THE CITY OF TALLINN was encased within a kind glass bubble or atrium and had been for the entirety of its existence. I had only learned about it on a cool, rainy day when I was walking through the Town Hall Square, and I looked up to see a man dangling from the top of a wobbly ladder, trying to close one of the many skylights that had let in the rain and soaked the houses.
I soon learned that while some of these skylights had been discovered, not all were accounted for. Ladders rose up all across the skyline like cranes, but no one could ever really keep the rainwater out. The 18th century blueprints of the sky of Tallinn were kept at the imperial archives in Saint Petersburg, but nobody had been allowed to see them since the war started.
Two women friends though were able to sneak their way into the Russian Federation by disguising themselves as patriotic Russians and got into the dusty archives, from which they retrieved the prints. These were beautifully sketched in black ink on parchment, and quite bulky. It was no easy task for Peter’s architects to have designed the sky above Tallinn, then called Reval. One wondered if these windows to the elements had already been partially crafted during Swedish rule, and if the Imperial Russians had just improved upon their plans.
The city did need water, it needed water for its parks, its trees and plants, flower gardens and so on. But Tallinn was also getting excessively saturated by the rain, and there needed to be a better way of controlling it. Otherwise we would all be wearing raincoats all year round, when it wasn’t snowing. The two women friends met me on the second or third floor of the Viru Keskus shopping center with the blueprints for the sky. They were really quite excited about the theft of these highly guarded documents. They unrolled them on the floor of Sportland.
After that, I went to work with an Estonian who looked like the actor Tambet Tuisk and maybe was him, closing up the skylights. Now that we had the plans, we knew where each one of the windows above Tallinn was located. The city had special ladders made for the job. While they wobbled in the wind, and though I was terrified of heights, it was quite breathtaking to look down, hundreds of meters below us, and spot the Finnish Embassy on Toompea, or the little toy spire of Mikaelskyrkan or Saint Michael’s Church below that. When we reached one of the windows, we could see it was ajar and water was pouring through. I reached out, took it by the handle, and thrust upwards. The window sealed silently against the white clouds of the sky. One down. So many more to go.
WE WERE SEQUESTERED in Ülejõe, near the Konsum parking lot, on account of some grave and rising health threat. Rory Lapp was the first to undergo screening and then he was released to return to his schedule. I think Rory was able to get over the bridge, I remember only glancing at him from behind, in his blue jeans and orange vest, but maybe he stayed behind, I don’t know. The sun was sinking into the river by then and the waters were rising.
When I went into the first tent for assessment, a young woman, dark hair and freckles, used a metal implement about the size of a match, a kind of awl, to pierce my skin and remove a small piece of flesh, just as the Lakota did during their Sun Dance ceremonies. Then she took this offering to the creator and instead of securing it in a tube for further analysis, she tasted it, ruminating and focusing on its flavor, as if that could tell her something about my overall state.
“Yes,” she said, nodding and tasting, “Yes, it’s just as I thought.” She never told me what it was.
From the main, brightly lit medical tent, I was led outside. The river waters were even higher, they were overrunning the high banks and running down into this part of the town, creating rapid whirlpools and swirling eddies. I watched as an old orange Volkswagen Beetle was swept away by the high waters, its owner just able to get out before the car was lost for good. High up on the riverbank, I could hear my Krishna devotee neighbors talking while this went on.
They were laughing and toasting the flood.
And then I was brought into a temporary tent, where it seemed like a dozen strangers were trapped in the sticky darkness. One of them, Alma, a blonde civil servant I knew from town, a few years older than me, seemed to jump me at once, crawling on top of me. She said, “Oh, good. I have always wanted to do this to you.” That’s how I wound up making passionate love in the darkness of a quarantine tent. There was a lot of sweating, blending, fusing. I pressed up against Alma’s hair, her ruddy, blushing face. It was rich and cathartic, but the situation gave everything a kind of menacing portent. What else do you do when the world reaches its end?
IN A PARKING LOT with Hendrik Hendrikson, James Simmul, who was probably the only Estonian I knew named James, and a talented bass guitarist at that, and small toy car and a dog. Hendrik was talking about an upcoming game night to be held at the old cultural palace. I was barely paying attention. He was originally from Massachusetts and just old enough that he could have been, had he so desired, a member of New Kids on the Block. This made me always look at him strangely, trying to imagine him side by side with Donny Wahlberg and Jordan Knight. Was Hendrik Hendrikson the sixth New Kid? How many of them were there even?
They kind of wandered off after that. The house was an old hospital that had been converted into an commercial building, with a white facade and vague Stalinist and Federalist elements, with ivy growing around the columns in front, and a pale blue visible beneath the chipped paint of the exterior. I heard there was a concert happening at the castle ruins, or maybe near the old manor house? Hendrik Hendrikson and James Simmul roamed off into the crowds, which left me, an Australian sheepdog named Lou and a toy car that I could fit inside of.
