by Mari Saat
So perhaps the Estonians should look after themselves in the same way that Rael’s dad was looking after his mum? As if they were looking after a little old lady who would live her allotted span?
“I’m the president,
When everyone’s been fed
When everyone’s been fed
When everyone’s been fed…”
The nursery rhyme began to go round and round in her head; it had dug its way in there for some reason and just kept going round and round – as if the person who had come up with it was Sofia herself, although not her true self, but a different, spiteful version of herself that seemed to tease and mock her with the rhyme, in time with her steps…
“The Battle of Paju,” she repeated back, over and over again, “the Battle of Paju…” slowly and convincingly, because this moonlit field, dotted with the odd shrub, was just like a battlefield after the battle: empty, silent, desolate – perhaps there was the odd frozen corpse buried somewhere under the snow…
Over the field, along the snow-trampled path, two dark shapes were running towards her: men, one large and one small; they stood by the leafless willow shrubs and began to do something to a box or briefcase that the larger one was holding. Sofia thought the smart thing to do would be to turn back or away – who knows what they might decide to get up to and there didn’t appear to be another living soul on the field – in this cold everyone preferred to go by bus, not trek across the field… But somehow it felt inappropriate to turn round and leg it – not that she would have been ashamed to reveal her fear, but it felt ugly to suspect someone when there perhaps were no grounds to do so… As she walked, she looked straight ahead and not towards them at all, and she moved very quickly as if she hadn’t even noticed them…
It was impossible to pass them like that though – the path took a dog-leg around the shrubs and they were busy right there behind the shrubs, muttering angrily, “There’s nothing, nothing at all…” One of them kicked the briefcase away and it landed just in front of Sofia. Sofia stopped and raised her gaze – it was Venya and Tolik.
“What are you two doing here?” she asked, cheering up for a moment because she knew them, even though they were Tolik and Venya.
“Ha!” said Venya, and as if in relief, “rubbish… you see…” and fell perplexedly quiet.
But Tolik, small and thin, approached her slowly as if prowling, slightly stooped, panting, with wide-open eyes that glowed strangely but coldly.
“Listen, we need money, right now! You’ve got money!”
Sofia took a small purse out of her belt bag. Her hand was shaking. “How does he know I’ve got money?” was the thought that flashed across her mind – her only banknote was a large five-hundred-kroon one that Rael had given her that evening, a whole month’s money! But that wasn’t important right now because she sensed that this money was a matter of life and death – not for her, but for the boys. She sensed that something very dreadful might have happened to them, and might still, if she did not hand over the money; she would have given more if she’d had it…
“Good girl,” said Tolik slightly more calmly, slightly less uptight, “look have this, take this book for it!”
And he offered Sofia a thick book.
Now suddenly Sofia was gripped by a frantic fear and broke into a run, crying with the book under her arm; her fear was completely irrational because the boys were hurrying away in the exact opposite direction.
She ran and ran without stopping as far as the building where she lived and up the stairs. It never entered her head that she could wait for the lift; she searched for her keys in her pocket mid-run, rattled them in the door to open it and once in the hall sank on to the chair in the corner.
Mum came into the hall wearing a surprised expression. Mum looked ready for a party, she was wearing her silk blouse – the one with the pale red and gold spots that she never wore at home. Mum was beautiful – bedecked in the palest of pale blue summer skies and reddening flowers and golden sunshine… Her loveliness and festiveness made Sofia burst into tears, sobbing and shaking.
“What’s the matter?” asked Mum, really frightened.
“I don’t know. Something dreadful’s happened!”
“Who with?”
“Those boys.”
“What boys?”
“Them. Venya and Tolik. I gave them money.”
“They took money from you?”
“No, I gave them it, they needed it… They really needed it right away.”
“What happened after that?”
