STEN GOT A NEW APARTMENT overlooking the capital city. I went to visit him to inspect the place with Riken, the Japanese mountaineer. We stood in a bare white kitchen lit by a skylight. There were unfamiliar varieties of Entenmann’s cakes that contained distinct Northern European flavors on the counter. Who knew that Entenmann’s made pumpkin cakes or ones flavored with lingonberries or cloudberries? I read and reread the ingredients on the boxes.
Sten was discussing with great detail the placement of a couch with Riken, but Riken was of another opinion. Riken rested an elbow against the mantle of the fireplace and nodded up and down as if studying the room and searching for an answer. Sten and Riken often got side-tracked by these kinds of minor details, such as where to put a piece of furniture, or for how long one should sauté the onions. “Hey, Sten,” I asked. “Can I try one of these cakes?” “Knock yourself out, man,” he said. Then he turned back to Riken, “The light from the window is best over here. The couch should go there.” “You’re wrong and you know it,” Riken countered him.
Sten’s girlfriend Pille-Riin stood all this time next to the couch in question with her arms folded and a particularly stiff-upper-lipped, “keep calm and carry on” expression on her face. She looked like a British nurse. Well, an attractive one, if such attractive British nurses still exist. Sten and Pille-Riin had acquired a bulldog in their time away from Estonia and the animal was pacing the apartment as Riken and Sten argued over the placement of the couch.
The dog ran over and licked Pille-Riin’s hand as she waited patiently.
After that, someone came into the apartment and cried out, “narcs!” You should have seen Sten’s face curl up in panic. “Everybody out!” he shouted. “Quick hide!” “What’s wrong?” I asked. “The cakes! The cakes! The cakes are all spiked with drugs!” “They are?” I said, with some cake crumbs on my lips. “Shit.” “Yes, out. Out!” I ran out of the building, only to glance down the street at Tallinn in the mist. It looked different, almost like Gothenburg, or some random Dutch city I had never seen before but knew existed. Rows and rows of red-tiled roofs with some sad-looking skyscrapers in the distance. Sten said he liked this part of town because he could get in and out of the city in a jiffy. Unlike Kalamaja, which had only one road in and out. This choice spot was being put to the test as we all fled the Estonian drug police.
I lost track of the others, of course, ambling across a rye field into a forest. I clambered over an old stone wall, found a sandy spot and began to bury myself in the moss and dirt. If I covered myself well enough, the drug police would never find me. Not long after though, I could hear Sten’s voice coming my way. He was being escorted by several Estonian police officers. He led them right to my hiding place. “There he is,” he said, pointing me out. “What are you doing, man?” I said. “I don’t want to go to jail!” Sten frowned. “It’s no use, man,” he said with a sorrowful voice. “They already know everything about us. The jig is up. We’re all going to jail.”
north! 