This was sort of like my daughter’s toy car, except that it had a front and back seat and a trunk. It was made out of cheap plastic. So cheap that when I tried to back out of the parking lot, with Lou in the back, the steering wheel came off and it rolled to a halt between two very pricey vehicles, which had obviously been leased and indebted their pretend “owners,” a BMW and a Porsche. Oh, the anxiety of watching that car land in the middle, stopping against a wall.
The dog was unharmed, happily panting in the back, and I reinserted the wheel in front. Leaving this parking lot was turning out to be harder than I thought. But I knew my parents place was up the road apiece, and I would just have to navigate that tricky three-way intersection before it would just be shady country roads all the way back to the homestead. The hook that held the back of the toy car shut had come off too, so I jammed the doors together, the dog in the back, and began my tedious journey. Then my daughter Lucinda came running out of the bushes, clad in her overalls, looking almost like I did when I was that age.
“Daddy!” “What the hell are you doing hiding in the bushes?” I hoisted her into the trunk with the dog, and we set off. It was getting evening now, I was worried about rush hour traffic. I wasn’t sure where this place was. The house had all kinds of strange businesses operating inside of it. A New York-style deli on the right. A Soviet-style hospital on the further right.
I got the car going, but then I lost control of the steering wheel again, or rather it came off in my hands, one of the wheels fell off, and the whole car drove headfirst into a stone wall at the other end of the parking lot. Somehow I was in two places as this happened. I was in the driver’s seat and I was behind the car watching it happen, two vantage points at once. Huh?
When I woke up, I was in the hospital in the dark. Maybe I had hit my head? It felt kind of sore. Or maybe those were the drugs wearing off? I found my pants on the floor. Outside the door, I could hear the audio from an Estonian television news program. Priit Kuusk was looking very serious and saying serious things about Ukraine and Russia and drone bits. I had to get out of this place. I knew they were going to probably restrain me, or put me through some formal process, some bureaucracy to get out of it. But I needed to find my dog Lou and my daughter Lucinda and they might still be out there waiting patiently in my little toy car. My pants not even buckled, I was already out the door. We were going to make it, little toy cars be damned.
THE LAVAZZA COFFEE vending machine was temporarily out of order. A small dark-haired woman was busy with a screwdriver, installing some new buttons and features. Soon it would be possible to get pastries and croissants. The new installation panels showed an eye-watering array of colorful treats. As such, there would be no coffee for me. “Come back soon,” she said.
The common area of the hostel, in which the machine was located, was dark. Someone had turned out all of the lights. There was always this musty smell in there, the smell of hostels. A long bar in the corner. It was sort of like a rock club crossed with a hostel. The only light came from behind the bar, where wine glasses dangled and thick bottles of whiskey glowed gold.
Back in the room, my father was tapping into a laptop. He was wearing a green t-shirt. “Don’t you want to go see some museums while we’re here in Amsterdam?” I asked him. Surely, if we were in the Dutch capital, we could see a few Van Goghs in the process. But he just kept working and reminded me that I should be working too. I was supposed to cover the Olympics in Scotland in a week or so too. What lasting impact would the games have on Edinburgh?
I went back out into the common area to see if the machine was fixed, but it was even in a greater state of reconstruction. There were wires and panels everywhere, and the small dark-haired woman was at work with her screwdriver, putting everything in place. She had on a white sweater, glasses, her hair was braided. She was quiet. Focused. Diligently at work.
Back in the room, my father was gone, but a young woman with a backpack had arrived, asking if she too could spend the night. Who was I to protest? She had blonde hair, a silent, unassuming character. Wore a plaid shirt. Probably from some place like Idaho. She took a seat on one of the bunks and water began to flow into the room. Was it water from one of the canals? Soon all of the dirty old bedding was soaked and there were pillows floating by.
In the common area, the Lavazza coffee vending machine was at last in order, but the button for a straight black coffee was now missing. There were tropical cocktails to be had, rich, creamy pastries and doughnuts, but not one simple black coffee. This was bad. Was I really going to get a flat white? Or maybe I would have to do the impossible and leave the hostel? Surely a good cafe was located just down the way at the foot of some bridge. Just a few steps.
Back in the room, the water had subsided and the carpets had dried. The bedding had all been replaced. I was face to face with a woman dressed in gold, who looked like Madeleine Kahn when she played the Empress Nympho in History of the World, Part I. It’s hard to describe the lovemaking process. I don’t really remember that part, only that at some point it was sensual overload. Her golden dress, and that curly hair. It was everywhere, all over me, from every corner, I was absorbed into her delicious essence. “But you’re older than my mother,” I told Madeleine Kahn. “This can’t be happening. This just can’t be happening.” “Oh, it’s happening,” Madeleine Kahn said while sucking on my ear. She was also dead but it didn’t seem to matter.
