quiet days in narva

BUT IN NARVA, I AM NEXT. I’m next here in line in the lobby of Hotell Inger, where I am met by a young woman named Valeria who has obvious Slavic features, as if she was Gorbachev’s granddaughter.

She has dark hair, a pale complexion. It’s hard to say what makes her stand out. Is it the lips? The eyes? The whole road to Narva I’ve been nervous because I don’t know a lick of the Russian language. It reminds me of when I was in Beijing and I had to order food. Of course, I know some phrases, but these aren’t the most polite ones, so better not to use them. But somehow I have to communicate. To my surprise, my questions in Estonian are met with Estonian responses. With an accent, naturally, but I also have an accent. How is it possible? I think. This is the most Russified city in Estonia. Almost everyone who lives here is a Russian speaker. But in my hotel, Estonian is just fine. I’m given a key, a room, and the right to swim for free at the Narva Ujula.

My room is on the fifth floor on the left. Clean, standard, comfortable. From the window, you can see the old town hall or raekoda of Narva, and the Hermann Fortress as well as some streets, where a few Narvans are visible strolling about at night. And there, just beyond, lies notorious Russia. The Russia we all fear. Russia is sleeping now and Narva is going to sleep behind it, as is the rest of Estonia. So I too fall off to sleep. It was a long trip to get to Narva. By bus from Viljandi to Tartu, from Tartu through Mustvee and Jõhvi. Even when you leave the Sillamäe Bus Station, Narva still feels far away, always in the distance.

The area around Narva is dotted with birch trees, hay fields, and swamps. The landscape is empty, only a few houses catch one’s eye. Maybe that’s why I have only visited this border city two times in the last 20 years. This is my second time in Narva and the first time that I will spend the night here beneath a warm blanket, my head resting on a soft pillow. Why is traveling by bus so tiring? But whatever. Good night, gorod Narva. I’ll see you in the morning.

WHEN THE SUN RISES, the mornings in Narva are lovely. The sun appears from the east over the town and is visible behind the tower of the raekoda. It feels as if the light has arrived directly from Japan. I sit on the first floor of the hotel in its restaurant and listen to the conversations of the other guests — Estonian businessmen, a Spanish couple, and maybe some Chinese? There are even a few Americans here, someone is saying something about Indianapolis. I don’t feel like introducing myself to them. God knows why they have traveled out here to Narva. I have my own suspicions that any foreigner who winds up in Narva simply must be a spy.

The hotel is located on Pushkin Street and faces a gray apartment building, the kind known as a khrushchevka, because it was built when Nikita Khrushchev was the Soviet premier. In front of this building walks a young Narva boy on his way to school. I take a sip of coffee. Why did I even come to this place? That’s a good question. In January, when the status of Greenland was in the news, I had a dream that a summit was held at the Hermann Fortress and Marco Rubio, JD Vance, Kaja Kallas, and Lars Løkke Rasmussen were in attendance to discuss Greenland’s future. In the dream, I was also dispatched to cover the summit, but before I was about to enter the fortress, I encountered the Estonian poetess Kristiina Ehin in a blue dress, who invited me to sit with her and read the poetry of Lydia Koidula. And so we did.

After this vision, I decided that I had to go to Narva. Narva was waiting for me. It was speaking to me in my dreams. Immediately, I wrote to the Narva Collehge, which in turn invited me to attend a conference in honor of the national writer, Anton Hansen Tammsaare. Naturally, I accepted the offer.

But that was just one reason for visiting Narva. The other was that I needed to get away from it all, to take a little vacation from myself, so to speak. In Viljandi, where I live, I feel like a hamster caught in a wheel at times. The same feelings, memories, thoughts. The same streets, people, problems. The same old stories haunting me. Not like Narva was like some place from the novel Eat, Pray, Love, a city where one could find himself, but I had a feeling that it would be a good idea to travel as far as I could while still remaining in Estonia. Narva seemed at that moment the ideal destination.

Estonians have a weird relationship with Narva. In some ways, Estonians consider it to be a part of their homeland. At the same time, nobody really wants to come here. Maybe to some conference, or to a concert, or just to have a look at the castle and take a few photos and then drive back. As far as I understand it, the Estonian version of Narva’s history goes something like this. Once upon a time, Narva was an Estonian city. There lived mostly Estonians, who sang national songs, danced national dances, and ate fried Baltic herring. Everything was fine. But then came the war and the Russians bombed Narva’s beautiful Old Town into dust and Estonians were not allowed to resettle there. The Russians built atop the rubble some ugly apartment blocks and moved in. Now there’s not much to do or see there.

“There’s nothing there,” I was warned ahead of my travels. “Everything was destroyed in the war.”

After doing my own research though, I have come to understand that it was exactly so. The statistics reveal, for example that in 1897, about half of Narva’s inhabitants were Estonians and half of them were Russians. In 1934, about 65 percent were Estonians and 30 percent were Russians. Had I come to visit Narva in 1926 instead of 2026, I would have had a similar linguistic experience.