“I don’t know, something dreadful…”
Mum helped her up and led her to a chair at the kitchen table; she poured some hot water from a flask into a cup and stirred several spoonfuls of sugar into it. The good sweet warmth flowed across her whole body. It was incompatible with the fear thrashing within her, supplanting it a little too forcefully, through the back of her head, and out… Yet it didn’t work as well as usual because an anguish bubbled up into her throat from somewhere deep inside her chest and made her sob. Mum took some of her own more powerful herbs from the cupboard as well – valerian – and soaked a sugar lump thoroughly in it. This and the hot water helped. Or the warmth in the room and time itself helped. Sofia yawned. She remembered the way the rat had yawned: hurriedly but otherwise exactly as a human would. The rat didn’t make her cry any more, instead she thought, a little sadly, that people were not much bigger than rats… She felt that she knew what it would be like to be a rat…
Mum got Sofia’s bed ready for her.
“You get into bed now, and off to sleep,” said Mum, “but no more crying. Everything’s OK now. And there’ll be more money – now that I’m back at work…”
Mum had always said that children must not be left to cry themselves to sleep because if they woke up they might start with a stutter and never lose it again… Sofia didn’t argue with her, didn’t remonstrate that she was no longer a child – suddenly she felt so tired that she wanted to climb straight into bed and not move at all… She sank on to the bed, sitting on it.
“Make sure you get yourself undressed and put your nightie on,” said Mum.
“I will…”
“Good,” said Mum, “I’ll close the door so you can nod off more easily…”
Sofia stood up, undressed, put her nightie on, her clothes on the back of the chair, lifted the quilt to climb in and only now noticed the book on the bed, the book that Tolik had given her… Had Tolik given it to her in exchange for the five-hundred-kroon note or had she bought it from Tolik for the five hundred kroons or had she just given him the five-hundred note and Tolik given her the book? She would have liked to get it straight, but she was too tired to think it through thoroughly. In any case she laid the book on the bed and couldn’t fathom how neither she nor Mum had managed not to notice it. She was aware that while she’d been running home the book had been like a millstone round her neck and she remembered having it as she unlocked the door, but after that she couldn’t recall anything about it – how she’d managed to take her coat off, go into the kitchen with the book and from there to her bedroom, and how Mum hadn’t noticed the great thick tome at all.
The book was really thick and heavy; the blue-grey bindings with fine, grooved linings were well worn and foxed but inside there were many colourful pictures, in pastel colours – delicate hues of pink, green, aqua and pale yellow… The writing was in old-fashioned, crooked letters. Sofia thought she’d be able to read them although with great difficulty… In one picture there was an eye – a beautiful, serene eye, and around it were rays, like the sun’s rays – and around the eye there were seven stars, four stars at the top, over the eye, and three below. Each star had seven points. Letter by letter Sofia laboriously spelled out the inscription underneath the picture: “The eye of eternity manifests itself in Sophia’s mirror… The eye with which He sees me is the same eye with which I see Him; my eye is His eye. It is one eye, one seeing, one adoration…”
&nbs
p; The text wasn’t difficult to read, but it was difficult to understand: why was her name here? And why were “He” and “His” written with initial capitals but “me” and “my” were not? She realised of course that the “Sophia” written in the book, leaving aside the “ph”, wasn’t her, wasn’t the name her mum had given her for whatever reason, the one written with an “f”. Yet it didn’t seem to her to be mere chance. Everything seemed somehow linked, planned in advance, the fact that she should happen to be there in the field today and that those boys had needed money and that they’d had to give her this book and that she’d opened the thick book at this very page… She remembered the eye that had looked inside her up there in Zhanna’s flat, the eye that she had looked into, and it had been her eye… She was not afraid. Not now that she’d read those three pairs of words – one eye, one seeing, one adoration…
It was awe that she felt. Not fear but awe. This book was like a strange elderly gentleman with a long grey beard who was in no way cruel or angry, but who had to be treated with great respect… In any case Sofia placed it under her pillow. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad that she’d lost her money but received a book like this? Now she was fully calm… and just drifting into sleep… But wasn’t it selfish? Now she was in a warm bed and no longer remotely worried about the boys? No, it wasn’t right!
She hurried to find Mum. Mum was sat on the sofa in the living room, watching a film on the TV. She was still wearing the silk blouse and only now did Sofia notice that she even had her velvety indoor heels on that she wore only if there was a party – for New Year or a birthday – and guests had been invited. But she didn’t give the impression of someone who was flourishing and festive; instead she looked somehow despondent, as if the flowers on her blouse were wilting.
