“Oh yes,” said Konrad with a nod. “I don’t drink myself any more, but I always have something in for guests.”
He went to the kitchen and after searching for a while came back with a bottle which was a third full of sweet blackcurrant liqueur.
The next morning Konrad woke Ervin at ten so that he could get to Norrmalmstorget by twelve. It had been agreed that he would speak at the demonstrations which took place every Monday, and it was quite possible that someone from the Swedish Foreign Ministry would come to meet the latest person to be expelled. Unfortunately the breakfast at Konrad’s was meagre, consisting of weak instant coffee, sandwiches made with some kind of strong-tasting cheese, and a hard-boiled egg. Ervin hoped that someone would invite him to eat after the demonstration.
There turned out to be a lot of people at Norrmalmstorget and some familiar faces from back home caught Ervin’s eye – poets, probably. Damn, thought Ervin, worrying that they would grab all the attention, but it turned out that he didn’t need to worry, for as soon as people discovered who he was, journalists and activists flocked around him, a couple of important-looking men shook his hand, and someone whispered in his ear that they were Gunnar Hökmark and Håkan Holmberg, although those names meant nothing to Ervin. English wasn’t one of his strong points, but the younger Estonians there were happy to help interpret and he didn’t object, since he assumed (not without reason) that he sounded cleverer in translation. After all, he wasn’t to blame that the occupying regime hadn’t let him get a decent education.
There were two men watching all of this from a distance: one of them a lanky guy with glasses, the other a chubby chap with a moustache. Straight out of a comedy film.
“The vultures are circling,” someone next to Ervin said, pointing them out. Ervin didn’t understand at first. “It’s the Soviet Embassy, look.”
After the demonstration the day got steadily better. The poets were surrounded by a group of Swedes, which was fortunate since Ervin had absolutely no desire to end up in that gang. Instead he was left in the care of the same old dears from yesterday. First they took him to McDonald’s for a burger, then an elderly chap drove him around Stockholm and showed him the sights, and the plan was that some younger guys would take him under their wing for the evening. There was mention of sauna and beers.
Chapter 24
How can you be happy being just an ordinary girl when under your nondescript exterior you feel, with every single cell of your body and in every single moment, the quivering call of the real world? What if since childhood you have never been drawn to the things which everyone else is drawn to, the things they all know the right names for? What if your senses are only touched by the really important things, those things which make you laugh that ringing laughter of yours just before they escape your grasp? Only a slight echo can be heard in response, in old verses, or a song with no words, led only by its melody. Maarja had a beautiful voice, beautiful and strong, but she preferred to sing alone, because she didn’t like to be watched, and she never showed those old verses to anyone. It was impossible to talk about anything important with other people, with all those pointless, sensible people, who knew the current exchange rate for example, but couldn’t understand why Pontu[2] was a perfectly good name for a teddy bear. She was not at all embarrassed by her pictures, each of them was just an experiment after all. She strove to capture the whole world in them, everything which passed before her eyes; she knew that then she would succeed in replacing the outer film which concealed the true light with a form that at least approximately represented it. So what if her creations were also far from perfect? And if they took so much time to produce? If only she could simply wipe away the detritus of everyday life which obscured the colours from view, just as if she were cleaning dust from a windowpane.
Maarja did not like having to walk quickly because she wanted to be able to forget that she had a destination to get to, to be fully aware of the space she inhabited at any given moment. So she had learned to allow plenty of leeway whenever she had to get somewhere by a certain time.
Like today.
Because sometimes everyday things could force their way in. You could be lying in high grass and looking at the sky, but then they would come and bury you under a mound of earth, nail you shut inside a tiny box from which you would never escape, and you would be left to your eternal repose with the earthworms.
Then the only thing you could do is stand up tall. The sky won’t disappear anywhere if you don’t.
And this thing that she was about to do was her only way of not disappearing.
But that wasn’t the sole reason. It gave her a buzz too, the same as the buzz she got jumping from a great height. Like at the youth camp in Poland last year. She and Helle had been hanging about chatting on the bridge there, and some guy had walked past and said that the river water was so cold that you would be crazy to go for a swim. And so without giving it any further thought they had both turned round, lifted their legs over the railing and jumped in, fully dressed and full of the joy which comes from being free to be themselves. There was so much laughter that evening as they dried their wet clothes by the stove, and their sandals still felt cold and damp against their feet the next morning.
That same buzz when you reach out your hand and you don’t know if it will break you. But at least you know that you’re alive.
Maarja liked walking in Kadriorg Park, popping into the museum, and then going to the Black Swan café for a cup of coffee and a teacake, which was superb there. The old dear at the museum ticket office let her in at the discount rate when she showed her art class student card, even if she wasn’t really supposed to, and all the old grannies who sat and guarded the pictures knew her face by now.
And so today wasn’t really very different to any other day… if it weren’t for that little package containing three rolls of film inside the large handbag which she had bought on her trip to Poland – because you couldn’t get ones like that in Estonia.
Oskar Meering’s large statue of Kalevipoeg was in the far corner of one of the rooms. Maarja approached it warily. The idea of leaving a secret package in a museum seemed completely crazy, but when she got closer to the sculpture she found herself admitting that there might be some sense to the plan. Kalevipoeg was wading through the waves of Lake Peipus carrying planks of wood on his back, and there was a sizable cavity between the rough water surface and his knees, which would only be visible to someone bowing down right next to the sign with the sculptor’s name on it, and only if they knew what they were looking for. Still. Maarja looked around. One of the grannies was sitting knitting a sock by the opposite wall, from where she could also see through the partition door and keep an eye on the neighbouring room. Kalevipoeg was actually outside her field of vision, and let’s be honest, it would have been difficult to steal that hefty sculpture without anyone noticing. Was there an alarm system? Come off it.
But for Maarja it seemed like her every movement resounded through the empty room like the crack of a whip, or a vase smashing into little pieces.
She opened her handbag: snap.
She looked for the package of film: rustle, rustle.
She kneeled down and her knees announced: crack.
And then she dropped the packet of film into the hollow behind Kalevipoeg’s knees, leaving the edge of it just visible.
Plunk.