berglind and celeste

THE FIRST BUS dropped me off in the center of the city, somewhere near the New York Public Library. There were a lot of people there, I think there had been more demonstrations against the government. I could see the blue uniforms of the police and the street camoflage of the federal agents. The air smelled of tear gas and fries. Somewhere, a Salvation Army Santa Claus was ringing a bell. Out of this mess of faces and catastrophe, Celeste and Berglind emerged, both walking in the same direction, which on the real map of Manhattan would have been toward Bryant Park, but here became a sort of long, white corridor that led back to their apartment in a sparkling white dormitory. Along they sauntered, in a carefree, unfazed way.

“If you want, you can stay at our place,” said Berglind. “That way we can play all night.” Celeste and Berglind were about eight or 10 years younger than me, but seemed much younger now, in their colorful Moomin pajamas. Each dragged along a dolly and yawned as they did it. Celeste looked especially lovely with her chunks of curly red-gold hair. At some point, midtown Manhattan turned into Kalamaja. When we got to their apartment, I had second thoughts. I looked at the two women with their pajamas and dollies. They looked like little girls. I was too old now to spend the night with them. I had my own bed and that’s where a man like me belonged. Besides, I figured Celeste and Berglind would have a better time together without me.

I kissed them both goodbye.

On the way home, I stopped to think about Celeste. I leaned against a bank façade and thought of how I had missed her in my bones, in my soul, in my blood. Years and years had gone by, and nothing seemed to rid my spirit of hers. A thousand blurry kisses in a thousand blurry doorways couldn’t wash her residue away. She was stuck to me like salty barnacle grime. Nothing to do about it but leave her be with her dolly and her friend and her dormitory room. I kept walking through the city, until I saw something unusual on the next street.

My daughter was there and she was standing outside a second bus. My eldest daughter, who I hadn’t seen in ages. She was about 18 years old now and wearing a blue top and her hair was back in a ponytail. Beside her, there was a tall blonde girl, about the same age, dressed in about the same way. Her name, she said, was Oksana, and she was from Ukraine. My daughter and Oksana said they had stolen this second bus. I had no idea why. They didn’t know either. “The thing is,” my eldest daughter said, while biting her lip. “Neither of us even knows how to drive a bus!” I observed the vehicle from head to end. It was a vintage blue bus, probably made more than half a century ago by some Swiss or German manufacturer. What was it doing here?

I climbed the steps to the spacious driver’s chair, took a seat behind the wheel, which was so big it looked like it could have been used to pilot the Titanic. I felt a little like Captain Smith. My daughter and Oksana got on, and soon we were cruising along while Tallinn became New York again and Tööstuse Street turned into Amsterdam Avenue. I didn’t even bother to wonder where I was anymore, or where I was going. Where we were going. The windows were open and the sky was a dense, otherworldly gold and pink. The wind was in our hair. I felt just fine.

the death of maple leaf

MAPLE LEAF was one of Estonia’s top drummers. His real name was Vahtraleht, which means “maple leaf” in Estonian, but his nickname was Vaht, which means “foam.” He was, by his 39th year, a seasoned and accomplished percussionist, who had once jammed with Tony Allen, Fela Kuti’s drummer, and Damon Albarn, albeit on congas. He had lived in several communes and had even spent a stint in Trenchtown. His hair was long and maple-colored, as was his beard, and his skin a flawless milk white. Because of this, he was nicknamed “Mormon Jesus” by some of his American friends. He played in three or four ensembles. He changed girlfriends like lightbulbs. It’s not easy to go steady with a mercurial character like Estonia’s own Maple Leaf.

But then he died. It was in a terrible car crash in Germany. Every single vehicle in the crash was German made. I think a BMW collided with his little white Volkswagen. Surprisingly, he survived the impact, but then crawled out onto the autobahn, where he writhed in pain for some time, pleading with God. “No,” he cried. “No!” Then, with a final tapping of his fingers, he expired from this life, and attained musical immortality. His was the kind of face that was spraypainted on the facades of old buildings in Tallinn, Tartu, and Viljandi. The Estonians had always yearned for their own Viktor Tsoi and in Maple Leaf, this had at least been achieved.