The Soviet Union did bomb the city in its war against Nazi Germany. Actually, both sides destroyed the city, but the coup de grace was the Soviet bombing in March 1944 which took place the same week that I happen to be here, drinking coffee. The Soviet Union did not value old architecture. When given the choice to save what was left or just bulldoze it, the Soviets chose to toss the old Narva into the dust bin. The same thing happened in Tallinn, by the way, where the Soviets razed the ancient cemetery in Kalamaja in 1964. The Soviets wanted to build a red future, where smiling Gagarins would fly through the cosmos, sharing the joys of Communism with the aliens.

After the war, a great number of people moved to Narva from all over the Soviet Union. In addition to Russians, there were many other nations. By 1989, more than 80,000 people lived here. At the moment, there’s just 50,000, and many of these are 50 plus. Where do people go when they leave Narva behind? To Tallinn, I am told, but also Helsinki, London, and Paris.

This might be one positive thing about the city. In Narva, I feel like a kid. Later, when I step into Lidl to buy some toothpaste, I noticed that I am surrounded by pensioners who are looking for the best deals. Peanuts just €1.8. Don’t you want some cheap shampoo? They whisper to their friends and relatives in their phones. Harasho? (“Good?”) Harasho! (“Good!”). In Viljandi, the site of the Culture Academy, as well as in Tartu, with its universities, I feel like a real dinosaur who was born in the wrong century. I don’t even dare tell people there that I was born in the Seventies. Sometimes I lie, but more often, I just declined to give my age. But here in Narva, I feel like I’m still a boy.

Narva’s Lidl supermarket is like something from another universe. As if a spaceship has landed here in town. Long escalators, everything made of metal and glass. When I walk toward the river, I can see that the city hasn’t completely recovered from the war. Eighty years later and the scars are around every corner. Vast empty spaces between buildings. Into one of them has been constructed a new playground, where young Narvans are busy playing. My first morning in Narva is cold and brisk, and everyone is still wearing winter coats. They all seem so happy though that I have to pause and take a photo of them. No matter how hard it tries, war can never really snuff out people’s souls. I watch the young Narvans and they give me hope.

LATER I STAND BESIDE the Hermann Fortress and watch the Estonian flag dance against a blue sky. At the same time I am listening to the soundtrack from the film From Russia with Love. Narva seems so ideal for espionage, the perfect spot for swapping secrets. In the old Cold War movies, I would meet my contact here to obtain some stolen microfiche. Unfortunately, no one from MI5 is here to meet me today, and it seems Kristiina Ehin didn’t show up either.

Buts o what. I like being here, I like the way the sun shines and how powerfully the river flows by. I am aware that being on the border is serious stuff and that Russia is so dangerously close, but I just can’t take it too seriously. The people on the other side of the river at least look somewhat normal. Someone is fishing in Ivangorod today. I stare at the Ivangorod fortifications and can’t say exactly where I am, culturally. Old ladies greet me with Privet (“Hello”) but there’s some kind of Scandinavian flavor to the place thanks to this castle. Nearby there is also the famed “Swedish Lion” memorial to the victims of the Great Northern War. I keep walking along the river until I reach Kreenholm. I have always wanted to see this old factory complex with my own eyes.

How many Europeans know that Ursula von der Leyen’s ancestor, Ludwig Knoop, founded the Kreenholm Manufacturing Company in 1857? odd to think that Kaja Kallas and Von der Leyen are colleagues these days, so that Estonians and Baltic Germans are running the European Union. These old friends are at it again. “Let’s do it like we used to do it, Kaja!” This old abandoned factory is part of the story. Europe starts right there. I have heard through the international press, echoing (successful) Russian talking points, that “Narva is next.” Originally, this meant his next target, but the Estonians have repurposed it to make it sound like it will become the latest, trendiest place. A better slogan would be just this, “Europe starts here.” Maybe someone is already using it?

When Von der Leyen visited Narva, she also came to Kreenholm. There are photos of her taken on that day. She looks like a little girl standing in front of the factory. “All of my childhood stories started here,” she said. Nearby brick buildings, that once belonged to the factory complex, remind me of Glasgow though. Later, I am told that Knoop was inspired by British architecture. Where even is this place? Russia? Estonia? Denmark? Scotland?

Nearby, I discover some more extraterrestrial Soviet architecture. At least that’s how I refer to it. There are great white columns, a collapsed roof. What even is this thing? The Vassili Gerassimov Palace of Culture? I look it up. Gerassimov was a worker at Kreenholm who led a strike in 1872. Here stands his palace, although he never dwelled in his palace, because he died in Yakutsk.

There, across from the palace, a young Estonian woman is pushing a baby carriage, with the tot tucked safely within, sound asleep. The weather has changed, and now a moisty, freezing wind is blowing against us and toying with the woman’s hair. She’s dressed all in black and her skin is very white. It’s strange to hear Estonian spoken in Narva. She must be a local. Who else would take a baby for a walk here on such a day? There are about 1,500 Estonians living in Estonia these days. One of them is still an infant.

