VIIRATSI is a community on the margins of Viljandi. On one hot day in July, there was nothing but blue in the sky and it’s fields and parks were green and sun-kissed. Coming down the road from the mechanic’s shop where I left my car, I noticed a white cat that peered at me for a moment, then disappeared into the overgrown brush that had sprouted up between rows of abandoned garages. I waded into the growth, pushing aside flowers and weeds, searching for my little white friend. This was kind of like Alice in Wonderland, I thought. White cats. White rabbits. Where did the cat go? The garages were from the Soviet era, made of white bricks from the factory up north. Someone had built them, maybe in some forgotten summer in the 1970s. Now they were in ruins and the windows were shattered. Just more leftover Soviet crap.
Between the garages, there was a concrete platform. I stared at the platform for a while and couldn’t understand for what purposes it had been built. It looked almost as if one could land small aircraft on it, but that couldn’t happen here, could it? There was just no use for such a thing. What was this place? I heard something rustle behind me and turned to see if it was my friend, the white cat, but it was just a bird. The cat was gone, I decided. I returned to the road and the way back through Viiratsi. The mechanic said he would call me when the car was fixed.
I came down the hill to the park and its two large ponds. On one side of the park, a man was seated on a bench. He wore a black coat and held a book in his hands. I nodded to the man, but he did not return the gesture. Then, as I came closer, I discovered that his eyes were closed. I could see the sweat on his brow, hear him snore. He was asleep. I decided not to disturb him.
I followed the path by the ponds to an empty bandstand overseeing dozens of benches, all of them empty. At some point, a concert might have been held here, yet there was no sign of life. The bandstand was made of new wood and the benches too had been cared for. The smell of freshly cut grass was in the air and I sat on the bandstand to rest. The pond waters were still.
Where was everybody?
The community of Viiratsi is ancient. One can even find the name “Weiratz” on old maps from the 18th century. Today, you would not guess its age. Even the old apartment blocks have new facades. Many homes have lush, organized gardens. There are swings and terraces and grills. Not a few would qualify for Estonian Home of the Year. In a nearby park on most days, children experiment with skateboards and lick ice cream. Somewhere a radio plays American pop songs. Even here the names of Demi Lovato and Selena Gomez are known yet we are far from the streets of Los Angeles. This place is so clean, so safe, so cared for, that the only bad thing that could be said about it is that it is almost too nice, too quiet. Almost every property fits into a tight grid. It reminds me a bit of those Playmobil toys, where the scenes of life are reduced to a home and garden, or an ice cream truck, and the toy people have toy smiles.
At the bus stop in the center of the village, I noticed one of those new, blue local transport buses that have bright yellow folk patterns painted on them and say V I L J A N D I M A A. The bus was just standing there, idling, but there was no-one on the bus, and there was no driver. I suppose he had just stepped away to use the toilet or buy some peanuts from the Viiratsi Konsum. After waiting for the driver to return, I walked on, the bus still idling behind me.
I wondered what had happened to the driver and started to think that maybe a UFO had just kidnapped everybody in Viiratsi. It was just too quiet. I came up Sakala Street puzzled by the silence. At the crest of the hill, I at last spied sweet Viljandi across the lake, with its wooden slums all piled up on top of each other. Viiratsi was over here, clipped and cared for, Viljandi was over there, disheveled, chaotic, and unruly. There was no question to where I belonged.
***
A few days later, I received the message that the car was ready. This time I came down Kõrgemäe Street. Then I turned up Tartu Street and took it all the way down to the highway through the wetlands. Once I reached Viiratsi, I took a footpath back into the silent town.
The old man was no longer asleep on his bench by the two ponds. This time, there was no one in the park at all. I looked up at the sky and saw the trail of an airplane but heard no engine roar. All was very calm and quiet again. I looked around for my white cat, but only encountered a black one, running out from behind one of the garages. He was in a hurry and didn’t look up.
At the mechanic’s shop, I discussed payment with the owner, a cheerful type in overalls. On the wall, there was a poster of a woman with chestnut hair peering over at us from her bed. She looked like a French woman, I thought, with dark eyes. Her skin was flushed, and she looked satisfied, as if she had just made love. I looked into those eyes, but when I imagined them looking at me, all I sensed was indifference. As I turned to leave, something else caught my eye. A white cat was standing beside my car. It eyed me curiously. Hadn’t we met before?
“Unbelievable,” I told the mechanic. “This is the same white cat that I saw here the first day.”
“Oh her? Don’t be fooled by the cat, man,” said the mechanic. “Viiratsi is full of white cats.”
Written June 2018
north! 