glyptotek

THIS IS THE GLYPTOTEK, or Glyptoteket, the leading antiquities museum in the Nordics. There is a bright atrium here, with indoor palms, sculptures of Roman generals, stone noses missing, statues of Greek goddesses, their legs and arms broken off. There is a gift shop with art deco journals and at the café, you can get a delicious chicken salad on a croissant and fresh orange juice. This is where I spend my days admiring Baumann’s painting of Mother Denmark.

It was here that my old school chum Thwaits arrived with his Lebanese wife Carla. Thwaits had gone gray in the years since I’d last seen him. He was wearing sunglasses. Carla had never really spoken to me, though I had known her most of my life. She was always apart, in a different circle. They had twin girls, both of them still infants, but they both looked Japanese. Japanese twins. Had the ancient Phoenicians been trading with the Okinawans? They were swaddled in fluffy wool coats. But how to get to the second floor? I had forgotten about these things, the logistics of transporting children. I offered to assist them. I took one of the twins.

We went up.

At the same time, on the top floor of Helsinki Central Station, my daughter and her professor were waiting for me to arrive. I was supposed to interview the professor. He was reviewing his notes in his office, a modern, warmly lit, comfortable space. The professor had gray hair, so gray it almost had a purple tinge to it. He looked like Björn Ulvaeus. He began dictating notes to my daughter. She was wearing a wool sweater and writing as Professor Ulvaeus dictated.

In Copenhagen, we climbed the steps, passing other old schoolmates. MacDougal was there too. He was also wearing sunglasses. Why was half of the Class of ’98 in the Glyptotek? Were sunglasses the mark of the embittered middle-aged man? “Did you see MacDougal?” I asked Thwaits. “Oh, yeah, I saw him in the lobby,” he said. Thwaits had been carrying one of the girls all this time. When we reached the second floor, I handed the other twin over to Thwaits and Carla said, “Come with me, I want to show you something.” What could it be? Was it the impressionist paintings of Gauguin? He had lived in Copenhagen with his wife Mette Gad.

“Here,” said Carla. She pulled my hand and placed it within her black blouse. She continued walking, her chunky black hair bobbing about. “But we can’t,” I told her. “You’re with Thwaits!” But it was awfully tender and soft and smooth underneath that black blouse of hers. I felt myself relax, I felt myself give in to touch. Give in, give in, a voice said. Remember Christmases in Copenhagen? And the sounds of brass bands playing Christmas songs on the Strøget? And Christmas lights dangling? Carla just kept walking. In Helsinki Central Station, Professor Ulvaeus was dictating. My daughter was wondering where her father was. Where was he?

to maine

THE OLD MAN had been working on the plane for months. It was his own design. He spent hours sanding its wings in a brick building on the North Fork the locals called the airplane factory. He was like a Newfoundland shipbuilder of old, constructing his own flying machine in that prodigious, determined manner that is common throughout Yankeedom. To test the new aircraft, he had selected me and a red-haired woman, who were to fly it over the Long Island Sound up through Connecticut and Massachusetts and up into Maine. Of course, I said yes. There was nothing better to do.

But why Maine? The old man didn’t say. He was actually a mechanic during the working hours, of solid build, hands like metal dustpans. One day, it was ready. I bought protective outerwear at the local marine supplies store, I made sure to bring my phone charger, some snacks, a good book to read for when we landed. If we landed. It was a misty day, and I wondered how we would even be able to find Maine if we couldn’t see it. And how were we supposed to land? In some farmer’s cornfield? “Don’t worry,” said the red-headed woman. “Leave that part to me.”

She was wearing her flight jacket and a leather cap with goggles. She looked like Lucky Lindbergh. But who would sit in front and who would sit in back? That part was never decided. Who was the pilot of this wooden aircraft, cut from planks of beech and pine? She sat upfront; the wind was puffing her red hair about. We were set to start from the top of Radio Flyer Hill in New Suffolk. And like that, the plane rolled down the hill and smoothly transitioned to the air, gliding swiftly over the whitecapped waves of the sound. The wind took us higher and higher, and soon I could see the dark pines of New England, standing around like old farmers.

