Best European Fiction 2017

by Eileen Battersby

  “How debonair you look!”

  “Hey …” I poke her chest. “You’re pretty classy yourself!”

  “Like it? I’m going downstairs, there’s a bigger mirror there.”

  When she’s gone, I put the bottle of codeine tablets in my pants pocket. It’s not too good, the bottle bulges. Should I take just a few? Yes! I slide a couple of the tablets in my breast pocket along with a white handkerchief and put the rest in my overcoat pocket. If I need them, I’ll go to the cloakroom and take some.

  “Hilda, I have to be at the hospital right after the performance,” Tamara says as she fastens a belt around her waist. “May I keep the dress until tomorrow?”

  “Since I‘m not giving it to you for free, for all I care you can wear it for a week.”

  “Oh, really?” Tamara freezes for a moment. “How much do I have to pay then?”

  “Not much. Boris will soon have finished that good medicine. If you could again …”

  “Already? Well, fine then … I’ll bring the dress together with the medicine.”

  “Yes … but the sooner the better.”

  “But you just said—for all I care after a week.” Tamara smiles.

  “I meant the dress, not the medicine.”

  “I understand, I do understand, I’ll try tomorrow … Well, how do we look?” Tamara hooks her arm in my elbow.

  “Well, almost zu schön. You will be the most beautiful there for sure!” Hilda clasps her hands with delight.

  “And with that tuxedo the gentleman has nothing to be ashamed of, but will be admired and respected by all. By the way, after the performance don’t wander off to some soiree because I’ll be waiting for you outside and will be freezing all alone in my coach.”

  “You’ll also drive us back? How nice of you!”

  “Such refined upper-crust folk can’t be crammed into a tram. It’s too bad you have to go to work. After the performance I had intended to celebrate a bit our now obsolete Independence Day.”1

  “Oh yes? Well … in my thoughts I’ll be with you.”

  I gaze at my beloved and conclude—an observant person should notice in her Latvian-flag-red dress a hidden message. It’s not overtly daring but it might warm the heart of some countryman of ours.

  We’re about to leave when Boris, unshaven and disheveled, enters the room.

  “I need water.”

  “But I already put some by your bed.” Hilda tries to take her husband’s hand, but he breaks away.

  “You’re laughing? I need much more water. And we must tell all the residents to keep barrels-full at hand. But don’t you worry; I’ve found a way to announce this to the whole country via my radio.” Boris smiles cunningly. “The Americans have altered their plans—their soldiers will now be sent by mail. Each Latvian citizen will shortly receive a package. The idea is simple, but brilliant—the United States Secret Service has infiltrated the German postal system. The post will appear to be sent from Germany, but the packages will contain American soldiers. And I totally agree with Roosevelt, this is much safer.”

  We all gasp almost in unison.

  “What are you talking about, dear?” Hilda tries to push Boris away, but he stands firm like a cliff.

  “You know that man is three-quarters water. The Americans will dehydrate their army, place them in small boxes and send them here, but we’ll put them in water until they swell up again, are revived, and once again ready for battle. If the plan succeeds, then there will soon be a hundred thousand here and that will be the end of Hitler.”

  “How did you find this out?” Rūdis asks.

  “From an announcement in code.”

  “On the radio? From newspapers?”

  “No, these things don’t happen so openly any more!” Boris wants to laugh at Rūdis’s naïveté. “I have Gershwin’s records. One recording is called An American in Paris. And as we all know,” Boris says with a victorious look on his face, “Riga is ‘Little Paris.’ Correctly read it should be: An American in Little Paris. See how this has all been planned? I’d already received this important news before the Russian and the subsequent German invasions.”

  “Of course …”

  “Yes, and the messenger also confirmed it.”

  “What messenger?” Rūdis steps forward quickly and unintentionally frightens Boris.

  “I can’t tell you that.” Boris suddenly deflates and turns to leave. “Oh, I left there … left some pressing work …” Boris hastily rushes into his room.

  In my opinion the comment about the messenger is the same sort of nightmare as the rest, but Rūdis for whatever reason ascribes some significance to it. He gazes fixedly at Hilda.

  “Do you know by any chance why he mentioned the messenger?”

  “Why does he mention Americans? Oh, my God, how am I to know …” Nervously shrugging her shoulders, Hilda looks aside. Her evasive look is cause for more suspicion to Rūdis.

  “He hasn’t gone outside, has he?”

  “No …”

  “Really? Hilda, I have to know if something like that has happened. For our own safety’s sake.”

  “Oh, now you’re really pressuring me! Just because of such a trivial thing, it’s nonsense and not worth talking about. I had fallen asleep, Rebecca also, and he sneaked out for a moment. But I caught him quickly. Right here on the porch. He didn’t manage to get away and no one saw him, and he also didn’t see anyone. The messenger is just a fantasy, the same as the rest of it …” Hilda falls back into a chair and begins to cry. “Oy, how worn out I am! I can’t take it anymore …”

  Tamara hurries to her and, leaning down, hugs her.

  “Now, Hilda, please don’t cry.” Hilda’s tears drastically change Rūdis’s interrogative tone. “You do understand—I had to clear this up.”

