meeting with readers

IT WASN’T THAT LATE, but I was exhausted. It had been a long day, and between the minus temperatures and heavy meal at the German beer house, I was ready for sleep. I went into the rental apartment and made my bed on the pull-out couch. I even turned my phone off, so that I could sleep peacefully. I thought I was asleep, actually, until I heard several people enter the main room of the apartment. “Who’s there?” I called out. “Identify yourselves.” No answer came, but I could hear them all talking to each other. “Who’s there? Who’s there? Who’s there?” I cried. About 25 people then came into the room and sat around me Indian style in the dark. They said they were my readers and that they wanted to know about my new book.

It was an interesting crew of attendees. Sting, for example, was sitting in the front row, looking like he did around the time that he played a bell boy in Quadrophenia. He told me not to let anyone else know about his secret visit to Tartu. Then another familiar personage stood up among the readers and identified himself. “My name is Keanu,” said the dark-haired man. “I am probably best known as the bassist for Dogstar.” “That’s not true,” I said. “You are best known as Ted ‘Theodore’ Logan of Bill & Ted’s Most Excellent Adventure. And what about The Matrix?” “But Dogstar is my true passion!” commanded Keanu Reeves. “Tell us all about your new book!”

I was in my pajamas, so this was kind of an uncomfortable meeting with readers. Later, we went out to tour the city, making stops at the City Theatre and the Botanical Gardens. Much of it was organized by Davča, a bow-tied Czech entrepreneur, former executive at Maersk, and major figure in Baltic Sea trade. A young woman who bore a passing resemblance to the singer Nicki Minaj came along, and would not let me resist her sexual advances. “Please, please, can I be with you!” She wouldn’t leave me alone. “Fine,” I said, “let’s do it right here.” We went into an alleyway, where I began to lick her rather large brown breasts. This went on for some time until Davča popped his head into the alleyway and said, “Hey, you two, no more time for breasts! Keanu, Sting, and the others are waiting!” It was time to go visit the Christmas Fair.

tartu elevator

I DIDN’T REALIZE that there was a cluster of houses in a hollow across from Kassitoome in Tartu. How I had never walked into this secret hideaway neighborhood was a mystery to me. That it had been repossessed by hipsters and eco-hippies was not surprising. I suppose it had once been a little industrial alley of shoemakers and blacksmiths in the old days, but now there were little red brick bungalows and wobbly lean-to wooden huts serving up tropical smoothies and chickpea-flour wraps. Men with well-groomed beards recounted their adventures in climbing Nepalese mountains, or picking avocados in the Southern Hemisphere, or how they got the first of a whole series of tribal tattoos, while their dreadlock-headed consorts flagrantly nursed their babes in plain view and talked about vaccines and Chinese astrology.

At the end of this alley, there was a tall building that opened up on the other side onto Jakobi Street. This served as a newer part of the University of Tartu Museum, but there was some office space upstairs. I walked into the lobby, and took the elevator up, hoping to come out on Jakobi Street on the other side. But instead, the great glass elevator only went higher and higher until it reached the very top floor. It continued to rise, and I could feel the elevator itself begin to come apart. I panicked and held onto a bar, in case the floor collapsed out from beneath me. Then I kicked the door to the elevator apart, as hard as I could. At last, the glass shattered, and a man in a suit came running from the desk of the museum and helped me out. He looked a bit like Steve Carell in his role as “Michael” in The Office. “Michael” apologized for the inconvenience, but I didn’t care. I was just happy to get out of that Tartu death trap alive.

the last time

THE LAST TIME I saw Dulcinea, it was December. It had been snowing for weeks, and even when the sky was clear, it seemed like thousands of little perfect snowflakes continued to flutter down and dance along the breeze. At night, it was the same, and I wondered if it was just the wind passing around the snow, or if it was fresh snowfall. It was cold at night, deathly cold, but I decided to go for one long walk by the lake. I needed to think about a few things.

I was over by the abandoned factory when she jumped me. When she leaped on top of me, I slid and fell. I had never been stabbed in the heart before, especially by a beautiful blonde girl with an icicle, but the icy blade found its mark. I let her cut me, and the steam of my suffering rose up into the air like ghosts. She said a few things, but I could only understand a few of them. She kept talking about how our age difference made her uncomfortable. “Such a big age difference! Such a big age difference!” I reminded her that Donald Trump’s wife was 25 years younger than him. We had a far lesser gap between us both. This didn’t seem to soften her blows. There were more. “Don’t ever write to me again!” “With you, I don’t feel like I’m free!”

