AFTER THE ESTONIAN WRITER Paavo Matsin sold the movie rights to his books Gogoli Disko and Kongo Tango to Christopher Nolan, he found himself flush with cash, and invested in an estate up the Emajõgi River which he christened “Kongo Disko” in homage to his novels.
This was an old manor house that had belonged to the de la Gardie family, which Matsin promptly fashioned into a genteel plantation, modeled on the Greek Revival architecture of the Old South. Wild, anything-goes parties were held there, and Matsin’s notoriety for anything lewd, vulgar, and unbecoming of a European Man of Letters was only enhanced. He also used his plum perch on the river’s edge to engage in export of cotton, molasses, tar, tobacco, and local folk instruments, such as the Hiiu Kannel, which he shipped to a merchant in Equatorial Guinea. There was also a whiskey distillery at Kongo Disko, another solid source of revenue for Matsin Enterprises. King Charles was said to be fond of Kongo Disko whiskey.
There was no road to Kongo Disko though, and the approach was a stony path through the swamps and forests that divided this backwoods outpost from the Tähtvere Spordipark and the Supilinna Tiik. To get there, I had to rent an all-terrain vehicle and roll through the high grasses, being careful not to get upsot by any of the felled tree branches or jagged rocks along the way. It was an eerie, witchy place, and there was moss on the trees. Yet the yard of Kongo Disko was full of partygoers when I arrived, and a group of enslaved laborers from Viljandi were planting the next season’s crop of cotton and tobacco. One could hear their mournful Viljandi slave songs from the fields, and Mr. Matsin descended the steps of the plantation with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He was wearing his black top hat and pince-nez spectacles.
“Welcome to Kongo Disko!” he said.
“Paavo!” I said.
The man winced. “I’m afraid not. I’m not Paavo. If you like, I can take you to see the real Paavo.”
“That’s why I’m here. But I have to say, I am really confused. I mean, you look just like him.”
“Yes, but there are subtle differences, subtle differences,” the man who looked like Matsin said. “See these glasses? The real Paavo doesn’t wear glasses like these. Come. We’ll find Paavo now. Care for a drink?”
“Yes.”
He poured me a glass of smoky Kongo Disko whiskey, and we went around one side of the plantation. A fiddle and banjo duo had just started to pluck out a tune, and from behind, I could see the enormous and unmistakable frame of Paavo Matsin. He was wearing suspenders and a plaid shirt and directing his Viljandi laborers as they loaded ceramic jugs of molasses into a donkey-drawn wagon that would take them down to the wooden river docks for export. The man was perspiring in the sun and looked up.
“Paavo!”
The man squinted at me, and then grinned to the first man who looked exactly like him, the one in the top hat. “But I’m not Paavo Matsin,” said the man in the suspenders. “You’re joking!”
“But you also look just like him.”
“Yes, but there are subtle differences, very subtle differences,” the man in the suspenders said. “For one, Paavo Matsin wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of suspenders.”
“I see.”
“He also does not own a plaid shirt.”
“I also see.”
“Do you want to meet the real Paavo though?”
“Yes, of course. That’s why I came here. We were supposed to talk about literature.”
“Very good. Take him to see the real Matsin then,” the man in the suspenders said to the man in the top hat. He nodded and took another sip of his whiskey. The man in the suspenders uncorked a bottle of molasses. “Before you go, you just have to try it,” he said. I took a swig of the strong, sweet stuff. The man in the suspenders grinned at me. “Oh, I told you it was good. Now you are really ready to see old Matsin!”
The man in the top hat led me back to the yard. From the corner of the property, I watched as a 1916 Model 34 Marmon automobile skidded and bounced over the fields and stones until it reached the edge of a tent, where a bar had been set out for the plantation’s many guests. The man in the top hat led me over to the side of the car. He plucked an umbrella from a bucket. The top hat man opened it in the hot sun and stood ready.
The door opened, and from its plush interior emerged the man I had been seeking all of this time. He looked just like the man with the top hat and the man with the suspenders. They all looked the same. There were only subtle differences between them. Subtle differences. The real Paavo Matsin drew a handkerchief from his front pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. He stared at me and squinted. When he recognized me, he nodded, but only just so.
“Well butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” he said. “If it ain’t the American writer.”
“I made it, Paavo.”
“Good. Come with me. Let’s have another drink.”
At the tent, Matsin informed the bartender to fix him a mint julep, toot sweet.
“But who were those two men who looked like you?”
The bartender slid Matsin his drink and he peered into it. He took a sip and stared at the lawn. “Simple. Those are my pseudonyms,” he said.
“Your pseudonyms?“
“Yeah, pseudonyms. Pen names. Alter egos. Look, Gogoli Disko was not authored by Paavo Matsin, was it? It’s credited to Paša Matšinov. He is the one in the top hat. Matšinov is my butler. Must Päike, ‘Black Sun,’ is credited to Friederich Reinhold Kreutzmatsin,” he went on. “He’s in charge of my export business. Pseudonyms are wonderful. They’ll do anything for you.”
“Kreutzmatsin,” I repeated, dumbfounded. “That man in the plaid shirt and suspenders.”
Matsin just chuckled. “You’re still such a young writer,” he said. “You need to stay at Kongo Disko. Hang out. Learn the tricks of the trade. I’ll school you in the art of dystopian magical realism.” Matsin snapped his fingers at the bartender, who stood ready to serve us both.
“Yes, boss?”
“Villem,” he said. “I want you to fix our writer here a dystopian magical realist mint julep.”
“Sure thing, boss. Anything you say, boss.”
The bartender mixed the drink and slid it across the bar to me. I looked into its murky contents and then took a sip. It was very minty. Paavo was chewing on a stalk of wheat, pondering. From the fields, I could hear the chants and songs of the poor Viljandi laborers. Their sweet lamentations echoed to the river with blues and soul, melancholy and torment.
north! 