Later at the Rimi supermarket, I encounter another Estonian woman with a child. They are buying food and the child is complaining that he wants more candy. Classic. The woman looks like an Estonian, she’s obviously an introvert. With that sweater and those jeans, she might as well be from Rakvere. People coexist here peacefully. The Russians are not arrogant at all, at least the ones I interact with in the store. And when I have a problem, the Rimi cashier comes and helps me right away and says “Aitäh” (“Thanks”) and (“Palun”) (“Please”) to me. She even smiles. Rimi feels like a real oasis in this gray, post-Soviet soup. The whole city center is so gray. But in Rimi you can buy colorful Estonian brands and here an advertisement that begins, “Greetings. I’m Koit Toome.” It’s somehow a relief to hear good old Koit’s voice all the way out here in Narva.

THE NEXT MORNING in Narva, I decide to head in the other direction, to the north. According to the map, there’s both a German and a Jewish cemetery there, and these seem like good destinations. At the top of the hill, one finds the Narva Gümnaasium, a modern and new high school. There used to be a woman in my life who attended school here, but she’s long gone, like most of the others. Such are the women of my life, wild adventurers who come and go with the wind. I think about writing to her for a moment, but then I decide against it. Why does she need to see a photo of Narva Gümnaasium. I know exactly what she will say too. “I know all too well what it looks like, thanks.”

From the high school, one can see apartment blocks in the distance that remind one of Sarajevo. On the other side, there is a low-lying neighborhood with an Orthodox church at its center. The church offers the only color, with its gold-yellow tones, because the weather is so cold and gray again. What did it feel like to grow up here like her? I wonder. Especially as an Estonian, a minority in your own country? For a moment, it’s as if I can almost hear her voice.

On my way to the cemetery, I decided to turn to the right. I want to see the river again, to have a look at Russia. Everyone is afraid of Russia. Even my father sent me a message before I left that, “Whatever you do, don’t get too close to Russia!” This here is the last street in Estonia and the European Union. Or at least one of them. The houses are in disrepair, the fences too, and I see more dark windows than I do people. I do start to feel afraid. I’m reminded of the Eston Kohver affair. At the same time, I don’t believe I would be very useful to the Russian regime. I’m not so important. I turn around and a van is waiting for me, from which leap two men, border guards. Light-haired, bearded young Estonian guys. They want to know who I am and what I am doing here. It’s kind of funny to be a writer from Viljandi who just likes to wander aimlessly. Did I forget to mention that I’m actually from New York?

“What are you doing in Estonia?” “Well, I once met a girl from Karksi-Nuia and here I am.” Understood. These young Estonian guys do their jobs well. It must be uncomfortable to work on the border, and with every step west, I feel freer. I am reminded of John Reed, the American Communist, who is buried in the Kremlin but also of Lee Harvey Oswald, who traveled by train from Helsinki to Moscow in the fall of 1959. Upon arriving to the Soviet capital, he promptly informed the authorities of his desire to become a Soviet citizen. Even the KGB thought he was crazy. We Americans are a restless people. I once read a John McCain quote where he said something like, “wherever Americans go, they start problems.” And here I am on the border of the European Union and the Russian Federation taking photos. This same morning when I am walking around Narva, my homeland is bombing Iran.

When I finally make it to the German cemetery, I am greeted by a sign that says that I am not particularly welcome, because some renovation work is underway. The snowy field is full of graves. Standing there, I can read one stone. Beneath it are buried three men. One of them was only 18 years old when he died in 1944. So a young man from Germany was sent here, to Narva, to die. Because the Germans needed more space? Or did they just want to destroy Bolshevism? However you frame it, it’s a stupid story. There are about 10,000 Germans buried here. Across the road, there is a spot that according to the map should be a Jewish cemetery. After looking around, I find there’s no cemetery in sight, just a path into the woods. After the border guard incident, I don’t really feel like getting lost in the forests around Narva. Everything here is just too quiet and covered in snow. An old lady then emerges from the forest, just at that moment. She is wearing a black coat and hat and she doesn’t seem to notice me there. Something about this place is just too eerie. I turn around and head back into town.

I HAVE ALL KINDS of experiences here in Narva. I find some safe spots for myself right away. One of these is certainly the Muna Kohvik at the Narva College. You can get a decent cappuccino there and they play sweet jazz on the speakers. The atmosphere is spacious and light and every visitor can find a corner.

There are students from the Tallinn University of Technology here who recline and socialize in the beanbag chairs in the atrium. They happen to be having a conference here this week and there are international visitors too, as I hear plenty of English spoken. There are ties and jackets. Coffee breaks. On the wall, there’s a poster for the Station Narva festival to be held in September. Triphop godfather Tricky and the Icelandic band Gusgus will headline. Everything is so modern, Scandinavian, and open here. I could be in Uppsala or Aarhus. The ambiance is friendly, lively. People meet and speak in the café, gesturing over its tables. Maybe they have meetings or are just catching up over lunch. How can it be that those war cemeteries are so close by, those crumbling buildings, those serious border guards? Everything here is so nice and light.