“Oh, have I got it on too loud? I’ll turn it down a bit,” said Mum, seeing Sofia.
“No, no, it’s not that. I was just thinking… I wanted to ask – is it OK to light a candle for living people? Like when someone dies, someone you know, and you go to church and light a candle for them – you lit one for Kiira’s dad, but can you light one for people who are still alive?”
“Of course,” said Mum, “especially if you know who their patron saint is… But why do you want to light a candle?”
“I’m not sure… I was just thinking – perhaps I could light a candle for those boys? Perhaps it might help them?”
Sofia hugged Mum, “I love you so much!”
“Get away with you!” scolded Mum. “Off to bed now. I’ll turn the telly down. And I’ll be turning in myself soon too…”
No sooner had Sofia climbed into bed and closed her eyes than sleep deserted her again. And she started worrying: what did it mean that Mum was wearing a silk blouse and those shoes at home on a workday? She hadn’t said she was expecting anyone, had she, when they were sitting in the kitchen? Who could it be? She wouldn’t have dressed up like that for Kiira or Lyuda, would she? Perhaps whoever it was had never arrived? Mum was sitting on the sofa by herself as if she was watching a film… Somehow inappropriately alone… I wonder why she called me Sofia? She would have liked to run back to ask, but didn’t want to bother her again… For some reason Mum wanted some privacy…
Suddenly Sofia wanted so strongly, with all her soul, for Mum to have someone. For Mum not to live with and for her alone – to use Mum’s own words – to help her when she had a lovely little girl of her own. Sure enough it pleased her when Mum talked like that and she was always wanting to sit on Mum’s lap and hug her and for Mum to caress her… or just sit next to her on the sofa and watch a horror film on the telly because there always seemed to be one on even though there actually wasn’t… If Mum had someone, would that be an end to all that? Would she have to really grow up? But she so wanted Mum to be happy, to have someone who loved her…
She began to wonder who it could be. There was no point in hoping that her father had appeared out of the blue from somewhere – or someone else who was tall, chiselled, gorgeous and loving like him. What would the main thing be? The main thing would be that this someone loved Mum, loved her above all else, but just who could he be – an Estonian or a Russian or a Jew… or even a Finn! What he looked like was not important… Mum would have to like him a bit, of course… Maybe that wouldn’t be so easy. If Sofia’s dad had really been as good-looking as Mum always said… Somehow she’d have to explain to Mum that looks weren’t important. Even if he was skinny or fat… or perhaps balding – Phil Collins was bald and look how many fans he had… Anyhow, wasn’t time running out for him? But not because he was bald. The main thing was that he wouldn’t hurt Mum, that he’d look after her… It’d be good too, of course, if he had money and didn’t throw it away on drink. If he and Mum could travel, go to Capri for example… Sofia would be happy to stay at home, look after the house, and earn money for herself – she’d read to Rael’s grandma and in summer might sell newspapers… Apparently there was a grotto on the island of Capri, a grotto in a cliff that you could sail into, and the water inside was supposed to be as clear and as blue as a precious stone, and warm, and there were towering cliffs – or so Rael said. Might it be like that time in Crimea? Then everything around would be so lovely that it wouldn’t matter that the man wasn’t exactly like Sofia’s father had been… What kind of man could be so rich that he’d take Mum to the island of Capri? Surely it would have to be a Finn? But weren’t the Finns big drinkers? What would a Finn who couldn’t hold his drink be like?
