Tag: sweden

easter

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?

stockholm swing

A NEW FORM OF TRANSPORT, the Stockholm swing. It functioned as a kind of ski lift, except nobody was there to ski. Rather it glided along a set route through the city, like a funicular or cable car. Each swing could fit three people. Upon arriving to Stockholm, I shared my swing with Rory and Ella. We were lifted over the city, and Ella disembarked somewhere in Norrmalm to hunt for shoes for her collection. Ella owned at least a hundred pairs of shoes.

Rory had set up an interview with a local literary journalist. A young woman who must have been in her first year of university, and whose questions were delivered with a trembling uncertainty. I sat there outside a bakery with a coffee, naturally, answering her questions, as if I even knew the answers to them. The young woman wore simple, dark clothes. She had her brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was Swedish. I have no idea how Rory knew her.

There must have been something in my drink, because I became incredibly sleepy after that, and was invited back to the journalist’s apartment, where I promptly fell asleep on her wide bed. During my sleep, I was awakened by a bouncing, and opened one eye, only to see Rory rather aggressively making love to her about a foot away from my elbow. She naturally surrendered, letting out light, excited gasps. I closed my eyes and pretended it was a dream.

Later, after Rory and the young Swedish literary journalist had parted ways in a Stockholm street, I confronted him. “She was only eighteen,” I told him. “Just a young woman of eighteen! Consider it, a man of your age. You should be ashamed of yourself!” Rory was impeccably dressed and feigned confusion. “What are you talking about?” he shrugged, his blue eyes smarting, as if he was entirely perplexed, baffled. “It was just a bad dream. You were dreaming,” he said. “She was just eighteen,” I repeated. “A bastard like you had to take advantage of her!”

After that, I suppose you could say Rory Lapp and I had what later would be termed “a disagreement.” He went his way and I went mine. I caught a passing Stockholm swing and rode it all the way to the harbor. The ships to Estonia left from a pier near an old imperial fortress. It had long since been abandoned, but in recent years had been repurposed with cafes and boutiques. Such were the ways of effete Europeans. It occurred to me there, descending the steps toward my ship, that I had once been married, and had walked these same steps with another person. A person whom the world would have called “my partner.” But I was all alone now. Ella had her shoes, Rory had his young Swedish journalist. I just had my old knapsack.

What a sad feeling.