Särg had need of his innate mathematical abilities quite often now, because the money which unseen hands dragged into crooked schemes tended to be converted into foreign currency and then back into roubles, and obviously not at the rate set by the Soviet Foreign Trade Bank. Särg also quickly acquired a thorough knowledge of icons, tsarist gold coins and other things which the underworld elite considered held their value well. Of course he knew the hourly rate of the prostitutes in various Tallinn hotels, and how much the bars there charged for different types of tipple, including Viru Valge vodka and Vana Tallinn liqueur, although naturally they could be bought in the shop round the corner for no more than a tenth of the price. But that was all another world for him, which he was happy to observe as if through a window, without feeling the slightest desire to enter it.
By now he was earning enough that Galina didn’t need to go back to work, but for Galina the work itself had always been the least interesting aspect of her job. She needed people around her to discuss the ways of the world; she needed someone to impress with some new make-up or matching outfit and jewellery, since the men in her life certainly didn’t know how to appreciate such things. And Särg promised that she would now be able to spend her whole salary on herself, since at the end of the month there was always housekeeping money left over in the red and white polka-dot “Cocoa” box.
However, Galina didn’t want to go back to work at the Procurator’s Office. The atmosphere there was too strict, and there were too many people who still remembered her previous lifestyle. So after a brief search she found herself a cushy job in the Tallinn offices of Aeroflot. The mood was much more pleasant than her previous place, and the job meant she could get hold of tickets to places like Simferopol, Tuapse and Mineralnye Vody – not just for her own family, but for a seamstress friend, her hairdresser, and the head of department in the furniture shop, who in turn arranged for a decent corner sofa to finally arrive in their living room. And it wasn’t completely without importance that at her new job Galina didn’t have to encounter a single document written in Estonian.
Because no, she couldn’t speak that language. Which still bothered Särg a little.
She had the utmost respect for the Estonian people and their culture of course. “Kalevipoeg”, Tammsaare and all that. And the Song Festival. And unlike most in her circle of acquaintances she could say, “How’s it going?” and “Well, thanks” with a quite acceptable Estonian accent, and she could understand the numbers up to one hundred when a shopkeeper used them. But the rest of it was completely beyond her; there was no point in pretending otherwise.
“Anyway, a woman’s language skills aren’t her most important quality,” she would say coquettishly to Särg, to which he had no choice but to concur. They managed just fine, after all. Särg’s Russian had got much better from constant practice. What bothered him more was that their son Anton’s first words were in his mother’s and grandmother’s language, whereas he responded to anything his father said with funny cute noises which his wife’s side of the family said sounded exactly like Estonian, and made them laugh heartily. Which Anton of course took as encouragement.
They rarely visited Särg’s parents in the countryside; he knew very well that he could never bring himself to tell his father where he was now working.
Anton did not in fact learn to speak Estonian as a child at all. Särg’s working days were long and he often had to be away at weekends, so he played a modest part in his son’s upbringing. In any case, whenever he did have some free time Galina would claim it for herself, and they would go to Sõprus cinema and then to Gloria restaurant for dinner, since Särg’s mother-in-law was quite happy to look after Anton. All four of them would go on holiday to the Crimea together, where they always rented two rooms, and Anton would be in one of them with Grandma.
The problems started when Anton got older, when he began playing outdoors and found himself caught between two camps. He was in the same predicament at school. Anton attended Middle School No. 47, where they were fostering friendship between the peoples by having the Estonian and Russian classes together in one building, with a full set of teachers for every subject in each language. Anton didn’t mix with the Estonian boys, and while the Russians tolerated his presence they didn’t treat him as one of their own because of his surname. Anyway, they needed someone to tease, and he fitted the role very well. In fact that probably wasn’t because of his name, but because he was short in stature, just like his father wore thick-rimmed glasses due to his poor eyesight, and wasn’t particularly sporty. The main thing was that he would never tell on them to teacher. Anton himself saw things differently of course. He didn’t understand why being a little bit Estonian was such a problem for the playground bullies. Nor why he always had to play the role of fascist in their war games.
If we always knew in advance what was going to happen, we would behave like machines. So in a sense it is the unexpected things in life that make us who we are.
But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, as they say.
As a teenager Anton gradually grew further apart from his parents. Their world was of no interest to him, nor did he want to share his world with them. But his parents saw no cause for worry: his marks were good and he was even sent to take part in the Estonian Soviet Republic’s Physics Olympiad – although he’d actually started to get more interested in history, especially after his two history teachers, the Estonian one and the Russian one, had a shouting match in the staffroom that nearly came to blows. And by now he’d begun studying Estonian diligently, although he still found it difficult, and he didn’t use it at home with his father. To be honest, he didn’t speak much with his father at all.
Anyway, what would a true Estonian man have to say to a Russified spook?
Chapter 12
It had already gone five when Ervin, Tarts and Pille appeared through the cellar door; Anton had to go straight home. They didn’t know what Indrek wanted to tell them, so they’d kept him waiting. They were in a jolly mood when they arrived since their collection jar had ended up quite full by the end of the day, much fuller than the previous week.
“It started raining in the end,” Tarts said. “We’ll probably have to make some new posters. And paint some new freckles on to Ervin.” They all laughed. At least they now had enough money to buy some card and paints.
Once they had heard out Indrek and Raim they realised that they had much bigger problems on their hands. Things were pretty bad. But then, although they didn’t forget their friend for a moment, the customary tone started to return to their conversation: that jaunty banter, that self-belief. If only they could believe it within themselves, then they really could be free, right here and right now.