On the wall, a slogan is painted in blue that reads, “Estonia’s home in Narva.” Muna Kohvik is my Estonian home here.

My other home is the Narva Ujula, which is located within the Estonian Academic of Security Sciences on Kerese Street. I go swimming in the evenings to get a little exercise in. Even if I haven’t found myself in Narva just yet, I can at least start a new hobby. In this same pool, the women of Narva undertake their evening water aerobics classes. Everything is clean here, everything is new, and I have absolutely no language issues with the people at the front desk. But in the changing room, it’s another story. This is where I take in all kinds of interesting Russian-language discussions. Or rather, these take place around me, and I just pretend like I understand. One night in the changing room, one man even seems to give a speech. I have no idea if he is talking to me or someone else. I watch him as warily as he British adventurer John Smith did the Indians in Virginia when he met Pocahontas. I nod along and smile. When he finishes I say, “Yes. I mean, да.”

One of the other characters in the changing room looks like Khrushchev. White hair, big teeth. He smiles his Khruschev smile and laughs along with the others. He seems like a friendly fellow, this Khrushchev.

DURING THE DAY, I take part in a conference where people only speak of the Estonian writer Anton Hansen Tammsaare. Tammsaare is connected to Narva because he took his school exams at Narva Gümnaasium in 1903. But how did young Anton even get here? Probably not by LuxExpress bus. Maybe he took the train? I am present when a memorial plaque is unveiled to Tammsaare on the old high school. The people gather and speak. Someone plays violin first, and then there’s a group of karmoška players. I should mention that Anton Hansen Tammsaare is my children’s relative. The whole family is so proud of Anton, that he belongs to their tribe.

I hear plenty of Tammsaare’s work at the conference too. I like his prose, it’s musical, playful. When he visited Narva in 1903, it was also a border city in a way, but one with a community of artists. People painted here, wrote, played chess. This is a place that feels like the edge of the world. Strange then that I don’t feel out of place here. If Danes, Swedes, Russians, Germans, and Estonians have all called this place home, then why couldn’t I? If there were just a few more comfortable cafes, some restaurants, new houses, a nice bakery, this would be the perfect retreat. I would return to Narva, just to write. I think others would come here too. It’s no longer possible to save the old Narva, but it is possible to build something new on its foundations. The same vibration is always at play here, and I think it would be possible to restore the soul of Narva, if given a chance.

The Narva River does work its magic, it’s nice just to stand beside it and hear it. The river water is as dark and rich as kali. Each time there’s a break at the conference, I return to the river’s edge, just to stand below the bridge. Young families pose for photos here, their children smoking. Tourists smoke and await spring. People march back and forth over the bridge. Bags, shadows. From one country to another. I understand that borders can be annoying. But I suppose some things in this life just have to be annoying.

On my last day in Narva, when it’s time to leave, I discover that I’m a little sad and I don’t want to go. I’ve adapted quickly here. I understand now that I am just this kind of person who likes to wander around, scribbling in his journal. I guess I have always been something of an observer, even before I met that girl from Karksi-Nuia who became the mother of my children.

Some friends have already written to me, concerned about my whereabouts. Have I moved to Narva? Not yet. But I do like that river. I like those shadows, the fresh air. This place does have value. I can’t say if I have found myself here, but I do feel a little different now. Something new is pulsating away inside of me.

I do feel some relief about going back. I’ve become used to the Estonians’ pace of life, the way they communicate. But where is Narva then? Is it also a part of Estonia? Sure it is, I decide. These kinds of border towns exist everywhere. In northern Italy, you can find towns where people speak German mostly. Narva is like Estonia’s Bolzano, I think as I wait in line for the bus. Our own little Bolzano, something exotic on our side of the border. A place with a kind spirit and plenty of potential. That’s my Narva. Will I be back? In a word, Короче, ühesõnaga. Yes.

An Estonian-language version of this piece was published last month in Edasi magazine.

hotel

IT WAS CALLED the Fairmont Hotel. These words I remember clearly from the entrance way. I had been standing in the parking lot there, for whatever reason, when a black van pulled up and a group of armed men jumped out. Maybe they were border patrol? Or were involved in busting some drug trafficking ring? Or maybe someone had bombed another Tesla? Whatever the case, it didn’t seem like the kind of place you wanted to just hang out. It was a hot day too, and I found the air-conditioned lobby of the hotel offered up cool sanctuary. More men with guns headed in one direction and I headed in the other, passing the many posh hotel guests.

Until I found myself in Annikki’s kitchen, where she was preparing food. I was standing in the dimly-lit space, with my hands on the counter. She was chopping onions and carrots, and at the center of the kitchen a big pot of soup was boiling away on the stove. Annikki had on her blue dress, with its white pattern, so that it looked as if she had clothed herself in a patch of sky. She had been attending various therapy courses and we were talking and talking about relationships, and the onions were sliced and fed into the bubbling pot. She did this in a rather matter-of-fact way, with her blonde hair pulled back and brow furrowed. “But Annikki,” I said. “All we do now is talk. We spend all of our time talking. Won’t you just let me give it to you?”

