periphery

A PERIPHERY, a wilderness, a place of doom, fog, and thick dark forests. There was however a settlement nearby on the margins to which I was exiled to live in a small house. The woman in the neighboring apartment had been there for a long time. She was about my age and had red hair and a black dress. She was an attractive girl and covered in freckles. Her bedroom had old-fashioned furniture, and there were pictures and mirrors hanging on the wall. A lamp glowed in the corner. “Why am I still here?” she complained to me. “I hate this place and I’m still here. I’ve been stuck here forever. I want to leave.” She kicked at the air and turned over.

IN THE MIDDLE of the settlement I later overheard a quarrel between two older women who had been exiled there. Both of them had gray hair. One chased the other down a muddy alley until she subdued and overtook her, kneeling over her with a dagger. It was some kind of disagreement over a decision of the architectural review board, but the garden club and historical society were also involved. Small-town grievances. The rivalry had been going on for some time, and I even was shown footage later of a Memorial Day Parade in the year 2000, which was increasingly looking, in perspective, like a really creepy year. The two old women were much younger then, just going gray, and were interviewed in the local news media. Two community activists (who really hated each other). Such things happen in every small town.

NOT LONG AFTER THAT I arrived to a cafe in Tanzania. I suppose it was along the waterfront of Dar-es-Salaam. It was getting dusk and the city was smoggy, and I could see the jungle trees and big birds flying between them, their black silhouettes against a sinking orange sun. Jerry Seinfeld was there, trying to sell books to some local merchants. He took offense when it turned out these African merchants were also doing brisk trade with Newman, whom he called his arch foe. “Newman,” said Jerry. They were all seated around a table except for Mr. Seinfeld, who was standing. “I don’t think I have to remind you how unreliable Newman is. He’d sell his own grandmother.” Somewhere in the distance, the audience laughed. The African merchants, in crisp white linen shirts, conferred and shared a water pipe. I couldn’t understand their weird language, but I could hear them say, “Seinfeld, Newman. Newman, Seinfeld, Newman.”

It was like a form a Morse Code.

AT LAST THE TRAIN arrived to the Baltic Station in Tallinn and I disembarked with my two youngest daughters. It was snowing and dark, and we stepped over the tracks. We decided to go get some dinner at the Baltic Station Market, which is open until 8 pm. But the way was obscured by a new hockey rink. Who had put a hockey rink in the middle of the Baltic Station? I thought about skating across, but there was a game on. That might not be the best move. It could get violent. How to get around the rink? There had to be a way. If we just walked deeper into Kalamaja, we could get around it. It had been a weird adventure and I was very hungry.