The old man sat by his radio, waiting eagerly for our radio transmission from Maine, sipping a celebratory glass of scotch whiskey. What would we do when we landed in Maine, me and the red-headed pilot? Where would we go? We had no place to sleep; no one was waiting for us there. Maybe we could find a barn nearby and dream off the thrill of flight in a warm hayloft.

strawberry banana

A TROPICAL BUNGALOW. Somewhere with rocky coves, sun-bleached white churches, palm trees, chattering lizards. Klaudia stands opposite me in a spare room. Dark wooden floors, a high ceiling with a fan spinning round lazily as if the electricity was just turned off. Another power outage. Light splashes through the windows, catching on her tufts of gold hair, like strands of water reeds. She is illuminated, her blue eyes are smarting as if she has been told the secret of the universe, too vast to even comprehend. “It’s just,” she whispers. “It’s just …”

We kiss. “I have something for you,” I tell her. From my pocket, I pull out a banana. She falls to her knees immediately, slowly peeling back its yellow skin, pulling its pink fruit into her mouth. “I love bananas,” she says. “And this one is so sweet and ripe.” “I picked it fresh this morning,” I tell her. “Just for you.” “Delicious,” she says, devouring it. A pearl of a tear rolls down her cheek.

For whatever reason, she is wearing a tan business jacket. A pink short skirt. Later, I escort her to a seat on the balcony. I push her gently into a seat. I say, “You really need to relax, Miss De la Gardie.” With that, I remove the skirt. “Wait,” she says, pressing a finger to my lips. “I also have something for you.” From a nearby cooler, she pulls out some strawberry ice cream. She holds it between her legs, and I begin to taste it. It’s the best I have ever had, even better than the flødeis I had in Skagen, watching the North Sea flow into the Kattegat, the faint smell of smoked fish everywhere, even in the ice cream, just like the one melting now on my tongue.

Later, we relaxed by watching television at her home. My daughter was there and so was her mother. Was this Eurolaul? Klaudia was curled up on a couch like a fat and content cat. At that moment, there was a knock at the door. In walked the Estonian police in their blue uniforms. Her ex-boyfriend was led in. “It’s time for your daily assessment,” one of the policemen said. They handcuffed him to two hooks on the wall and began to draw blood. They scanned him with instruments I had never seen before. He was silent as they carried out these procedures.

“Toshiro Makimura,” the police said. “You are under court order to remain still while we collect evidence in your ongoing case.”

Her ex blinked at the police and muttered a few curses under his breath. A yakuza. Why had she fallen for a Japanese yakuza? Klaudia had a good head on her shoulders and a good heart in her breast, but she was continuously drawn to these sinister, underworld characters. “He reminded me of my stepdad,” she once told me. “Well,” I announced, “I think I need to get some fresh air.” I stepped outside the house; the sun was setting in Estonia. There was a lovely orange and purple streak across the horizon. It fell among the EU-mandated recycling bins and new, EU-funded streets. A faded poster of Kaja Kallas was peeling from a cement garage.

At that moment, a silver car roared up. It was a 1970s Lincoln Continental, or some model that looked just like one. The car nearly mowed me down but stopped a few centimeters from my legs. My back was pressed up against the Kallas garage. A Japanese man with his hair dyed orange stuck his head out the window. He said, “Don’t fuck with Japanese,” and then roared into the falling sun. This was my new lot, the dangerous life of sex with a yakuza woman. Inside, Klaudia sat carefree on the sofa, watching Eurolaul. Her yakuza ex was still being probed and bled by the Estonian police. My daughter sat at a table, assembling puzzle pieces. Klaudia stretched and yawned a big cat yawn.

hail satan

‘I DON’T KNOW ABOUT YOU,’ my father said, ‘but I could really go for some burgers and fries.’ Together, we rounded up the troops: me, my three daughters, and a small toy poodle named Frodo, and began our walk into town. It was a cool, shadowy evening in America; the sidewalks were paved all the way down to the major intersection that doubled as the town center.

In reality, there was an old Presbyterian church, the Apple Bank, the new and improved firehouse and some commercial buildings. Starbucks, the true epicenter, was a way off in another shopping center. That was where others gathered to mingle and report on whose kid got into what Ivy League and thus was assured a swift pathway to financial success and class prestige.