This produced no word in response, but one light eyebrow arched up as if she was evaluating different service packages at a car wash. Annikki replied, with a shrug, “Why not try?” There was a small bed fitted on one of the kitchen countertops and we lied in it. I felt very warm lying there next to her and my body came to life. It took some real talent to uncover that right breast from its hiding place beneath the dress fabric and the lacy bra underneath. When I at last came face to face with it, I admired it, as one might admire a new find in an ancient Egyptian tomb. This is what she had been hiding from me all this time? Gradually, I sank into it, as one might ease into a bioluminescent bay. All of these secrets rippling before me, making sublime patterns in the water. I heard Annikki sigh. She too seemed to be floating and drifting.

Then came a pounding at the door. I was afraid it was going to wake up her brood of kids. Another knock. A little boy’s voice could be heard from the other room. “Mommy?” he said. “It’s nothing, kallis.” “Open up!” a man’s voice could be heard. “Open up now! This is the police!”

baby

THE BABY was not mine. It was my ex-girlfriend’s baby. I know this because she brought it with her when she came to visit Estonia with her friend (or was she her girlfriend?) They looked alike, two lesbian women from the West Coast with pale faces and orange curly hair. We were standing behind the Raekoda or Town Hall in Tartu on a wet, gray streaky day. Student activities were underway, something like a race or marathon. People lined the cobblestone streets, my ex-girlfriend and her friend included. They were unassuming American tourists. For them this was all just taking in the culture. That’s when she handed the baby to me. “Can you take care of her?” she asked. “We would like to do some sightseeing.”

Sightseeing? I walked across the Town Hall Square to Katla’s apartment house, then up that flight of stairs to her door. Inside, I discovered that its rooms were full of boxes and guests. “Whose baby is it?” someone asked. They were standing around a Christmas tree, having a kind of packing holiday party. They were wearing festive sweaters. “It’s not my baby,” I said, cradling her. “But she sure is sweet.” She was a lovely child with yellow fuzz for hair. And despite being maybe half a year old, the baby somehow had learned to talk quite impressively.

This I found out later when I lost the baby. I had just set her down for a moment in the busy apartment and then couldn’t find her. How could I have lost someone else’s baby?! What was my ex-girlfriend going to say when I told her she was gone? Why was I watching my ex-girlfriend’s baby anyway? That was just like her, you know, to hand all the responsibility over to some fool like me while she went out and got her things done. I raced from room to room, hoping for a sign. Then I heard some happy giggling. From the corner of the back room, I saw something move from beneath a blanket. The blanket lifted and the baby peaked out, chubby and pink. “Hey, silly,” the baby gurgled and laughed at me. “I’ve been hiding here all this time.”

an inventory of souls

IT ALL STARTED with a letter. Handwritten on lined paper in black ink, the letters clear and neat. It had arrived in the mail, my daughter had left it on the kitchen counter, unopened. Inside the envelope, I also found two paparazzi-style photographs of me having lunch with two young Estonian women. One of them was blonde, the other had that famous “potato brown” hair they talk about. They were both thirtyish and well dressed, as they should have been, because these had been interviews for work. Nothing out of the ordinary in the slightest.

The author of the letter had other ideas. “You have been seducing my niece Kätlin and my neighbor’s daughter Tiina!” the writer wrote. “You are commanded to at once cease your lecherous Mediterranean liaisons with these wholesome country Estonian girls!” I rubbed my eyes after reading it, looked out the back window. The house was situated in a wooded area, and in the hollow below the back terrace there was a graveyard, dotted with Victorian-era tombs, which had since been overgrown with moss and ivy. Despite its ancientness, visitors were still passing through this green area to bring candles or flowers to the grave of some ancestor. I watched some of these strangers romp through the graveyard from the window, contemplated the threatening letter, then thought nothing of it. For whatever reason, I was used to threats, just like I was used to living next to dead people. It just didn’t bother me.

Until one day when I came home, only to find the author of the letter sitting in my kitchen, looking nonchalant, as if he owned the place. An older man in an orange raincoat with white hair and a scruffy beard. He looked like an Icelandic sea captain. His eyes were a striking blue color and he had a boyish quality to him, as if he was waiting for his mother to pick him up.

I came into the kitchen and said, “To make things clear, I’m not having an affair with your niece or your neighbor’s daughter. I’m a professional. Strictly professional!” The old man pushed at the air, as if to get rid of the topic. “That’s not what this is about,” he said. “I just wrote that letter to scare you.” “Scare me?” He stood up and began to walk around the kitchen, looked out the window. “Have you ever noticed that this place is different?” he said. “Special?”

“Sure, it’s special, that’s why I live here,” I told him. “Would you mind leaving? My daughter will be home from school soon.” The man agreed to leave, but before he left, he gave me his business card. On it was written just his name. He was called “Jaan Allik.” As soon as he was gone, I called up Vello, who is an old Afghan War veteran and knows everyone in town. I asked him about Jaan. “Allik?” he said through the phone. “He’s an okay fellow, I reckon, but a little off, if you know what I mean. Bit of a strange bird.” Jaan Allik had also been in the Afghan War.