IN THE SUPERMARKET, it seemed as if I couldn’t find anything. Long aisles full of goods, but the ones I wanted or was in search of eluded me. That supermarket was so vast that even the section I was in could have accommodated a whole neighborhood of Beijing or Mexico City. And between these rows of canned goods and leftover Easter merchandise flitted Dulcinea.
I would catch a glimpse of her at the end of the aisle or turning a corner, some locks of her gold hair, her gray pants, but she never acknowledged me. Still, she must have seen me, because only a woman who was purposefully making sure to move in such a way, to avert her gaze in such a way, to turn her torso just so, must have seen the person she was working so hard to avoid. Was this how things would stay between us? Just like this? But I was right here.
Then I saw her, fully, from the back, the whole fish. She was inspecting different loaves of Estonian rye bread for consistency. I traced out her silhouette. Now was my chance to break down the emotional and physical walls between us. That hair, those curves, that smell. Her. Dulcinea. She was there. I was here. And I loved her so. This was the strong stuff. The bright lights of the supermarket beaming down. She read the ingredients and took her bread and was on her way, turned a corner, hurried off. But would she one day see me? One day would she?
A DIM BEDROOM, sprawled on the bed. She told me that she had sworn off men, for all time, on account of our serious inadequacies in every department, but that didn’t stop her from walking in and climbing into bed alongside of me, while we watched some long-forgotten TV show from the Nineties, something action fantasy, like Xena: Warrior Princess. We began to kiss then, which surprised me, but I went with it, then quickly I had the shirt up, revealing pleasant rolls of womanly middle-aged fat. Like pre-baked pastry dough. I disappeared into her chest with soft and long licks until her son came into the room for a moment. With a certain deftness I repositioned us in an instant, so that it looked like we were just reclining.
The moment he was gone, the sex continued. I wore a condom and she inserted a female condom, which looked like one of those clear plastic bags you get at the supermarket, you know, the kinds you fill up with bananas or chestnuts. The friction of my plastic against her plastic rendered the whole experience double plastic. I couldn’t feel a thing. I didn’t know if anything was happening. Somehow I had lost all sensation in my body. Her own freckled face wore a haunted, sleepy expression. “Are we making love?” I asked her. “Because I just can’t tell.”
After the double plastic incident, I left the house, took a long drive. It was a sunny day, I was cruising down some boulevard in a sprawl of gas stations, supermarkets, and telephone poles. Sonja was there, waiting on the street corner, about eight months pregnant. She looked beautiful with her blonde hair, all dressed in black, plus that big fat gut showing beneath her.
What else was there to do but give her a ride?
“But why are you still being nice to me?” she asked. “Can’t you see I’m carrying another man’s child?” She wasn’t very happy about being treated so royally by me, with the chauffeur escort business — we had just pulled into a home improvement store parking lot. “Because you are you,” I told her. “And I still like you, wherever you happen to be in your life.” I went on, “Plus I am going to miss you. Once that baby pops out, you are going to disappear for a while. You are going to be in the baby cave or cocoon. It’ll be years before we ever have the chance to have a normal conversation again.” Sonja found all of this disarming, but she softened upon hearing it.
Inside the home improvement store, there was a carnival, and Sonja paid a few euros to throw giant balls at some targets. Maybe she would get a prize. She threw another ball and struck the target. Lights began to flash. Then my eldest daughter walked by and started to watch Sonja. “Who is that woman?” she said, almost in awe of this pregnant Amazonian throwing balls at a home improvement store carnival. “She is amazingly beautiful,” she said, as if she was observing an especially colorful fish at an aquarium. “She is,” was all I could say to that. “She is.”
ON MY BACK on the kitchen floor, she was facing me, her hair all done up in curls. She was very proud of herself because of the success of her latest exhibition. She was wearing a white gown, I imagine she had been sleeping, or was in the midst of preparing for bed. I looked up from my spot on the floor and said, “Come here,” and pulled her on top of me. She laughed when I did this. There was of course the question of how far this kitchen game would go.
The kitchen hadn’t been remodeled for decades. There was blue tile on the walls, one window with a raggy curtain. Two other Viljandi ladies sat behind her on chairs. They were enjoying the scene, it was just like their community cinema, kogukonnakino. Our faces were face to face, and her dark curls were everywhere, and then the lips parted. There was that hesitancy that’s always there, the heft of a warm figure across my abdomen, and then the tongues that began to probe each other, like playful little snakes. One went in and the other went around.
As this was going on, the Viljandi ladies from the community cinema approached her from the back and began to massage her legs. She laughed out of pleasure and joy, and the kissing continued. Then, from downstairs, I heard the creak of a door, and the fourth woman arrived, a young artist in a corduroy jacket. Somehow I could see her in the foyer even though I was on the floor. Her eyes smarted with happiness. Her reddish hair was pulled back, her cheeks were rosy pink. She had a package in hand. Another birthday gift! “Well,” she said. “I’m here!”
