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.
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.
THE SUN WAS RISING as I was strolling along the river promenade when, on a whim, I decided to turn up one side street that arched back toward the gray center of town. It was morning in Narva, where it was perpetually late February or early March. Ice clung stubbornly to every façade and rooftop. One’s breathe, like smoke, was always visible and drifting, and the sounds of sturdy boots punched out a clean rhythm on the city’s frosty mottled sidewalks.
About halfway up this street, I noticed a wooden house packed in between two mighty Soviet-era structures. It had a multipaned window that bowed out into the street. Behind the glass, I could see fresh loaves of bread, scones, Cornish pasties. I looked up at the sign but couldn’t make out the hand-painted name. Was it Trelawney? Pendragon? One of those names.
How could it be? How could it be that there was a British bakery hidden in the back streets of Narva? Who was the rogue baker who dared to operate in this sea of Russia-facing Russianness? What clients did he have? Did they even know what a pasty was? What a secret!
It was terribly cold at that moment and I thought a hunk of good sourdough, a slab of butter, some good marmalade, and a strong coffee would be the ultimate fix. Through the window I could see the baker at work, though his back was to me, and he was dressed in old-fashioned clothing. This was not fully Dickensian attire, but he had on a gray coat and flat cap, and an old checkered scarf wrapped around his neck from a century ago. He was an older man, but not much older. It could have maybe been a handful of years between us, but his hair shone silver.
I knocked on the door and then tapped on the window. “Can I come in?” I said. Behind the man, I could see stacks of tea chests with words like Premium and East India stamped all over them. The man cocked his head as if he was confused by the situation. Then he mouthed to me the words, “We’re closed,” through the window and went back about his work. But why were they closed? I was maybe the only person who was lucky enough to find that Narva bakery. Why shut me out?
AFTER VICE PRESIDENT JD Vance returned from his trip to Tallinn, it was said that a great change had come over him. No one was quite sure what had catalyzed this right-on-time midlife crisis onset, but it could have been the sum of experiences. Maybe it was viewing the Anton Corbijn retrospective at Fotografiska, or merely watching men and women the same age as him engaged in stirring table tennis matches in the many yards and alleyways of Telliskivi. Maybe it was his first taste of a delicious VLND Burger. Nobody knew what had caused it.
The changes were visible. The Ulysses S. Grant-inspired beard was the first to go, followed by that sharp suit he had worn when famously lecturing Zelenskyy. After the Tallinn trip, Vance had started wearing a pale blue, long-sleeve shirt that read TALLINN on it. The shirt was one-size too large, which gave Vance a billowy, college-freshman-getting-over-his-hangover look.
It was this changed Vance that I encountered at the Elliott School of International Studies in Washington, DC, a few weeks later when I went to retrieve a few books I had left behind in the student lounge during a six-week crash course in Baltic Studies. I went into the sparse, multi-level area, climbed a set of stairs and found the books in the corner where some older couples were sitting around and chatting. One of the women, with dyed blonde hair, wore a pink dress, the amount of cleavage visible was on the level of the grotesque. Who were these people?
It was then that I noticed a van pull up outside the school, and Vance and his entourage — a mix of press pool, Secret Service, and Hillybilly Elegy fans — follow him in. With his pink, cleanly shaven face and TALLINN long-sleeve t-shirt, it occurred to me that Vance was starting to look more ex-boyband star than vice president. He came into the lobby and was mobbed by students. Then he told his followers that he needed a rest and sat down on a couch across from me. I was nervous. What could I tell Vance? Was now the time to do some lobbying on behalf of the Baltics? What would Kasekamp say? How would he handle this? I decided to play it cool, to let him do the talking, to make him think that I was his friend. If I came at him with some slogans, he was more likely to tune me out. For whatever reason, the president had not yet turned on Vance, despite his new look. Perhaps after having alienated the British and Italian prime ministers and the Pope, he had decided that annoying the man who could make him redundant with one flip of the 25th Amendment was not the best idea.
“Well,” Vance said. “I came to hear your ideas.” Something about that Ohio drawl made “ideas” sound like “odors.” His put his hands on his thighs, leaned in. “You want to smell our odors?” I asked. Vance gave me a strange look. I gave him a strange look. It occurred to me that I might be tripping. Had I been dosed? How else to explain the weird 1950s couple in the student lounge, especially the woman with the pink dress and obscene cleavage. What was going on?