He had never really recovered.

I tossed the business card onto the table and again was done with it. Down in the hollow more strangers were coming and going from the graves. They often wore brown or green coats, and so they blended in with the natural scenery. It gave me the sense that it was a kind of meeting place, maybe for friends or relatives. I was so lost in thought that I forgot all about Jaan Allik.

Until the next day when, while standing by that same window, there came a knock at the door. When I went to it, I saw not only Allik standing there, but a group of strangers, all of them dressed in black, like Orthodox priests. One of them was an Indian woman. She came into the house, leading the others. She did most of the talking. “We want to take over your house,” the woman said. I told her that it was not for sale. “But money is not a problem,” she went on. “You see, we are a special group of people. We call ourselves the Autumn Club.” The Indian woman approached the kitchen window and stared out on the old graveyard. As always, people were coming and going from it, like squirrels. Such a damp place. How had I ever come to live here?

“We help souls transition from one world to the next,” the Indian woman told me. “And this is the perfect place for our club to operate.” “Why?” I asked. Why would anyone need a house for such purposes? It made no sense. “Come here, see for yourself,” she said. The Indian woman gestured down at the cemetery. “So many are still there, seeking peace.” “Seeking peace?” “Yes,” said the Indian woman. Allik stood beside her and other strangers from their peculiar organization. “You could say this place is rich in souls,” she said. Her eyes lit up and she said the words and I noticed she had light gray eyes. “This place has quite the inventory of souls.”

oakland

MY MOTHER bought us tickets to the US, but they were from Frankfurt to Oakland, California. She said it was the cheapest deal she could find. This did result in some quarrelling. I told her I didn’t want to fly all the way to Oakland and then drive cross country. Over desert sands, mountain peaks, rolling plains? None of that. But the tickets to Oakland were booked.

It was all pre-arranged.

I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t a bad deal. I imagined little Oakland down there, gleaming beneath the silvery wing of the plane, the high bridge over the bay. The friendly taxi drivers, the friendly toll takers, those friendly Hells Angels, et cetera. And didn’t you know that in Oakland some families were now trying to live as they do in the country, keeping their own backyard goats? Hipster dads would disappear with their saucepans to collect the fresh milk.

Something unsettled me about the thing. Tickets acquired, with no input from me. I had to sit on that long flight whether I wanted to or not. A long, lengthy flight over half the world, and all of the North American landmass. “It’s only three hours longer than usual,” she said. I suppose I was going to go, and in the end I did. We packed our things and were off in that big shiny jet.

When we got there, I was dead tired. We checked into a boutique hotel on the corner of Bush and Powell. I had missed the San Francisco Bay. Maybe this wasn’t too bad. And maybe we could fly to New York. No need for a perilous road trip. My daughter slept on the floor, for some reason, and there were two single beds, like in those old Hollywood movies. I was in one bed and my wife slept in the other one. She looked sort of like a young Anu Saagim, during her notorious ’03 milk photoshoot. “Oh, you’re not going to sleep just yet,” she said. “Not without a good …” She climbed out of her bed and into mine with enthusiasm. The last thing I remember is those breasts dangling like fruit, freckles in between. Two freckly warm jugs.

That was all.

cemetery

AND SO WE RETURNED to Huntington on Long Island, which is one of the few settlements that could be called a real town on the North Shore and not on overgrown coastal meadow village or a sprawled out ship-building port, but a real micro-city with its own library and its ways and boulevards with names like New York Avenue and Prospect Street. There used to be trolleys running the length of Main Street, gliding along metallic grooves, bells ringing, in the old days, the Model T and Model A days, when the automobile was a luxury and the straw hat ruled. The trolleys inevitably circled around the grand town hall at the end of Main Street.

This vast brick structure, constructed by some post-war — here meaning post-Civil War — architect was still in use when I returned there with an Estonian woman, whose name I could never remember, but who was so keen to see my childhood places, such as the swimming pool at the YMCA, and we walked up the granite steps, where there were long lines of townspeople waiting to see some clerk or process some paperwork. What was her name anyway? Annikki? Tuulikki? In the long lawns that stretched down toward the center of town, some women were at work gardening. One poked her head up from between the bushes and I noticed the embroidered white linen bonnet of an Estonian folk costume. Then I heard lines of Estonian dialogue passed between the women, who were planting the gardens with yellow flowers.

Annikki and I came down the steps and there was a friendly encounter with the Estonian gardeners. “What on earth are you doing here?” She asked. “We came over for the summer,” the woman said. She was dressed in a white, traditional folk costume. It was strange that she would wear such beautiful clothes for such hard work, yet there wasn’t a spot of dirt on her.

The cemetery was next to the town hall, on the other side of a grove of dark trees. There was a long stone wall now erected between these properties, but there were many doors in this wall, which stretched for quite some ways, but most of the doors were sealed, and even from in between the few cracks, I could only hear the sounds of young town hall civil servants talking.