When we reached the Long Island Burger Kiosk, we could see a pre-election pep rally was taking place. How had we not heard about this? How had we wandered in here? It was a vast hall; all its seats were full. On stage, there sat a line of recently fired generals. Admonishing them was the Secretary of War Pete Kegbreath, his silver pompadour glistening in the lights, his face sparkling with sweat.

He was saying, “To all of you, I would ask, ‘Cui bono?’ Who is benefitting from woke transgenderism? I’ll tell you who, the plastic surgeons who cut off men’s dicks and call it ‘gender affirmation surgery.’ The hormone makers, who sell you estrogen!”

With that, he unsheathed his own syringe. “And that’s why we have decided to come up with our own war serum, to counter the effects of transgender wokery. It’s laden with testosterone and other minerals and compounds that every warfighter needs to fight wars.”

He approached one of the generals and injected him with the serum. The old general began to shiver in his seat but otherwise was indifferent to what was happening. In his soul, he had already given up.

When the president came onto the stage, there were cheers and boos. Rory Lapp, the bestselling Estonian writer and poet, was in the middle of the melee. I saw him stand atop a chair, with his pink dinner party sweater tied around his waist, and thrust his middle finger into the air.

Then Rory began to shout, with an Estonian accent, “Fuck you!” Others began to join him. “Fuck you!” From the middle of the crowd, a dreadlocked Rastafarian baker from the small Estonian town of Viljandi stood. He shouted out, “Hail Satan!” The crowds began to shout after him, “Hail Satan! Hail Satan! Hail Satan!” Secretary of War Kegbreath nodded. He injected another general, who began to convulse under the blinding lights on the flag-draped stage.

In the corner, the president was quietly dancing.

The funny thing is, we just watched this go on the whole time, transfixed by the spectacle. Even the little toy poodle watched curiously. Soon our orders of burgers and fries were ready. Crisp East End potato fries, seasoned with sea salt. Is there anything better in this world?

free

THERE’S SOMETHING TO BE SAID for public pools, especially ones like these that are way out in the open, drawing in the rays of the sun. Even the faint smell of chlorinated water is pleasant, as are the bath-warm waters that spread around you. How had we arrived here, and who were these people? There were several tour buses that picked us up at the road stop. I stood in one of them, clinging to a greasy metal pole. The others were newer vehicles; this one was a vintage double-decker, the kind Michael Caine rode in Alfie. What’s it all about, Alfie?

It was standing room only. I held on tight. And then here we were, at this retreat in the countryside. I was lying on my back in a pool. From the surface of the water, I could see a house at the top of a green hill. Just a plain country house. Was this Shrublands from Thunderball? She arrived next, dressed in her brown jacket. “There you are!” she said. She unzipped it and came into the pool in a polka-dot one-piece swimsuit. She was grinning at me the whole time, as if she had at last discovered El Dorado. I was terrified. Remember that night? Remember how you had to think of other women to get through that night? And here she was.

She was coming.

She began to swim my way; on impulse I went to the other side of the pool. I hoisted myself out. She kept swimming my way, with that half-maniacal, half-happy look on her face. “It’s you!” Swimming, swimming. Why wouldn’t she just let me swim in peace, alone? Remember that night? Headache, nausea. Somewhere, The Who were playing “I’m Free.” I’m waiting for you to follow me. No! The rough sound of Pete Townshend’s guitar. Where was it cutting in from? A poolside stereo? The silver eagle moon? And freedom tastes of reality. Run, run, run!

marcos

I SAW MARCOS at a party in the Old Town. I was standing at the top of the steps, and he was coming up. We saw each other just for a moment, but I recognized him right away. He looked just as he did in college. He looked just as he did in his obituary. “Marcos,” I said. “Is that you?”

Before I saw Marcos, I had been kissing a TalTech postdoc from Nigeria named Omolola, or “Lola” for short. She was a woman who knew her pipettes. She spent most of her days in laboratories. There was a clean, cool, clinical edge to Lola. She wore her braids up in a colorful headscarf. She had been showing me some photos on her phone when we began to kiss, just like that. Why it happened, I don’t know. She was my friend Stig’s latest girlfriend, but there was a high level of attrition in his romantic life. Was she a rebound, or was he rebounding from a rebound? She was just one in a series of basketballs being dribbled across some stuffy court.