BLUE CHOCOLATE EASTER EGGS, stolen from somewhere. I was seated in the Viljandi Library, assembling baskets for the librarians. But how many eggs to give each? They needed to be allotted according to size. I wasn’t going to let any single librarian be the favorite. I filled the baskets, each one had an equal amount of smaller and larger ones. These were beautifully decorated with golden designs ringing the metallic blue. When this was all done, I stepped out
I noticed I had a broom in my hand. Strange. I had never tried to fly with a broom. Like a real witch, or male witch. What were we called? Warlocks? It was a bright day with a strong cool wind blowing from the north, and I rose up into it with the broom between my legs. This proved hard to steer, I pointed the broomstick toward Kodukohvik, clawing at the cold air as if trying to swim, but the winds blew me back toward the shopping center and I struck a giant billboard of my daughter’s fourth grade teacher Miss Madu before sliding down to the ground.
There I was, on the hard stones of the sidewalk, when Ignacio came walking by, looking like a true troubadour. He had on his black cap; this only drew more attention to his folk singer’s mustache. Ignacio said, “I have to go back to Chile, man, but I don’t want to,” he pulled at his eyelids as he did it. “I don’t want to go back.” He said Chile was full of liars and manipulators.
After that I went in a nearby cafe, where I ordered up a cappuccino. Who else should be sprawled out on the couch but the poetess Els Stenbock, nestled beneath a blanket in the blue light, her eyes all fire and her hair all gold, beads of sweat on her brow. I dove into her like one dives into a swimming pool. Struan Peel was there. He was jealous. Frowning, moping. He said, “You two are going to get married,” I said, “But we can’t, she’s already married.” She was.
Struan looked back with some agony at the baristas, but they were all attracted to the same sex, be they man or woman. There was no love to be had for this young straight Englishman who looked like Shakespeare, and so he walked sullenly out of the bar. I gave Els another kiss, and she purred. It felt good to be kissed, to have any intimacy at all. I had started to doubt in love all together and then … So there was one woman who did not despise me in this world? She was hiding out at the cafe on Tallinn Street? “Come back here,” Els Stenbock demanded.
But I couldn’t. I had to find Struan, who was stricken with grief and self-doubt after having been rejected by the gay baristas. “There’s no love left for me,” he had muttered before leaving. “There’s just no love.” Outside things in the streets had changed. This was no a longer town, these were the frozen wastes. A musket ball went whizzing by. When I looked down, I saw that I was in the uniform of the Swedish army. Embroidered into my blue uniform was a golden XII.
I was in the Great Northern War. I scrambled down a snowy hillside, more musket balls went flying by, and I heard the sounds of Russian being spoken from a nearby grove of spruces. The soldiers had built a barrier made of branches, and as I stood on these branches, I could see that I was standing on top of a deep, open well. I looked down into this frozen well and saw the branches emerging. What even was this? The tree of life? The branches circled, almost as if they were arranged into constellations. Space, time and trees intertwined. What good fortune that I hadn’t fallen in. Who knew how deep this was. It was all just too puzzling. Where was I?
I decided after that to go back to the cafe after that, to the safety of Els and the couch, where she no doubt lied in waiting for me, warm beneath a blanket. But there was no street anymore and there was no cafe and there was no door. There were just fields of snow, forests full of trees, cannons blasting in the distance. I was stuck here in the great war. Where was that door?
BUT IN NARVA, I AM NEXT. I’m next here in line in the lobby of Hotell Inger, where I am met by a young woman named Valeria who has obvious Slavic features, as if she was Gorbachev’s granddaughter.
She has dark hair, a pale complexion. It’s hard to say what makes her stand out. Is it the lips? The eyes? The whole road to Narva I’ve been nervous because I don’t know a lick of the Russian language. It reminds me of when I was in Beijing and I had to order food. Of course, I know some phrases, but these aren’t the most polite ones, so better not to use them. But somehow I have to communicate. To my surprise, my questions in Estonian are met with Estonian responses. With an accent, naturally, but I also have an accent. How is it possible? I think. This is the most Russified city in Estonia. Almost everyone who lives here is a Russian speaker. But in my hotel, Estonian is just fine. I’m given a key, a room, and the right to swim for free at the Narva Ujula.
My room is on the fifth floor on the left. Clean, standard, comfortable. From the window, you can see the old town hall or raekoda of Narva, and the Hermann Fortress as well as some streets, where a few Narvans are visible strolling about at night. And there, just beyond, lies notorious Russia. The Russia we all fear. Russia is sleeping now and Narva is going to sleep behind it, as is the rest of Estonia. So I too fall off to sleep. It was a long trip to get to Narva. By bus from Viljandi to Tartu, from Tartu through Mustvee and Jõhvi. Even when you leave the Sillamäe Bus Station, Narva still feels far away, always in the distance.