I just lied back and took it, like a man, I suppose. I felt like I was having the very life pulled from my body. I curled up with my knees to my chest and I faced the forest. I remember staring at those birch trees, all covered in snow and ice. Dulcinea finally took from me what she had come for and ran off toward town. When I reached up and felt my chest, all I could feel was a bloody wound on the left. My heart was gone. She had cut out my heart! She had cut it free from my body with an icicle and ran with it into the snow. There I was, bleeding out in some kind of agony. This was really the last time. The last time I would cross paths with Dulcinea. I summoned all my strength and stood with my half-frozen aching heartless body. Then I stumbled towards the lake. The way was black and ran by the woods. I kept walking.

To where, I did not know.

the recording studio

I TOOK THE TRAIN into New York. For whatever reason, the dog came with me, and I was carrying a small bag full of some clothes and a change of shoes. These I left somewhere at a playground near The Cube at Astor Place. Then I walked over to the old building on Grammercy Park and took the elevator to the top floor. I was led into the recording studio by the British girl. She said her name was Florence. She was of diminutive size and had straw-coloured hair, and features that immediately identified her as being of or from the Isles.

Something in the eyes, the lips.

The recording studio consisted of a large bed with a white blanket. It was here that we made love. I was surprised that I even could make love, especially to some random British stranger. But her eyes did light up during the lovemaking process. Behind the bed, there was a window that opened up into another room. It looked like it was someone else’s apartment, but also that it hadn’t been touched for a long time. There was dust on all the furniture. “Aren’t you worried they will walk in on us?” I asked Florence. “Please be quiet, love,” she said. “Just keep going.”

When it was over, she got up and put her clothes on. She packed her bag and got ready to leave. The producer and the sound engineer came in. The sound engineer was a Mexican with long hair tucked beneath a baseball cap, and he appeared to be crying. “Hidalgo,” said the producer, “stop your moping!” The Mexican wiped a tear from his eyes. I said, “You’re in love with her aren’t you?” Hidalgo only nodded. I felt bad, and couldn’t remember how I even knew Florence, or how we had wound up in bed. I thought we were supposed to be making music!

The producer looked like Hugh Grant, but like Hugh Grant looks these days, old and gray. “Excuse our Hidalgo,” the producer said. “He is a Latin man, as you can see. He has emotional tendencies.” The producer was dressed in a gray suit and his salt-and-pepper hair was cut short. “Hidalgo gets too attached.” I didn’t feel particularly attached. As I watched Florence prepare to go out, applying her makeup in the mirror, I felt a kind of sadness if not total disgust. “What? What is it with you?” she said in that rather inflected London accent of hers.

After she left, I took the elevator down. I went back to the playground by The Cube on Astor Place. Could you believe that my dog was still waiting for me? Some characters who looked like the musicians from Parliament Funkadelic were tossing around a frisbee, and the dog would sometimes go and fetch it. They were good guys, and my bag was still sitting there, untouched. New York had become a much safer place. It was safe at least for dogs and bags.

Not so much for hearts.

o brother, where art thou?

MY BROTHER came to visit me in Estonia. He hadn’t been here in 20 years and was amazed by how much things had changed. “It used to look like Gorky Park,” he said. “Now it looks like this!” To tell you the truth, I had been away just before he came, and took a ship from Stockholm back to Tallinn to meet him. Somewhere near one of the Åland Islands, though, I dropped my keys in the sea. They just tumbled out of my pocket. Even though the water was shallow there, and I could see the white rocks just below the water’s surface, I was unable to retrieve the keys and the ship sailed on. Which meant that when he showed up off the flight from New York, we had to take a rickety Bolt rickshaw down to the Baltic Station Market.

He didn’t seem to mind though. It looked as if he hadn’t changed since he got out of work in Midtown Manhattan. He was impressed by the new market, and the different kinds of exotic foods one could buy there. In fact, he spent the whole evening going from one stall to another. “You can get a slice of Sicilian over there,” I told him. “There’s a South African eatery here too. And whatever you do, you are not to miss out on the legendary and delicious VLND Burger!”