Lola was an excellent kisser. I wondered how often these spur-of-the-moment make-out sessions happened. Maybe they were going on all the time. The second you left the bank, that young financial advisor was kissing that grizzled old man. Bolt drivers turned to suck face with their latest fare. Flight attendants from Finnair reached over to deliver a cup of blueberry juice and then … There is something about surrendering up to someone, freely, on a whim. One minute, you are at a party, the next you are locking lips with your friend’s girlfriend. Until you see your dead college friend walk by, as if you were in some turn-of-the-century cafeteria.

“Marcos? Marcos? Is that really you?” Marcos and I had been in the same left-wing student group in college. We were card-carrying Young Socialists. He was the son of a Latin American economic policy advisor. After college, he had become more deeply left-wing. Some said he was stockpiling weapons. For an eventual battle royale with the federal government. But when he was about 40, he died. Nobody knew why. Nobody said. We only saw the obituary online, with that smile of his. He looked just like he did now, at a party in the Old Town. “Marcos!” I called to him. “Where are you going? Why are you here?” The Marcos-looking man shook his head, as if he didn’t know who I was. Maybe it wasn’t Marcos at all. No, it probably wasn’t him.

execution

I DIDN’T NOTICE her presence until after the execution. Her father had died well, as well as any man could have died that way. At the after-party for the execution, there were representatives from the various ministries present. They were all well-coiffed and well attired. These executions were turning out to be networking opportunities for the politically ambitious. The wine was poured. The flesh was pressed. You might have forgotten that the guillotine’s blade had once again fallen on a poor man’s shaven neck. What even was his crime?

And there she was, standing off to the side, quietly munching on something. Dulcinea, the daughter of a disgraced ex-aristocrat. “I’m sorry about your father,” I told her. She said nothing. For even in this time of mourning, Dulcinea would still not speak to me. Not a word. Not for years. When I expressed my condolences, Dulcinea stared out into space, as if she was vaguely aware of a far-off vibration. She wore a close-fitting linen dress with a gold sash. Her straw-colored hair was done simply but perfectly in the modern fashion. She was sad though.

Later, when I got on the bus back to Tallinn, I noticed her in the back seat, with her brother slumped over sleeping in her lap. He was only eight or nine years old. She stroked his hair and he slept. It was an awful fate. All of their belongings were spread around in bags and boxes.

Again, I said hello, but she said nothing. I began to suspect that I no longer existed on this plane. It was as if I had died too and not yet become aware of it. The day had a cool gray pallor to it as the bus rolled into Kassisaba. Such a grim and dull day. I could see all the houses along the streets. Life moved briskly forward. People had to go to work. People had to live their lives.

At the next stop, Dulcinea, still in her linen dress, woke up her brother and they disembarked. She realized then, in her glacial silence, that she was unable to carry their things. With panic in her blue eyes, she turned to me and said, “Are you coming with us or not?” I was shocked to hear her voice. It was as if I had fallen through the space-time continuum. Naturally, I said yes.

porquerolles

I HID MYSELF at the top of the stairs in a white lookout tower in Porquerolles. I stood at the top of the metal steps, alive in the humidity, not really knowing what would become of me, or how long I’d remain up there. Good thing Linus and Simone came to talk me down. Linus had the appearance of an Irish saint. Simone arrived with her children. Her hair was long and brown and beautiful and she said, “We love you. Everybody loves you. Please come down.” “There’s no sense hiding in a tower in France,” said Linus. “We all have our bouts, but come on.”

I came down the steps, but when I stepped off the last step, I found myself buckled into a seat in the seventh or eighth row of an airplane. We had just landed somewhere. When I looked out the window, I could see it was some place warm, tropical, with palms. It must have been early evening. I could see the sun setting. Celeste came down the aisle with her daughters. She was dressed in her black dress, her curls bobbled everywhere. She instructed them in her calm motherly voice to watch their step as they disembarked. Could she not see me? We had known each other for years. When had I become invisible? Did I have to pretend I didn’t know her, even when we left Estonia? How long would the invisibility spell last? Until the end of time?

