”)
“So we have a daughter,” she writes, and adds that she was born very small. Other women gave birth to babies weighing 4 kg or more. She’s the image of her father. Lūcija, in turn, held out courageously — there was one small gash, but it was sewn up. Tonight she’ll be allowed to start walking again. Health-wise nothing interesting, just a slight temperature.
She writes lying down because she’s not allowed to get up, but hopes that he’ll be able to read her handwriting. She’ll probably be able to go home in seven days. Their daughter is very beautiful.
“Don’t worry, love, it’s all over now.” That’s how she ends the letter.
The reader must not forget that this correspondence wasn’t brought about by esthetic whim, an attempt at style, or an artistic craze, but life itself, livelihood. The desire to connect and utilize one’s human advantage — words. And with this little stack of letters Ieva Eglīte’s name was pulled from the stream of time.
True, is should be pointed out that the stream of time is always very close by. It’s already reaching with its furry paw of mold for new ground, and this name and surname will also soon be washed away by time.
It should also be said that Ieva Eglīte herself has never known about the existence of her birth certificate, and maybe that’s for the best because, having read these letters, she would never believe that she had been the size of a large cat at the time the pen touched the paper.
But she was.
It becomes clear to anyone who has been present for the birth or death of another person that life is no laughing matter. It can and must be treated as a good, successful joke, but in essence it’s not a joke.
If you’ve been touched by a ray of light, if it’s pulled you from the darkness — that’s no joke.
Sitting on a pretty hill, I often daydream, and this is what I think: there is neither essence in money, nor in the number of women, nor in old folklore, nor in a new wave, but we end up in strange places by feeling our way there, and the only things that belong to us are joy and fear. Fear that we are worse than we could be, and joy that everything is in good hands. And in each dream I can’t resist but run to who knows where. But, when I wake up — I hope you’ll be with me.
— B. Grebenshchikov
About the Author
Inga Ābele (born 1972) is a Latvian novelist, poet, and playwright. Her novel High Tide received the 2008 Latvian Literature Award for prose, and the 2009 Baltic Assembly Award in Literature. Her works have been translated into several languages, including Swedish, English, French, and Russian, and have appeared in such anthologies as New European Poets, Best European Fiction 2010, and Short Stories without Borders: Young Writers for a New Europe. Her most recent book, Ants and Bumblebees, is a collection of short stories.
About the Translator
Kaija Straumanis is a graduate of the MA program in Literary Translation at the University of Rochester, and is the editorial director of Open Letter Books. She translates from both German and Latvian.
About Open Letter
Open Letter — the University of Rochester’s nonprofit, literary translation press — is one of only a handful of publishing houses dedicated to increasing access to world literature for English readers. Publishing ten titles in translation each year, Open Letter searches for works that are extraordinary and influential, works that we hope will become the classics of tomorrow.
Making world literature available in English is crucial to opening our cultural borders, and its availability plays a vital role in maintaining a healthy and vibrant book culture. Open Letter strives to cultivate an audience for these works by helping readers discover imaginative, stunning works of fiction and poetry, and by creating a constellation of international writing that is engaging, stimulating, and enduring.
Current and forthcoming titles from Open Letter include works from Argentina, Bulgaria, Denmark, Germany, Latvia, Netherlands, Poland, Russia, and many other countries.