The area around Narva is dotted with birch trees, hay fields, and swamps. The landscape is empty, only a few houses catch one’s eye. Maybe that’s why I have only visited this border city two times in the last 20 years. This is my second time in Narva and the first time that I will spend the night here beneath a warm blanket, my head resting on a soft pillow. Why is traveling by bus so tiring? But whatever. Good night, gorod Narva. I’ll see you in the morning.
WHEN THE SUN RISES, the mornings in Narva are lovely. The sun appears from the east over the town and is visible behind the tower of the raekoda. It feels as if the light has arrived directly from Japan. I sit on the first floor of the hotel in its restaurant and listen to the conversations of the other guests — Estonian businessmen, a Spanish couple, and maybe some Chinese? There are even a few Americans here, someone is saying something about Indianapolis. I don’t feel like introducing myself to them. God knows why they have traveled out here to Narva. I have my own suspicions that any foreigner who winds up in Narva simply must be a spy.
The hotel is located on Pushkin Street and faces a gray apartment building, the kind known as a khrushchevka, because it was built when Nikita Khrushchev was the Soviet premier. In front of this building walks a young Narva boy on his way to school. I take a sip of coffee. Why did I even come to this place? That’s a good question. In January, when the status of Greenland was in the news, I had a dream that a summit was held at the Hermann Fortress and Marco Rubio, JD Vance, Kaja Kallas, and Lars Løkke Rasmussen were in attendance to discuss Greenland’s future. In the dream, I was also dispatched to cover the summit, but before I was about to enter the fortress, I encountered the Estonian poetess Kristiina Ehin in a blue dress, who invited me to sit with her and read the poetry of Lydia Koidula. And so we did.
After this vision, I decided that I had to go to Narva. Narva was waiting for me. It was speaking to me in my dreams. Immediately, I wrote to the Narva Collehge, which in turn invited me to attend a conference in honor of the national writer, Anton Hansen Tammsaare. Naturally, I accepted the offer.
But that was just one reason for visiting Narva. The other was that I needed to get away from it all, to take a little vacation from myself, so to speak. In Viljandi, where I live, I feel like a hamster caught in a wheel at times. The same feelings, memories, thoughts. The same streets, people, problems. The same old stories haunting me. Not like Narva was like some place from the novel Eat, Pray, Love, a city where one could find himself, but I had a feeling that it would be a good idea to travel as far as I could while still remaining in Estonia. Narva seemed at that moment the ideal destination.
Estonians have a weird relationship with Narva. In some ways, Estonians consider it to be a part of their homeland. At the same time, nobody really wants to come here. Maybe to some conference, or to a concert, or just to have a look at the castle and take a few photos and then drive back. As far as I understand it, the Estonian version of Narva’s history goes something like this. Once upon a time, Narva was an Estonian city. There lived mostly Estonians, who sang national songs, danced national dances, and ate fried Baltic herring. Everything was fine. But then came the war and the Russians bombed Narva’s beautiful Old Town into dust and Estonians were not allowed to resettle there. The Russians built atop the rubble some ugly apartment blocks and moved in. Now there’s not much to do or see there.
“There’s nothing there,” I was warned ahead of my travels. “Everything was destroyed in the war.”
After doing my own research though, I have come to understand that it was exactly so. The statistics reveal, for example that in 1897, about half of Narva’s inhabitants were Estonians and half of them were Russians. In 1934, about 65 percent were Estonians and 30 percent were Russians. Had I come to visit Narva in 1926 instead of 2026, I would have had a similar linguistic experience.
The Soviet Union did bomb the city in its war against Nazi Germany. Actually, both sides destroyed the city, but the coup de grace was the Soviet bombing in March 1944 which took place the same week that I happen to be here, drinking coffee. The Soviet Union did not value old architecture. When given the choice to save what was left or just bulldoze it, the Soviets chose to toss the old Narva into the dust bin. The same thing happened in Tallinn, by the way, where the Soviets razed the ancient cemetery in Kalamaja in 1964. The Soviets wanted to build a red future, where smiling Gagarins would fly through the cosmos, sharing the joys of Communism with the aliens.
After the war, a great number of people moved to Narva from all over the Soviet Union. In addition to Russians, there were many other nations. By 1989, more than 80,000 people lived here. At the moment, there’s just 50,000, and many of these are 50 plus. Where do people go when they leave Narva behind? To Tallinn, I am told, but also Helsinki, London, and Paris.
This might be one positive thing about the city. In Narva, I feel like a kid. Later, when I step into Lidl to buy some toothpaste, I noticed that I am surrounded by pensioners who are looking for the best deals. Peanuts just €1.8. Don’t you want some cheap shampoo? They whisper to their friends and relatives in their phones. Harasho? (“Good?”) Harasho! (“Good!”). In Viljandi, the site of the Culture Academy, as well as in Tartu, with its universities, I feel like a real dinosaur who was born in the wrong century. I don’t even dare tell people there that I was born in the Seventies. Sometimes I lie, but more often, I just declined to give my age. But here in Narva, I feel like I’m still a boy.