By and large Natalya Filippovna understood nothing of the whole business – some boys were in trouble. Boys that Sofia didn’t really even know, she’d only met them once at Zhanna’s at that awful party that Sofia had come home from in the dead of night. She’d given them her whole month’s pay – the money that she’d earned at Rael’s grandma’s, but the boys hadn’t taken it from her by force, she’d given it to them because they’d been in such trouble – that was what she’d said over and over again – that they were in a terrible state. Yet they’d been alive and healthy and, most important, Sofia herself was alive and healthy. The money, the five hundred kroons, was a large sum, no two ways about it, but not a matter of life and death now that Natalya was back in work… She couldn’t understand these kids, and what they thought was dreadful and what they didn’t… Perhaps it actually was a good idea – to go and light a candle for them – if it only satisfied Sofia. And going to church was good in itself, a healthy thing to do… Only, what if at the church she, Natalya, were to come face to face with the priest? Now that Dmitri Dmitrievich hadn’t arrived or phoned even though he’d promised he would, he’d agreed, down to the exact time… Could something have happened to him? Or had he hesitated, decided at the last minute that he wouldn’t call on a woman like her after all… Hardly likely though, was it, that the priest had anything to do with Dmitri Dmitrievich – there were plenty of people like that with that kind of voice… All said and done, she didn’t want to meet the priest and look him in the eye. The place she wanted to be was in that sordid bed – yes, she’d like to be there, but not with anyone other than Dmitri Dmitrievich, lying side by side, and Dmitri Dmitrievich could talk to her… about the good sun and the evil sun… But all this was completely impossible because Natalya had turned Vova down in no uncertain terms despite the fact that Vova’s wife would have been happy to let Natalya provide services to her clients for a fair while longer…
Natalya ached with longing. All the time. While at work building pathways for electrons or on the bus on the way home, or watching the telly without registering what was actually on – whatever she was doing she thought about Dmitri Dmitrievich. She even forgot to keep checking Sofia’s grades – she forgot to ask how school was going… Finally she even began to feel that Dmitri Dmitrievich was by her side. She was definitely not going mad. She could not see Dmitri Dmitrievich or hear his voice. But when she thought about him or wondered what he might have said in response to something or other, she had the feeling that Dmitri Dmitrievi
ch was somewhere behind her, at her right shoulder, and would reply in his crooning, lilting voice… And she even confused what he had actually said earlier about something or other with what she, Natalya, now believed Dmitri Dmitrievich might say… If anything, things were actually easier this way – there was none of the depressing emptiness, just a feeling that he was always here somewhere…
He couldn’t really have died, could he? Once when visitors were round for tea, when Natalya was still small, her grandmother had said that when a small child dies it leaves a companion for its mother, like a guardian angel, and they can see the child – the ones with the gift, that is – hovering by the mother’s shoulder… It was just whether it was at the right shoulder or the left – that was what Natalya could not recall. But she was not Dmitri Dmitrievich’s mother. And he was definitely not a small child. If he had died, he would definitely have gone straight to heaven.
Natalya wondered for a moment – if Dmitri Dmitrievich really had died, would she want him hovering by her shoulder or would she want him to go straight to heaven? No, she didn’t want Dmitri Dmitrievich stuck at her side. Yet it was so good to sense his presence, sometimes the feeling was very strong, as if someone had delicately stroked her cheek like a warm, gentle breeze even though she was sitting indoors and there was no breeze, or was on the bus with all the windows shut.
She and Sofia had gone to church on the Sunday morning and lit a candle although the priest hadn’t been there. Was Dmitri Dmitrievich still going to Vova’s? Not that it would be right to ask. She just wanted to know, and to know that nothing had happened to him. “Oh, just let him be alive!” grieved Natalya Filippovna. “Never mind what he’s doing. Whether he calls or not, whether he’s still visiting Vova’s flat, Vova’s wife, the main thing is that he’s alive, healthy and alive.” Because if he wasn’t, she could no longer live, she’d be alive of course, but she’d live like a machine – she’d go to work like a machine, she’d make meals at home like a machine – she’d live only for her daughter, Sofia, like a machine – she’d no longer even be able to love her child or believe in God – she just wouldn’t… And when she worried and grieved in this way, she felt a gentle laughter at her right shoulder, at the nape of her neck, like grown-ups chuckling over childhood’s trifles. So much so that it embarrassed her. She remembered that once Dmitri Dmitrievich had said that the thing that everyone thought was love was not in fact true love – the love that people feel for their dogs or cats or husbands or wives or even the love that they feel for their children. All that was just learning to love. The truth was that people lived solely in order to learn to love, to love truly – but true love was like a light that spilled over everyone equally, be they an enemy or even a murderer or a vicious pile of scum… And when that love was clear, then everything in the world was clear!