We found our way around to the cemetery, which was where my grandfather was entombed, and his father Salvatore and mother Rosaria, and their fathers and mothers and many cousins.

“This is where they sleep, the old Italians,” I told Annikki. She was a slender girl, with tufts of red hair and freckles. Her hair seemed to be in constant windblown animation. I put an arm around her. Annikki was compulsively curious about the world. But something about this world was off. For when I peered down in the cemetery, I saw the ruins of Rome, the tombs of Pompeii. Crumbling columns, nude statues missing arms and noses, all covered with moss.

“This must be the older part of the cemetery,” I told Annikki. “Where the very old Italians sleep. My relatives are buried in the newer part.” There was a small stone house at the gate, with statues of Apollo and Venus out in front. Out of this house stepped an Italian woman, dark-haired and olive-eyed, some years older than me, her skin a perpetual sun-kissed brown.

She began to speak to me, but in Italian, and I expressed myself to the best of my abilities. Some words fell out. Cimitero, parenti. “Your Italian is just awful,” she said in a turn. “Bruto. Who even taught you to speak our language?” “That’s the thing,” I said, sadly. “Nobody did.”

lost stones

WHEN I MOVED out of the apartment, I discovered the extent of my hoarding over the years. No matter how many boxes of books I moved, no matter how many armfuls of coats and shirts I extracted, the task was endless. I worked day and night and still got nowhere with the thing.

The apartment was in some up-and-coming residential area in Tallinn, like Noblessner maybe, but farther inland, though no place is very far inland in Tallinn. I had outgrown the neighborhood though, it being taken over by hipsters 20 years my junior with tech jobs.

While doing the move, I stopped and helped myself to some refreshing water flavored with effervescent mint at a café bar in the building’s food court. Some kid in a flannel shirt called me an old man for sitting there. ‘Next you’re going to start talking about the Eighties,’ he said.

Outside, I paused in the courtyard to breathe beneath the palatial, intergalactic, honeycomb looking apartment terraces and balconies, made of brick, glass and iron. And that’s when I heard it, the unmistakable sound of the early Stones. The fuzz of the guitar, that stark beat.

But something was strange about this song, for I had never heard it before. It was a bit like ‘Tell Me’ crossed with ‘The Last Time.’ How could it be that I had never heard it? Surely it had popped up in some anthology. But no. Looking up at the brick work, I could see the band, projected high in black and white. Mick Jagger was up there singing, holding the microphone.

Then it occurred to me. This must have been one of Brian’s songs. Andrew Loog Oldham had said that Brian Jones had written a few songs that Jagger and Richards, the primary songwriting team, had snubbed. By Oldham’s telling, Jones’s output had been worthless junk. But girlfriend Linda Lawrence recalled otherwise. She said that Brian’s songs were brilliant.

This must have been one of those lost songs, leaked from the vaults at last, played by Tallinn hipsters from some upper floor pad in the digital future. They were still cool. I was old and in the way, but the Stones were young. Mr. Brian Jones, 57 years dead, still lived on, his music played and played. Some consolation it was to hear the Rolling Stones on that sad day.

lidl

I HAD NOWHERE to stay, so I made a little nest in the corner of the Lidl supermarket with some discounted German pillows and blankets. I rested my head against a display case full of frozen pizzas. It was late afternoon and for some reason the lights had been turned off and the counters were covered with root vegetables, like radishes, carrots, cabbages, and so on, when I saw her there. Dulcinea, in her dark coat, glinting like gold at the end of a cave, talking to a supervisor in a pleasant but slightly pleading way. Then she saw me, sleeping in the corner and came over and said, “Mother says that I have to get a job. She said they have some openings.”

These were the first words she had said to me in three years. A tear ran down a heavy cheek. I had to pause to collect my poise. “Well, there’s a good chance I’ll still be sleeping here tomorrow night,” I told her, from my makeshift supermarket sleep nest. “Maybe we’ll be seeing each other again.” “Yes, it would be quite nice to see you again,” she told me. She meant it.

When she left, there was a special throb in my chest that I recognized instantly as love, and I allowed it to spread to every part of my body and to ache away in unison. What better feeling was there in this life than this kind of undying chance supermarket encounter love? But then I had to get a job and the sad fact is that I wasn’t at Lidl when Dulcinea started working there.

A conference on agricultural biotechnology, held in lower fourth level of the University of Life Sciences. Why did they build auditoriums so deep in the earth? Room 424B. Or was 403B? I couldn’t remember. It was all quite newly renovated, but what was with this green carpeting, the dark wood panelling on the walls? To make covering the conference more challenging, someone had given me a baby to care for, so I was pushing a stroller with the tyke in front. He was wriggling and at times sobbing quite loudly. The diaper had come loose, and his urine fountained everywhere. Whose child was this? He couldn’t have been mine. Way too blonde.