Narva’s Lidl supermarket is like something from another universe. As if a spaceship has landed here in town. Long escalators, everything made of metal and glass. When I walk toward the river, I can see that the city hasn’t completely recovered from the war. Eighty years later and the scars are around every corner. Vast empty spaces between buildings. Into one of them has been constructed a new playground, where young Narvans are busy playing. My first morning in Narva is cold and brisk, and everyone is still wearing winter coats. They all seem so happy though that I have to pause and take a photo of them. No matter how hard it tries, war can never really snuff out people’s souls. I watch the young Narvans and they give me hope.
LATER I STAND BESIDE the Hermann Fortress and watch the Estonian flag dance against a blue sky. At the same time I am listening to the soundtrack from the film From Russia with Love. Narva seems so ideal for espionage, the perfect spot for swapping secrets. In the old Cold War movies, I would meet my contact here to obtain some stolen microfiche. Unfortunately, no one from MI5 is here to meet me today, and it seems Kristiina Ehin didn’t show up either.
Buts o what. I like being here, I like the way the sun shines and how powerfully the river flows by. I am aware that being on the border is serious stuff and that Russia is so dangerously close, but I just can’t take it too seriously. The people on the other side of the river at least look somewhat normal. Someone is fishing in Ivangorod today. I stare at the Ivangorod fortifications and can’t say exactly where I am, culturally. Old ladies greet me with Privet (“Hello”) but there’s some kind of Scandinavian flavor to the place thanks to this castle. Nearby there is also the famed “Swedish Lion” memorial to the victims of the Great Northern War. I keep walking along the river until I reach Kreenholm. I have always wanted to see this old factory complex with my own eyes.
How many Europeans know that Ursula von der Leyen’s ancestor, Ludwig Knoop, founded the Kreenholm Manufacturing Company in 1857? odd to think that Kaja Kallas and Von der Leyen are colleagues these days, so that Estonians and Baltic Germans are running the European Union. These old friends are at it again. “Let’s do it like we used to do it, Kaja!” This old abandoned factory is part of the story. Europe starts right there. I have heard through the international press, echoing (successful) Russian talking points, that “Narva is next.” Originally, this meant his next target, but the Estonians have repurposed it to make it sound like it will become the latest, trendiest place. A better slogan would be just this, “Europe starts here.” Maybe someone is already using it?
When Von der Leyen visited Narva, she also came to Kreenholm. There are photos of her taken on that day. She looks like a little girl standing in front of the factory. “All of my childhood stories started here,” she said. Nearby brick buildings, that once belonged to the factory complex, remind me of Glasgow though. Later, I am told that Knoop was inspired by British architecture. Where even is this place? Russia? Estonia? Denmark? Scotland?
Nearby, I discover some more extraterrestrial Soviet architecture. At least that’s how I refer to it. There are great white columns, a collapsed roof. What even is this thing? The Vassili Gerassimov Palace of Culture? I look it up. Gerassimov was a worker at Kreenholm who led a strike in 1872. Here stands his palace, although he never dwelled in his palace, because he died in Yakutsk.
There, across from the palace, a young Estonian woman is pushing a baby carriage, with the tot tucked safely within, sound asleep. The weather has changed, and now a moisty, freezing wind is blowing against us and toying with the woman’s hair. She’s dressed all in black and her skin is very white. It’s strange to hear Estonian spoken in Narva. She must be a local. Who else would take a baby for a walk here on such a day? There are about 1,500 Estonians living in Estonia these days. One of them is still an infant.
Later at the Rimi supermarket, I encounter another Estonian woman with a child. They are buying food and the child is complaining that he wants more candy. Classic. The woman looks like an Estonian, she’s obviously an introvert. With that sweater and those jeans, she might as well be from Rakvere. People coexist here peacefully. The Russians are not arrogant at all, at least the ones I interact with in the store. And when I have a problem, the Rimi cashier comes and helps me right away and says Aitäh (“Thanks”) and Palun (“Please”) to me. She even smiles. Rimi feels like a real oasis in this gray, post-Soviet soup. The whole city center is so gray. But in Rimi you can buy colorful Estonian brands and here a radio advertisement that begins, “Greetings. I’m Koit Toome.” It’s somehow a relief to hear good old Koit’s voice all the way out here in Narva.
THE NEXT MORNING in Narva, I decide to head in the other direction, to the north. According to the map, there’s both a German and a Jewish cemetery there, and these seem like good destinations. At the top of the hill, one finds the Narva Gümnaasium, a modern and new high school. There used to be a woman in my life who attended school here, but she’s long gone, like most of the others. Such are the women of my life, wild adventurers who come and go with the wind. I think about writing to her for a moment, but then I decide against it. Why does she need to see a photo of Narva Gümnaasium. I know exactly what she will say too. “I know all too well what it looks like, thanks.”