In honor of Maple Leaf and his dramatic end, I decided to bake a kind of maple sugar cake. I brought it into the temple that had been erected in his honor. This had been constructed in the same pattern of an ancient Indian temple. I found it incredibly sad that Maple Leaf would no longer play drums anymore. And to die in a car crash in Germany, of all godforsaken places. But nobody ate my cake at the Indian temple. I guess they were just too consumed with grief.

the east rajasthan health clinic

IN THE BACK of the East Rajasthan Health Clinic, there is a cloak roam and waiting area. Metal chairs are arranged in two rows, one facing the other, and there is a large window above that allows in plenty of light on sunny, springtime days. The cloak room is full of the distinct and colorful angharka robes and jama jackets of the Rajasthani people. Here, they sit and wait for the woman with the maang tikka to call their number. There are several good Rajasthani physicians working to serve Tallinn’s Indian community these days. While they consult their patients, the others sit quietly. A few leaf through Indian magazines. And as for me, I was just catching my breath after being pursued by the traffic police when I first disappeared inside.

***

I am still not sure what the traffic offense was. Maybe Raivo forgot to pay a parking ticket, or rolled through a red light on the Pärnu Highway. We were cruising through town in a white Ferrari Testarossa. The same kind that Crockett and Tubbs traveled around in in Miami Vice. I suppose Raivo was Crockett. I was Tubbs. I always liked Tubbs more anyway. Raivo is my translator and faithful friend. In middle age, he is in spectacular shape. He runs marathons and spends the weekends toiling away on pointless home renovation projects. He was driving the Testarossa when he saw the flashing lights in the rearview mirror. “Probleem,” Raivo mumbled.

When I looked in the window, I could see we were being pursued by a young blonde police officer. She had shoulder-length hair, a pleasant, round face, but very cool, remote blue eyes. There was something vaguely alien about her facial expressions, as if she had never known joy or sadness, torment or love. At Freedom Square we roared past St. John’s Church and then turned up the small road that leads past the Kiek in de Kök and up to Nevski Cathedral and the Parliament House. The police car was right behind us. Raivo parked the car down a side street. We got out and began to run in different directions. Raivo went that way. I went this way.

The Estonian policewoman pursued me into an alleyway, but I managed to give her the slip. I tumbled down the embankment to the Snelli tiik or pond, and that’s when I saw it, a new and modern building. Ida-Rajasthani Tervisekliinik, a sign read, and in Hindi below, पूर्वी राजस्थान स्वास्थ्य क्लिनिक. There are so many Indians in Tallinn now, they say that it’s only a while before they make Hindi a second official language. Without hesitation, I gripped the door handle and went in. I was instantly engulfed in the aroma of incense and young boys were walking through the health clinic crying out, “Chai! Chai! Samosa! Chai!” I bought a paneer samosa off one of the young Estonian Rajasthani sellers and went to the waiting room to hide and wait.

***

After a while of sitting in the East Rajasthan Health Clinic, I began to worry about Raivo. Maybe the policewoman had arrested him? I decided to venture outside, to see if it was safe. And there he was, standing on the street corner across from the Baltic Station talking to her. It was almost as if he was sweet talking her. I saw her nod a little and him lift both of his hands in a gesture that said, “What can you do?” Then she began walking toward me. Those strange blue alien eyes of hers were on mine, but she walked on by. I went over to Raivo and asked him what had happened, he shrugged and said, “Just some nonsense.” We agreed to meet up again in Tartu, and he went back to fetch his abandoned Testarossa. I crossed the street and boarded a train to Viljandi, but not before encountering a certain familiar American actor.

“Alec!” I said. “What are you doing here?” “Just strolling around the Old Town,” said this master actor from Massapequa. “I really love Estonia. All of the history, all of the culture. I am very impressed with the startup scene, by the way. What are you doing here?” he said. “I was hiding in the East Rajasthan Health Clinic after being pursued by the Tallinn police,” I answered. “Oh,” Mr. Baldwin’s Irish blue eyes lit up. “How was that?” “Well, it’s not so bad. They have samosas and chai. And if you ever need to hide from the police, I would suggest the waiting room. Nobody will ever find you in there.” Mr. Baldwin smiled and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks for the tip, kid,” he grinned. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.” He strolled on ahead.

A few moments later and I was already on a Viljandi-bound train. There was a young woman I knew on the train who had platinum blonde hair. I hadn’t seen her in a long time and we began to catch up. She had on a navy blue sweater and navy blue pants and there was something soothing about the contrast of her light hair with all of that navy blue billowing around her like starry evening sky. I began to tell the woman about the police chase in the Testarossa, the alleyway getaway, the East Rajasthan Health Clinic interlude, the chance meeting with Alec Baldwin beside the Snelli tiik. I don’t think she believed a word I said, but she humored me as the train glided toward Tallinn-Väike, Kitseküla, Liiva, and Points South. I was deep in my tale as the last views of the Old Town’s spires and government houses slipped from sight.