Until the end of time. There was a spark of light and the match lit. Out of a vivid darkness I watched the light as it ignited a candle. Then the woman blew the match out, placed it on the bookshelf, and resumed reading her book. The book was Edgar Allan Poe’s. Was it Annabel Lee? She read out the words in the dark library. The shelves of the library were piled high with ancient volumes. I didn’t know who the woman was, but she looked familiar. She was maybe five years older. There was a touch of the young Grace Slick in her, crossed with Françoise Hardy. She wore a red knit sweater dress that ended above her knees. It was embroidered in gold, with strange, zigzagging designs. Her dark, luscious Wonder Woman hair was half up.

“But our love it was stronger by far than the love of those who were older than we,” she read. She stood, book in one hand, candle in the other. I sat beside her looking up. Then I wrapped my arm around her hips and began to caress her. And so I slipped into delicious happiness.

riverhead

MY FACE PRESSED against the glass; my face pressed against the glass. Again morning, my eyes open, and my face is pressed against the glass. I open one eye, then the other. They are both goopy, the glass has a veneer of sand grime on its outside. The glass is old. In a small font, Made in Czechoslovakia is printed in one corner. Surely, I’ve been drooling all over myself. I must have nodded off after the train left Narva Station behind. Where are we? Rakvere?

“Riverhead,” comes the husky voice over the speakers. “Riverhead Station, next stop.” I sit up. Have I been sleeping so long? Who knows how many hours it takes to travel from Narva to Riverhead on Long Island by train. I notice my old knapsack next to me. A twenty-something man is seated beside me, staring into stale air. He’s sipping from a 40-ounce of Olde English. The train pulls into Riverhead station, and I can see all of those houses that sprawl along the avenues and boulevards. There’s the courthouse, the bank, and I know exactly where to walk if you want to go to the aquarium. In fact, I decide I will head over there first. To see the seals.

As we disembark, I can see two women I know from Viljandi. One of them is Esmeralda. What is she doing in Riverhead? Of all godforsaken places? She is with Birgit, the festival organizer. They are walking with purpose. Maybe they have come here to recruit acts for next year’s festival? Esmeralda is milk white, she’s dressed in a green tank top, and her brown hair is up. She looks like she is sleepwalking. Her eyes are all strange and filmy. I call out to her as she strides in the direction of the aquarium. “Where are you going?” I yell. “Please come back.”

border point

THE NARVA BORDER POINT, the frontier between Estonia and the Russian Federation, the west and the east, the war and the non-war. But it’s a fine October day, with good sunshine, a mostly cloudless sky, a sweet-tasting fresh wind that whips over the invisible line of demarcation, and the dark river waters below that carve one vast landmass from the other.

I stand at the foot of the white Hermann Fortress, but when I look up, I see Montauk Lighthouse. The air does smell strangely of salt. There are seagulls crying along the old stone walls. I enter the lighthouse and proceed through a series of glass doors. The Estonian border guards are at their desks, clad in their navy uniforms, emblazoned with the three gold lions.

Off to the left, I can see a room which, upon closer inspection, appears to be a small Orthodox chapel. Inside, the priest is administering Communion. The candles are burning, and the incense fogs the air, so that even the glass looks foggy. The church is full of old Russian grandmothers and border guards. They are praying quietly. Some are singing. Just then, a border agent comes down the metal steps of the lighthouse, dressed in the light blue shirt of the Russian border guard. She has glasses, dyed red hair. She brushes by me, indifferent to my presence. From the corner of my eye, I can see her name stitched on her breast. Ivanova.

On the other side of the lighthouse castle border station, there is another door that opens into a green yard. The grass is still very green, even though it is October. There isn’t a tree anywhere, a seat anywhere. There isn’t another living soul to be seen or heard. This is the intermediate zone, the no man’s land between the Republic of Estonia and the Russian Federation. I walk about at ease. Then I go back to Estonia, again through the lighthouse. The Russian grandmothers and border guards are still praying peacefully. “Let them pray,” I think.