He tried them all and even had some ice cream, but then the jet lag set in and I suggested we take another Bolt rickshaw up a few streets into Kalamaja and then Viljandi beyond. But then I remembered the Omniva smart hotel. All you had to do was enter in the access code, and one of the doors in the parcel machine would open up and convert into a budget hotel room. There was even a bunk bed. My brother climbed to the top bunk and was soon fast asleep. His jacket was tucked beneath his arms as he snored in the top bunk of an Omniva parcel machine smart hotel room. To my amazement, there were no food stains on his crisp white business shirt.

ingrian girls

WE WERE ALL TRYING to escape. From what I do not know. Some kind of cave system, or tunnel. I cannot say if it was made by man or naturally formed. What I do remember is that I was surrounded by Ingrian girls. Dozens of them. Hundreds, maybe. There were just so many of them, and they were all trying to climb out of that passageway and into the daylight. I don’t know what any of their names were, or what villages they came from, but they looked like sisters. Their hair was red and their skin was milky white. Black shirts, blue trousers, blue eyes.

Then one of the Ingrian girls climbed up my back and sort of pushed herself over my head, as if she was doing an acrobatic trick. Another pushed by my arms. There were so many Ingrians. They were crawling all over everything.

The only hint at civilization in the cave was a monument that had been cut into the walls. Words were chiselled into granite, maybe about the War of Independence, maybe about the Winter War. I couldn’t read anything in the darkness, but with my fingers, I could trace out the number 1918. I gripped the stone as I pulled myself into the light. A dozen Ingrian girls were already standing there looking haughtily down at me. I remember the menace of that hair, as if it was on fire and the feel of the northern sun as it at last laid its pleasant hands upon my face.

kermit

SOMEHOW, I wound up visiting Kermit Haas at his art studio on the opposite side of the lake. I think he picked me up after a plane connected to a local agricultural company had flown over the coastal plain and sprayed it with pesticides. I happened to be outside when that happened, by a lake-side vacation home, and standing among the golden reeds at sunset when that goop rained down upon me. I remember reaching and touching the back of my neck and scraping off a handful of green slime from the pesticide plane. It was like Agent Orange or something. I began to worry about my health after that and if I had been exposed to something really toxic.

But then Kermit picked me up in his car and we drove off.

It was actually a single-storey, Scandinavian style art studio. I didn’t realize that Kermit had so many people working for him. He gave me a towel to clean myself from the green goop, and his young assistant brought me a mug of coffee. A simple, spare, well-lit place. It was almost as if Ikea had done the interior, but the quality of the desks and bookshelves was many times higher, and I am sure he had designed every cranny of that place. Kermit is this kind of engaging character. He’s about 10 years older than me. He studied at an art school in France. He has long, graying hair, and likes to wear sweaters and scarves, when the weather requires it. Kermit has this vague sort of Europeanness about him. He’s not really Estonian or French. He is sort of like one of those in-flight magazines on Finnair or Lufthansa. It feels European, it looks European, and it even smells European, but you can’t really say why it’s so European.

The coffee was good and strong, but a little too hot, and I was clumsy after the plane pesticide incident. I spilled some coffee on a nearby table, and a little ran off onto the floor, where it pooled. Urmas’s assistant immediately went to fetch a towel to clean it up, and I began to apologize. But then I noticed that the wet spot was only growing, and soon a clear water began to roll into the studio. It was the water from the lake! It was rising! The water was rolling in, and it was warm and ankle deep. This had not been from the coffee. “We need to get out of here,” said Kermit. “And quick!” We ran to his car. He stuffed a dozen precious canvases into the trunk. My computer bag was already soaked, and I was sure the electronics were ruined. “Good thing all of my work is on Google Docs,” I said. “I am sure your things will be fine,” Kermit responded. I tossed my guitar in the back too. It was in an odd, turtle-shaped case I had never seen before. Then we all jumped into the car and sped away, to escape the flood.

I don’t know what happened to that assistant though. She was too willing to resolve all of our problems. Maybe she stayed behind? Maybe she was tasked with cleaning up after the flood?

She’s probably still there.

a map of the school

THE SCHOOL was constructed in the Colonial Revival style sometime at the tail-end of the 1930s, financed by a local tycoon. It featured four large white columns, and incorporated elements of Federal and Georgian architecture. At its founding, it served as a public school for local students in Sowassetville and adjacent communities, from kindergarten through 12th grade, but eventually, as the population grew, it was developed into a middle school in the 1960s. I hadn’t been there in years, but when I was invited back, along with other members of the ninth grade class of 1995, I decided to return, to see if it could inspire any memories.

To my surprise, the interior of the school had been completely redone, and a large stone-surfaced park had been installed, along with a bronze memorial to the Estonian War of Independence (1918-1920). A solemn soldier stood at its precipice, holding a sword up into the air. His head was decorated with a wreath. In the front of the school, there was a new staircase leading to a second level. From this level, one could take a glass-enclosed corridor into a new extension of the school. It was like something from an aquarium. “I don’t remember any of this,” I told an old classmate, who was clutching unreturned library books, such as The Great Gatsby. “None of this was here when we were. It’s like the entire school has been changed.”