“I’ll get that little boy all cleaned up,” said a woman who came to help. She looked like Tippi Hedrin’s character in The Birds. She swept away with the mystery infant and I spent the rest of the day in the back row of a stale-aired conference room listening to dull talks about agronomy. Later I realized that I didn’t have a change of clothes for the conference. Could I really recycle the same shirt? The same black pair of pants? It occurred to me that somewhere inside Lidl they probably sold decent clothes on the cheap. So I would go back. Maybe I could find something high quality and German, but at a reasonable price. Maybe Dulcinea would be waiting at the counter. Again the feeling swept over me like cool winds across the steppe. And the fields and grasses rustled, whispering, “Love, love, love,” and “Always, always, always.”

kabul airport

BUT WHY DO I love her so? But why do I love her so? But why did I love Dulcinea? The question wrapped around the experience, like paper on a bottle. The more you turned it, the more you saw. Then everything went all zig-zag again and I wasn’t quite sure where I was, only that one piece connected to another — and there was a little boy there — one minor plot twist turned things. The next thing I knew we were landing at Kabul Airport in sandy Afghanistan.

Why were we here? Don’t tell me our band was on tour. But didn’t you know, our new keyboard player had let down all her previous bands? There was a large metallic overhang, like the roof of the stage over the Tallinn Song Festival Grounds. Everything else was underwater. Warm, chlorinated, waterpark kind of blue water. We lugged our suitcases through it, or rather they floated. Floating by went spinning islands of American candies, leftovers from the retreat? Mars, Snickers, Twix, Pringles, take your pick. And what were we even doing here? I grabbed a chocolate from one of the airport waterpark islands and looked up, saw orange. Great glowing comet-like streaks were running the length of the sky. Was it a fireworks display or had the Iran War spread to Afghanistan? But weren’t the Pakistanis also fighting the Afghanis now?

When I got to the hotel, I decided that I had my fill of adventure. I went to the café bar, told them to make me the blackest, darkest, evilest espresso there was. If she was the light, then I would be the dark. If she was wholesome and good, I would bristle with sinister malevolence. This life without her had been a graveyard dead end. Light unto light, dark unto dark, her pure into my pure. I stared down into the cup and it whispered back up to me like a haunted well.

staircases

AGAIN THAT TABLE, worn and soft to the touch, coming into view in the dim light of wherever this was. A bar, restaurant, a speakeasy tavern? The table was long, wide, thick. Two familiar friends sat down next to me, maybe one of them was Matti, a semi-famous, experimental writer, and he said to an approaching waitress in a white blouse, “Get this man a glass of the …” I didn’t hear the rest, but when it arrived, there was a near bowl of something that looked like pinot noir or valpolicella. I pushed the glass back on the table and announced, “For the very last time, Matti, I told you that I don’t drink anymore!” Then, gesturing to the kind waitress in the blouse, I affected a more diplomatic tone and said, “But I will have an espresso, thanks.” “Very good,” she said, and there was some turning and clicking of the heels. Matti, who was dressed all in black, guzzled my wine. His bald head was impressive, emerging from his neck like a boulder on Everest, or the corpse of a mountaineer who had fallen there.

I became aware that there were others around the table, including Violette who was waiting patiently for me. I began to reach for the fabric of her dress and brushed against her chest, ever so slightly, hoping that if I made her blush enough, she would unsheathe one for me. Just a few more pats around the breast and soon I would have one in my mouth, if I could only just lay back, like this? The espresso arrived on a silver tray and I took it and drank. It was hot and frothy, splashing around like waves in the Great Western Ocean. Then I announced to all, that I needed to use the bathroom. I headed for one downstairs, but Violette called after me, “No!”

It wasn’t there anymore, in fact everything had changed. The walls had been retiled, there were boxes of construction materials. I came up to the main floor again and Violette was standing there in her dress. She said, “My company acquired the building and there is no toilet anymore, except one for the management on the top floor, but you can’t go up there.” I made another play for her breasts. What did they look like under there? She had some kind of checker print material on, she reminded me of a tablecloth. Picnic baskets, summer, delicious. She just sort of swatted me away, but there was a happy little grin in there, beneath the hair.

“Nonsense,” I told her. “I’m going to find it. But first, I need my journal.” I took my journal from my bag and began climbing the steps to the off-limits upper floors. These had been demolished too and replaced with a swaying, unstable temporary metal staircase. All around me there were cranes and men in white shirts and hardhats conducting the lifting of materials and scaffolding. They were talking into headset microphones and giving orders and wore sunglasses. The staircase only swayed more and I remembered that I was terrified of heights.

I looked down and Violette was shaking her head, each one of those breasts still locked away, like fresh rolls behind bakery glass. “I told you,” she said. I looked down and saw there was a pool below me, a new pool for the company management who were developing the building. I decided to leap into the pool — I had lost all my desire to find a toilet — and kept the journal aloft as I came down feet first into the warm water. Unfortunately, the corner of this most precious book became wet in the fall. I held it up as I swam back to the restaurant. Violette helped me out. “It will dry,” I told her. “Even the wettest journals can be dried and read again.” Then, noticing Violette’s chest through the dress’s material, I said, “Let’s go sit down together.”