Swanson used the reference points marked on the map to take a slow, meandering tour of the city, and thought it looked worse than the bad side of Detroit. They reminded Swanson of big box stores in America, but here, the boxes were stacked high atop one another, with windows empty of glass, brickwork collapsed and weeds taking over. No wonder young Anneli would not choose to be a tourist in her hometown.
And while the black, blue and white flag of Estonia snapped in the wind, and St. Peter’s Square promised to be a starting block for urban renewal, the city as a whole had remained stubbornly Russian, very reluctantly embracing its important new role as the third-largest city in an independent country. Now that he began to notice details, he saw campaign posters everywhere, in every color. He did not understand a word on them.
When Swanson felt he had absorbed enough sadness, he retreated to a forested area near the river south of the city, ventured deep into the trails and set up a cold camp. It would be uncomfortable to sleep outside, but he had the proper gear and had been in worse places. He wasn’t planning on being around for more than one night at the most. Checking into a hotel was out of the question, for that would leave electronic traces. He walked to the riverbank and looked across at a mirroring forest in the Russian Federation and wondered what was buried back in there.
Swanson was thoroughly ready for a drink by the time Anneli Kallasti climbed onto the back of the motorcycle and guided him to the strangely named “German Pub.” It was a cellar joint on Malmi that was sedate on the exterior but was rocking inside. She had pulled her hair into a ponytail and wore low-cut jeans with patterned silver spangles on the back pockets and a tight burnt-orange sweater beneath her jacket. The loud music smashing from overhead speakers brought an instant smile to her face. It was early, but people were already on the dance floor. She grabbed his hand and led him to a table, and called for three mugs of beer and a plate of bratwurst appetizers while checking her phone.
“Brokk, my guy, will be here in a minute,” she said as her eyes roamed the gathering crowd. They were mostly twentysomethings, bursting with energy.
It reminded Swanson of the musical Cabaret, about a club that operated in Berlin during the early Nazi years, and customers left their problems outside the door to spend a few hours forgetting their troubles in wine and beer and music. Was this place part of the rebirth of Estonia, or was it a last gasp of freedom? He drank his beer and watched.
Anneli used a mirror to fix her pretty face, which lit up when Brokk Mihailovich came through the door and immediately started greeting friends. He was tall and slim, with onyx eyes that flashed over the crowd until he saw Anneli, who waved. Then, with the confidence of a veteran politician working a rope line, the man in the droopy white wool sweater and worn jeans moved with almost feline grace through the crowd, trolling for votes by sharing a handshake here, a whispered confidence there, or a pat on the shoulder or a quick hug, never losing the smile nor slowing down. Good cheer followed in his wake, adding to the loose atmosphere of the club. Like if Brokk was present, this was the place to be.
Anneli jumped up and gave him a public and proprietary kiss on the lips, as if establishing her territory, and Mihailovich lifted her off the floor with an effortless embrace. He turned her loose and extended his hand. “I am Brokk Mihailovich, Mister Brown. Welcome to Narva.” The English was almost without accent.
“Good to meet you,” Swanson said. Anneli had obviously briefed him.
Mihailovich and Anneli slid into the booth and spoke briefly in Estonian, shared a private laugh, then switched to English as they started on the brats and beer. Brokk paused now and again to wave or greet someone.
“Why are you so popular?” Kyle asked.
“I am running to become the mayor of Narva,” the young man said. “The youngest candidate by far, so these people are my constituents, what your politicians would call my base. I work hard to keep them on my side.”
“Ah. Anneli told me you were political.”
“Everyone is political, including you, Simon… may I call you that?”
“Sure, but you’re wrong. I’m about as political as a tree. I stay as far away from that stuff as I can get.”
Anneli laughed. “We don’t have that luxury, Simon. This city is ninety percent Russian, by heritage, language, age and preference. Brokk is a lawyer and is a leader in trying to create a true democracy, and a true national identity. That’s why we all love him.”
“Good. Best of luck.” Swanson raised his mug in a toast. “The Old Guard giving you a lot of opposition?”
The lawyer moodily nodded. “Every day. We will win eventually, but progress is slow. Their time is over, and now we are all waiting around for that whole generation to die off. This election is important because my main opponent wants to resurrect legislation to make Narva autonomous, to officially split off from Estonia and take this city back to being officially Russian. I want you to interview me for your publications and help me win. Estonia must remain whole.”
Kyle gave a guffaw of disbelief. “I write travel stories, Brokk. I’m not a political reporter or a news correspondent. I am not qualified to interview you on details of your platform, or whatever.”
Mihailovich never lost his sense of humor. “You are a journalist, Simon, a voice to the outside world and we need you. The New York Times and the papers in London would buy this story on the spot. Everyone writes about the castle, so you would have the exclusive on what this town is really about.”
“And maybe drop in a couple of quotes from you and an observation that Narva is changing and modernizing?”
“Exactly.” Brokk was a convincing young man.
It sounded logical, but Swanson said, “Maybe. Do you have some other stories that I can combine it with to help get it published?”
Anneli looked at her lover. “The Lenin statue. That would work.”
Brokk agreed. “Like every other country in the USSR, Estonia was littered with statues of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, standing proud and bestowing the blessings of communism on all the little people. We had a large one in St. Peter’s Square, but when we became independent, we discovered that it was hard to attract foreign investment with old Lenin still dominating the middle of town.”
“What did you do?”
“We moved the famous old Bolshevik into an obscure corner of the castle. Out of sight, out of mind,” Anneli said. “Oh, you should have heard the old Cossacks howl in protest. That will be a good story, right? You can get photos of it and then post it all over the Net. And you can use it to push the current political angle and get Brokk’s name out to millions of people around the world.”
Mihailovich stretched a long arm around Anneli’s shoulders and brought her close. “She is convinced that social media is going to get me elected. Twitter and Facebook and all the rest.”
Kyle pursed his lips in thought, then asked, “On the city council, wouldn’t you be dealing with routine things like construction permits and sewage arguments? I mean, what’s the point? You would not set foreign policy.”
The magnetism of Brokk Mihailovich was getting to Swanson. A man in a hurry, sure of his path and his future. “Sure, I will do that routine stuff. But I can also do a lot more, Simon. I will make life better for the people of Narva and get us out from under that Russian boot even more. Human rights. The Disappeared. Our staggering economy. Better care for our old, sick and homeless, less police brutality and civic corruption.”
“Sounds like you may be running for president, not mayor. What are ‘the Disappeared’?”