I went down a back staircase into a cafeteria. But only more confusion ensued. It was like a big billowing cloud of confusion. I was reminded of a New Order song by the same name. Because Raivo, my faithful translator, was seated at one of the booths in the cafeteria. He was there in a button-down shirt in one of the booths, digging through a Caesar salad. Raivo said that we had to get a translated version of one my short stories to the editors as soon as possible. I still was baffled to see him there. And then when I turned my head, I noticed that the lovely Atlacamani, the mysterious Azteca goddess of storms, was also seated in the cafeteria. She was wearing a red shirt and blue pants and was seated with musicians from the Viljandi Cultural Academy.

They were all eating fries.

El Scorcho, a Chilean folk singer with a slight mustache who lives and thrives in V Town, arrived with a tray full of food and drink. His guitar was slung across his back. He was wearing one of those gray ponchos they wear down in the Andes. He said, “You look so funny. You should see your face.” I said, “What’s going on? What are you all doing here?” El Scorcho just smiled. “A lot has changed since you went to junior high school,” he said. “Todo es diferente.”

kiss kiss kiss

THE FIRST TIME I came to, I was in China. I am not sure where I was, but it might have been in a public park. It might have been in Beijing. I don’t remember. I barely knew who I was, but I was aware that I was an older Chinese man. Other people were working around me. They were sweeping something up, or raking. Moving things around. I could only see blurry shadows moving around. I could smell the smells of China. Those damp, steamed, pungent smells. I was sitting there, meditating, but not really meditating. Then I was out of there. Out of China?

But where had I been anyway?

The second time I came to, I was in a car. I was in a northern city, traveling in an industrial part of the town. I could see the transmission towers glistening like giant metal Christmas trees, and beneath them were real Christmas trees. Snow was piled up on both sides of the road, and the car zoomed forward. There were two women in the car. One of them was older and she had long dark hair. She sat in the passenger’s seat in the front, and the younger woman, who also had long dark hair was at the wheel. They were listening to Yoko Ono sing “Kiss Kiss Kiss” off the 1980 album Double Fantasy. We drove on, to where I don’t remember.

The third time I came to, the car pulled up alongside Sigrún’s house on the outskirts of town. It was summer again and warm. Sigrún was there in the kitchen. She offered me some water and some berries and after that, we went to bed. She really did look just like Mother Denmark and I didn’t take off my shirt. My shirt was soaked by the end of that, and Sigrún’s legs were up in the air. It felt good to kiss Sigrún. Her skin was covered in freckles and her eyes were blue.

Then it all faded away, and a new cycle started.

a map of the village

MY APARTMENT was at the crest of a hill overlooking the sea. It was part of a house that stood in a hollow between two knolls. You had to walk down a set of hillside stairs to get to the door. It was very dark inside. I suppose it might have looked like something from a JRR Tolkien book, if one was so imaginative. Up the hill apiece lived an older Estonian man named Elvin. He had white, curly hair and was heavy set, but this did not diminish his work ethic. He spent most of his days cutting wood with a saw. He almost exclusively wore work overalls. My girlfriend had been having an affair with him for sometime. I didn’t understand her thing for grandfatherly men, but maybe it had something to do with the rugged sound of that chainsaw.

But things were changing in the village. One day, a real estate agent came to show the neighboring apartment. Two dark-skinned men were with her. They were both Black British, I guess is the term. When I asked them why they had decided to leave the city and move to such an out-of-the-way seaside village, they both responded, in unison, “We broke up with our boyfriends.” So it was a gay couple who had decided to run away together. I should have known. Their outfits were a bit too conspicuously neat. Part of me wanted to warn them that maybe they might have a hard time in the village. It wasn’t conservative per se, in the way that the American Bible Belt was conservative, but it was the kind of place where identity politics were backburnered in favor of scrappy, old-fashioned hard labor. They were on their own.

I felt sad actually, and the old man Elvin was still up on the hilltop sawing wood. I hadn’t seen my girlfriend in ages. I could barely remember what she looked like, and began to doubt in her existence. I came down the hill into town. It used to be a rundown, stagnant place, but new shops and cafes were opening up and it had been revitalized. At the edge of the sea, one could see the enormous scaffolding that surrounded the new ships being built. Titanic-sized vessels were assembled here. One recognized that special ‘V’ shape. I stood at the bottom of the scaffolding and wished that I too, like those great ships, would one day be released to the sea.