I noticed some other students in the back, leftwing university alumni, familiar to me from my undergraduate days. They began to circle each other. I was mortified. They were going to mess up my lobbying on behalf of the Baltics. We had Vance right here in the palms of our hands. He was becoming one of us, the seventh friend, so to speak, in addition to Ross, Phoebe, Joey, Monica, Chandler and Rachel. Or was JD Vance the replacement for Chandler? All we needed to do was give him some good coffee and his transition to the light would be complete. And those boneheads wanted to insult him? To my amazement, they began singing a familiar song. It was “When You Wish Upon a Star,” the Disney anthem. One of the protestors had even dressed up like Mickey Mouse in Fantasia and was dancing on the hands of the protestors.
“Anything your heart desires will come to you!” Mickey shouted down at JD Vance. I clasped my hands over my eyes. I was certain that I had been drugged. None of this could be true. But when I looked back, I saw that JD Vance was crying. The impromptu singing of the Disney song had moved something in him. “I love that song,” he said. “I just love that song.” Vance turned to me and said, “I’m staying here with you guys.” Happy collegiate faces surrounded him, encouraging his big change. Someone shouted out, “Get this man a latte with coconut milk!”
“No, sir,” said James David Vance, shaking his head. “I ain’t ever going back to the White House.”
I DON’T REMEMBER how I met the Princess. I do remember that I was in Italy, just outside of Corigliano, on my way to the Sila, when I stopped into a gas station and was nearly seduced by another woman, whose nerves I calmed in Italian. After that, I stole a candy bar from the gas station and was on my way. Later, I heard a lot about the candy bar, but at the time, I was just trying to outdo my scofflaw friends, who had never bought a train ticket in their lives. When I calmed the Italian woman, I told her she was beautiful, of course, that most men were in love with her, but for various reasons why I could not accompany her on the next part of her trip.
Then I went back to the apartment we had rented on the coast and I think that’s where I met the Princess and her entourage. She was undoubtedly the Princess of Wales, but not that Princess of Wales. She looked almost identical to Annikki, except she spoke the Queen’s, or King’s English, and had incredible, royal posture. Her hair was golden and almost alien to the touch, her skin was milky colored, smooth and flawless. The group captain assigned to protect her carried out a very thorough interview with me. This was a younger lad who could have been an ex-quidditch player. Somehow I passed the test. The night was spent watching romantic comedies on a fine couch and sharing bites of cookies. I think the Princess liked me.
And then she was off again, with her dresses and entourage, to complete her tour. Eventually, when I returned home, I heard about two things. One was the deep shame my family felt upon hearing about the candy bar stolen from a gas station in Italy (“And you know, they have it all on video! The owner is so disappointed in you, a fellow Italian stealing!”) but also the elation that their son had finally met a new woman and that she happened to be the Princess of Wales.
“Is it true that she really likes you?” my mother asked. “Yeah, we get on great,” I said. I somehow wasn’t quite sure what all the fuss was about. She was just a princess. “You know,” my father said after a turn. He was standing there dressed in sober black, my consigliere. “This could be good for you. Have you thought about asking her for a royal appointment?” I shook my head vehemently. “You know, I knew you were going to do this,” I said. My father stepped back, as if struck by a dart. “Do what? All I am saying is, she happens to be a princess, you happen to need a job. She likes you. She happens to be in a place where she could get you a gig with a high-paying salary.” “I might have met the new love of my life and all you can think about is how I can benefit financially from it?” I said. “No, no, just listen a minute,” he said. “Don’t forget, you were so desperate you stole a candy bar!” “Oh, I’ll send Mario a whole box of goddamn candy bars!” I shot back. “Same old shit,” I said. “Same old snaky manipulative shit!”
After I left the room, I could hear them argue about who had done what wrong. My mother blamed my father. My father said he was only trying to help. My brother was there in the corridor with a package, wrapped up in plain brown paper and tied with a ribbon. He was standing there patiently in a jacket and tie, like the doorman at a Manhattan hotel. “I thought I’d get you this for your birthday,” he said, then gesturing with his head, “Don’t listen to them. They don’t know anything about princesses.”