From the high school, one can see apartment blocks in the distance that remind one of Sarajevo. On the other side, there is a low-lying neighborhood with an Orthodox church at its center. The church offers the only color, with its gold-yellow tones, because the weather is so cold and gray again. What did it feel like to grow up here like her? I wonder. Especially as an Estonian, a minority in your own country? For a moment, it’s as if I can almost hear her voice.
On my way to the cemetery, I decided to turn to the right. I want to see the river again, to have a look at Russia. Everyone is afraid of Russia. Even my father sent me a message before I left that, “Whatever you do, don’t get too close to Russia!” This here is the last street in Estonia and the European Union. Or at least one of them. The houses are in disrepair, the fences too, and I see more dark windows than I do people. I do start to feel afraid. I’m reminded of the Eston Kohver affair. At the same time, I don’t believe I would be very useful to the Russian regime. I’m not so important. I turn around and a van is waiting for me, from which leap two men, border guards. Light-haired, bearded young Estonian guys. They want to know who I am and what I am doing here. It’s kind of funny to be a writer from Viljandi who just likes to wander aimlessly. Did I forget to mention that I’m actually from New York?
“What are you doing in Estonia?” “Well, I once met a girl from Karksi-Nuia and here I am.” Understood. These young Estonian guys do their jobs well. It must be uncomfortable to work on the border, and with every step west, I feel freer. I am reminded of John Reed, the American Communist, who is buried in the Kremlin but also of Lee Harvey Oswald, who traveled by train from Helsinki to Moscow in the fall of 1959. Upon arriving to the Soviet capital, he promptly informed the authorities of his desire to become a Soviet citizen. Even the KGB thought he was crazy. We Americans are a restless people. I once read a John McCain quote where he said something like, “wherever Americans go, they start problems.” And here I am on the border of the European Union and the Russian Federation taking photos. This same morning when I am walking around Narva, my homeland is bombing Iran.
When I finally make it to the German cemetery, I am greeted by a sign that says that I am not particularly welcome, because some renovation work is underway. The snowy field is full of graves. Standing there, I can read one stone. Beneath it are buried three men. One of them was only 18 years old when he died in 1944. So a young man from Germany was sent here, to Narva, to die. Because the Germans needed more space? Or did they just want to destroy Bolshevism? However you frame it, it’s a stupid story. There are about 10,000 Germans buried here. Across the road, there is a spot that according to the map should be a Jewish cemetery. After looking around, I find there’s no cemetery in sight, just a path into the woods. After the border guard incident, I don’t really feel like getting lost in the forests around Narva. Everything here is just too quiet and covered in snow. An old lady then emerges from the forest, just at that moment. She is wearing a black coat and hat and she doesn’t seem to notice me there. Something about this place is just too eerie. I turn around and head back into town.
I HAVE ALL KINDS of experiences here in Narva. I find some safe spots for myself right away. One of these is certainly the Muna Kohvik at the Narva College. You can get a decent cappuccino there and they play sweet jazz on the speakers. The atmosphere is spacious and light and every visitor can find a corner.
There are students from the Tallinn University of Technology here who recline and socialize in the beanbag chairs in the atrium. They happen to be having a conference here this week and there are international visitors too, as I hear plenty of English spoken. There are ties and jackets. Coffee breaks. On the wall, there’s a poster for the Station Narva festival to be held in September. Triphop godfather Tricky and the Icelandic band Gusgus will headline. Everything is so modern, Scandinavian, and open here. I could be in Uppsala or Aarhus. The ambiance is friendly, lively. People meet and speak in the café, gesturing over its tables. Maybe they have meetings or are just catching up over lunch. How can it be that those war cemeteries are so close by, those crumbling buildings, those serious border guards? Everything here is so nice and light.
On the wall, a slogan is painted in blue that reads, “Estonia’s home in Narva.” Muna Kohvik is my Estonian home here.
My other home is the Narva Ujula, which is located within the Estonian Academic of Security Sciences on Kerese Street. I go swimming in the evenings to get a little exercise in. Even if I haven’t found myself in Narva just yet, I can at least start a new hobby. In this same pool, the women of Narva undertake their evening water aerobics classes. Everything is clean here, everything is new, and I have absolutely no language issues with the people at the front desk. But in the changing room, it’s another story. This is where I take in all kinds of interesting Russian-language discussions. Or rather, these take place around me, and I just pretend like I understand. One night in the changing room, one man even seems to give a speech. I have no idea if he is talking to me or someone else. I watch him as warily as he British adventurer John Smith did the Indians in Virginia when he met Pocahontas. I nod along and smile. When he finishes I say, “Yes. I mean, да.”
One of the other characters in the changing room looks like Khrushchev. White hair, big teeth. He smiles his Khruschev smile and laughs along with the others. He seems like a friendly fellow, this Khrushchev.