I removed the paper and saw what it was, a new Jack Kerouac book. Discovered in the vault of an old mobster, published for the very first time. There were pictures of Jack on the cover seated at a typewriter, or standing somewhere in the desert beside a cactus. The cover and the paper were smooth to the touch and they aroused a kind of tingling curiosity within me. Good old Jack. “I knew you’d like it,” my brother said. “Thanks,” I said. “Now this is a good gift.”
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.
THE BABY was not mine. It was my ex-girlfriend’s baby. I know this because she brought it with her when she came to visit Estonia with her friend (or was she her girlfriend?) They looked alike, two lesbian women from the West Coast with pale faces and orange curly hair. We were standing behind the Raekoda or Town Hall in Tartu on a wet, gray streaky day. Student activities were underway, something like a race or marathon. People lined the cobblestone streets, my ex-girlfriend and her friend included. They were unassuming American tourists. For them this was all just taking in the culture. That’s when she handed the baby to me. “Can you take care of her?” she asked. “We would like to do some sightseeing.”
Sightseeing? I walked across the Town Hall Square to Katla’s apartment house, then up that flight of stairs to her door. Inside, I discovered that its rooms were full of boxes and guests. “Whose baby is it?” someone asked. They were standing around a Christmas tree, having a kind of packing holiday party. They were wearing festive sweaters. “It’s not my baby,” I said, cradling her. “But she sure is sweet.” She was a lovely child with yellow fuzz for hair. And despite being maybe half a year old, the baby somehow had learned to talk quite impressively.
This I found out later when I lost the baby. I had just set her down for a moment in the busy apartment and then couldn’t find her. How could I have lost someone else’s baby?! What was my ex-girlfriend going to say when I told her she was gone? Why was I watching my ex-girlfriend’s baby anyway? That was just like her, you know, to hand all the responsibility over to some fool like me while she went out and got her things done. I raced from room to room, hoping for a sign. Then I heard some happy giggling. From the corner of the back room, I saw something move from beneath a blanket. The blanket lifted and the baby peaked out, chubby and pink. “Hey, silly,” the baby gurgled and laughed at me. “I’ve been hiding here all this time.”
MY MOTHER bought us tickets to the US, but they were from Frankfurt to Oakland, California. She said it was the cheapest deal she could find. This did result in some quarrelling. I told her I didn’t want to fly all the way to Oakland and then drive cross country. Over desert sands, mountain peaks, rolling plains? None of that. But the tickets to Oakland were booked.
It was all pre-arranged.
I tried to convince myself that it wasn’t a bad deal. I imagined little Oakland down there, gleaming beneath the silvery wing of the plane, the high bridge over the bay. The friendly taxi drivers, the friendly toll takers, those friendly Hells Angels, et cetera. And didn’t you know that in Oakland some families were now trying to live as they do in the country, keeping their own backyard goats? Hipster dads would disappear with their saucepans to collect the fresh milk.
Something unsettled me about the thing. Tickets acquired, with no input from me. I had to sit on that long flight whether I wanted to or not. A long, lengthy flight over half the world, and all of the North American landmass. “It’s only three hours longer than usual,” she said. I suppose I was going to go, and in the end I did. We packed our things and were off in that big shiny jet.
When we got there, I was dead tired. We checked into a boutique hotel on the corner of Bush and Powell. I had missed the San Francisco Bay. Maybe this wasn’t too bad. And maybe we could fly to New York. No need for a perilous road trip. My daughter slept on the floor, for some reason, and there were two single beds, like in those old Hollywood movies. I was in one bed and my wife slept in the other one. She looked sort of like a young Anu Saagim, during her notorious ’03 milk photoshoot. “Oh, you’re not going to sleep just yet,” she said. “Not without a good …” She climbed out of her bed and into mine with enthusiasm. The last thing I remember is those breasts dangling like fruit, freckles in between. Two freckly warm jugs.