DURING THE DAY, I take part in a conference where people only speak of the Estonian writer Anton Hansen Tammsaare. Tammsaare is connected to Narva because he took his school exams at Narva Gümnaasium in 1903. But how did young Anton even get here? Probably not by LuxExpress bus. Maybe he took the train? I am present when a memorial plaque is unveiled to Tammsaare on the old high school. The people gather and speak. Someone plays violin first, and then there’s a group of karmoška players. I should mention that Anton Hansen Tammsaare is my children’s relative. The whole family is so proud of Anton, that he belongs to their tribe.
I hear plenty of Tammsaare’s work at the conference too. I like his prose, it’s musical, playful. When he visited Narva in 1903, it was also a border city in a way, but one with a community of artists. People painted here, wrote, played chess. This is a place that feels like the edge of the world. Strange then that I don’t feel out of place here. If Danes, Swedes, Russians, Germans, and Estonians have all called this place home, then why couldn’t I? If there were just a few more comfortable cafes, some restaurants, new houses, a nice bakery, this would be the perfect retreat. I would return to Narva, just to write. I think others would come here too. It’s no longer possible to save the old Narva, but it is possible to build something new on its foundations. The same vibration is always at play here, and I think it would be possible to restore the soul of Narva, if given a chance.
The Narva River does work its magic, it’s nice just to stand beside it and hear it. The river water is as dark and rich as kali. Each time there’s a break at the conference, I return to the river’s edge, just to stand below the bridge. Young families pose for photos here, their children smoking. Tourists smoke and await spring. People march back and forth over the bridge. Bags, shadows. From one country to another. I understand that borders can be annoying. But I suppose some things in this life just have to be annoying.
On my last day in Narva, when it’s time to leave, I discover that I’m a little sad and I don’t want to go. I’ve adapted quickly here. I understand now that I am just this kind of person who likes to wander around, scribbling in his journal. I guess I have always been something of an observer, even before I met that girl from Karksi-Nuia who became the mother of my children.
Some friends have already written to me, concerned about my whereabouts. Have I moved to Narva? Not yet. But I do like that river. I like those shadows, the fresh air. This place does have value. I can’t say if I have found myself here, but I do feel a little different now. Something new is pulsating away inside of me.
I do feel some relief about going back. I’ve become used to the Estonians’ pace of life, the way they communicate. But where is Narva then? Is it also a part of Estonia? Sure it is, I decide. These kinds of border towns exist everywhere. In northern Italy, you can find towns where people speak German mostly. Narva is like Estonia’s Bolzano, I think as I wait in line for the bus. Our own little Bolzano, something exotic on our side of the border. A place with a kind spirit and plenty of potential. That’s my Narva. Will I be back? In a word, Короче, ühesõnaga. Yes.
An Estonian-language version of this piece was published last month in Edasi magazine.
IT WAS CALLED the Fairmont Hotel. These words I remember clearly from the entrance way. I had been standing in the parking lot there, for whatever reason, when a black van pulled up and a group of armed men jumped out. Maybe they were border patrol? Or were involved in busting some drug trafficking ring? Or maybe someone had bombed another Tesla? Whatever the case, it didn’t seem like the kind of place you wanted to just hang out. It was a hot day too, and I found the air-conditioned lobby of the hotel offered up cool sanctuary. More men with guns headed in one direction and I headed in the other, passing the many posh hotel guests.
Until I found myself in Annikki’s kitchen, where she was preparing food. I was standing in the dimly-lit space, with my hands on the counter. She was chopping onions and carrots, and at the center of the kitchen a big pot of soup was boiling away on the stove. Annikki had on her blue dress, with its white pattern, so that it looked as if she had clothed herself in a patch of sky. She had been attending various therapy courses and we were talking and talking about relationships, and the onions were sliced and fed into the bubbling pot. She did this in a rather matter-of-fact way, with her blonde hair pulled back and brow furrowed. “But Annikki,” I said. “All we do now is talk. We spend all of our time talking. Won’t you just let me give it to you?”
This produced no word in response, but one light eyebrow arched up as if she was evaluating different service packages at a car wash. Annikki replied, with a shrug, “Why not try?” There was a small bed fitted on one of the kitchen countertops and we lied in it. I felt very warm lying there next to her and my body came to life. It took some real talent to uncover that right breast from its hiding place beneath the dress fabric and the lacy bra underneath. When I at last came face to face with it, I admired it, as one might admire a new find in an ancient Egyptian tomb. This is what she had been hiding from me all this time? Gradually, I sank into it, as one might ease into a bioluminescent bay. All of these secrets rippling before me, making sublime patterns in the water. I heard Annikki sigh. She too seemed to be floating and drifting.
Then came a pounding at the door. I was afraid it was going to wake up her brood of kids. Another knock. A little boy’s voice could be heard from the other room. “Mommy?” he said. “It’s nothing, kallis.” “Open up!” a man’s voice could be heard. “Open up now! This is the police!”
north! 