I HAD NOWHERE to stay, so I made a little nest in the corner of the Lidl supermarket with some discounted German pillows and blankets. I rested my head against a display case full of frozen pizzas. It was late afternoon and for some reason the lights had been turned off and the counters were covered with root vegetables, like radishes, carrots, cabbages, and so on, when I saw her there. Dulcinea, in her dark coat, glinting like gold at the end of a cave, talking to a supervisor in a pleasant but slightly pleading way. Then she saw me, sleeping in the corner and came over and said, “Mother says that I have to get a job. She said they have some openings.”
These were the first words she had said to me in three years. A tear ran down a heavy cheek. I had to pause to collect my poise. “Well, there’s a good chance I’ll still be sleeping here tomorrow night,” I told her, from my makeshift supermarket sleep nest. “Maybe we’ll be seeing each other again.” “Yes, it would be quite nice to see you again,” she told me. She meant it.
When she left, there was a special throb in my chest that I recognized instantly as love, and I allowed it to spread to every part of my body and to ache away in unison. What better feeling was there in this life than this kind of undying chance supermarket encounter love? But then I had to get a job and the sad fact is that I wasn’t at Lidl when Dulcinea started working there.
A conference on agricultural biotechnology, held in lower fourth level of the University of Life Sciences. Why did they build auditoriums so deep in the earth? Room 424B. Or was 403B? I couldn’t remember. It was all quite newly renovated, but what was with this green carpeting, the dark wood panelling on the walls? To make covering the conference more challenging, someone had given me a baby to care for, so I was pushing a stroller with the tyke in front. He was wriggling and at times sobbing quite loudly. The diaper had come loose, and his urine fountained everywhere. Whose child was this? He couldn’t have been mine. Way too blonde.
“I’ll get that little boy all cleaned up,” said a woman who came to help. She looked like Tippi Hedrin’s character in The Birds. She swept away with the mystery infant and I spent the rest of the day in the back row of a stale-aired conference room listening to dull talks about agronomy. Later I realized that I didn’t have a change of clothes for the conference. Could I really recycle the same shirt? The same black pair of pants? It occurred to me that somewhere inside Lidl they probably sold decent clothes on the cheap. So I would go back. Maybe I could find something high quality and German, but at a reasonable price. Maybe Dulcinea would be waiting at the counter. Again the feeling swept over me like cool winds across the steppe. And the fields and grasses rustled, whispering, “Love, love, love,” and “Always, always, always.”
IN VIRGINIA there was an old hotel, somewhere off the Jefferson Davis Highway, that had at one point been a Ramada or Days Inn, but had since been abandoned and reincorporated into the surrounding swamp and jungle. In the front of the white cinderblock structure, there had been a fountain and series of small pools that had once been part of an ornate hotel garden.
According to Takashi Riken, the Japanese mountaineer, this man-made stream was now a prime fishing spot. He brought us down into the Ramada swamp lands to catch bass, trout, and, if we got lucky, catfish. Stig, the Estonian nightclub performer, came along too. There we sat at the edge of what had once been an outdoor terrace at this abandoned Virginia Ramada Inn, waiting for a fish to bite. While Riken was hooking some of the bait, it fell from his hand and into the stream waters, which were so clear that you could see straight through. I dove in and recovered the bait and we continued to place it on our fish hooks and wait for the fish.
It was then that I saw it, a 12-foot-long green serpent, entering the stream at one side. It moved slowly, turning at almost perfectly geometric 90 degree angles, its two unconcerned black eyes looking straight ahead. “Takashi-san,” I said, tugging at the line. Riken looked down at me with his sunburned, craggy face and said, “What is it now?” “Snake,” I said. “There’s a snake in the water!” Riken sighed loudly. “Oh, don’t be such a pussy, you know that most snakes here are completely … ” He trailed off as he saw it. That weathered face of his made no further movement. “Stig,” he called out to our fellow fisherman. His rod was cast down stream. “Stig?”
“What?” he called back. “Stig, we need to leave now.” “Why?” “There’s a snake.” “On a plane?” came the reply, but then Stig also stopped moving and speaking because he saw it. We sprinted off through ankle-deep water in what had been the parking lot. We ran with our fishing poles in hand. The last thing I recall seeing is that green snake, slithering toward a sunset with the reeds all around it. A second, smaller, darker snake joined it and I felt that, no matter where I went or what I did, I could never depend on nature to be a trustworthy friend.
north! 