  “Yes,” she sobs. “But nothing has happened after all.”

  “Well, that’s good then, Hilda! Let’s move on.” Rūdis glances at his watch. “Hey, my dears, we really must hurry now.”

  “Hang in there, friend! It’ll all be fine!” In saying good-bye Tamara embraces Hilda again warmly.

  Rūdis lets us off on Valņu Street. It wouldn’t do to have us roll out from a beat-up truck in front of the Opera House. Not only the car, but also my coat is worn-out from extended use, so I quickly take it off as soon as we enter the lobby. The first thing that catches the eye are the gesticulating arms of officers and the women’s luxurious fur coats.

  Our seats are excellent—in the second opera box, first row. Of course, no one would give a seat in a remote corner behind a post as a birthday gift to Tamara, the lady doctor. Maybe the threat implied by military uniforms creates a deceptive impression, but, it seems that the majority of men in the audience are soldiers. At least that’s the case in the parterre section and the bel étage. I assume that there are normal people seated higher up, in the balconies.

  On entering the White House, as Latvians tend to call the opera building, I thought I’d be nervous, surrounded by so unfamiliar a public, but that’s not the case, I’m calm and in an amicable mood. I glance at Tamara and she too is behaving like a true aristocrat. Her head held high, something akin to Mona Lisa’s smile on her lips. Several Latvian culture workers and artists are also seated in the parterre section. I recognize their faces from the newspapers. The Fritzes cast bored looks around, maybe lingering a bit longer on Tamara, but a few Latvians examine us thoroughly. I guess at what they must be thinking—those two are not from the usual opera crowd, they’ve never been seen here before, and they’re dressed up as if for a festive concert celebrating Latvia’s Independence Day. In particular the young woman—a dark red dress with a sparkling silver belt and, pinned above her breast, an ornamental national broach of real silver decorated with rubies. And it wouldn’t enter anyone’s mind that beside this sublime creature sits a common housepainter from Torņakalns. Or even more ghastly—a gravedigger from Ziepniekkalns.

  An elderly officer and his wife take the seats beside u
s. The wife is young, she could be his daughter, but could just as easily be from a brothel—she’s difficult to categorize. Slightly inclining his head he greets us. We’re just as polite. The Opera House slowly grows dark.

  The beginning of the overture almost jettisons me into a tumultuous sea. It slowly calms down, after a moment to surrender again to thundering power. I close my eyes and imagine myself standing on a heaving ship’s deck. Involuntarily my fingers clench the edges of my seat, but the stormy gale subsides, and, when I open my eyes the curtain also goes up. A mariner chorus, Daland, the Steersman, and the Dutchman sing so magnificently that the first act slips by almost unnoticed.

  Tamara doesn’t want to stroll back and forth in the corridor during intermission, she’d rather stay seated, asking about my health and describing her impressions of the performance. At the second bell, I’m overtaken by the feeling that someone is watching me. Glancing around the concert hall, I look up and see Hermine sitting in the balcony. Well I’ll be damned! I’d never have guessed that she’d be interested in anything more than pop music. She stares fixedly at me, as if in reproach—how dare you sit in such good seats, moreover with such a lovely and elegantly dressed woman. But maybe her eyes are not throwing daggers, it just seems so to me. At such a distance one can be mistaken and imagine God knows what. Noticing that I’ve spotted her, Hermine quickly turns toward her escort. In such an emphatically loving manner, it’s laughable. The somewhat slight officer—I can’t tell his rank—seems like he hasn’t yet tired of Hermine’s chatter and the periodic graze of her ample bosom. He too studies me. Would Hermine be telling him of our past exploits? Well … she’s capable of anything. It’s quite disconcerting to have an old flame leer at you from above. I’m able to pay attention to the second act only when Tamara has nudged me lightly. I sneak a look at the balcony—now Hermine’s eyes are boring a hole in Tamara. She can’t give it a rest, she’d have done better to sit back and enjoy the performance. I sense that the long accustomed-to yet constant taste of lead in my mouth has become more pronounced. What now? I assume that Hermine is capable of ruining anyone’s mood from whatever distance, but for the life of me I couldn’t have imagined that her presence would have such a negative effect. But maybe the soldiers in the concert hall are to blame? Regardless, having shoved three fingers in my breast pocket, inconspicuously I grab two tablets and put them under my tongue.

  At the next intermission, we decide to walk about a bit. To the men’s room and the lady’s room. It’s good that I’m not on the same floor as Hermine. Tamara doesn’t have the slightest inkling about her existence.

  During the third act the drama takes place only on the stage, because I’ve calmed down. I immerse myself in the waves created by the Flying Dutchman, and Hermine can stare to her heart’s content, her presence no longer disturbs me.

  After the performance, on leaving, Tamara kisses my cheek and thanks me. I don’t understand why I’ve earned this. Thanks to you too.

  Rūdis’s truck is parked in our agreed-to location at the corner of Kalēju and Audēju Streets.

  “Get in on the double, my feet are frozen to the pedals.”

  As soon as we take our places in the cab of the truck, the windows immediately steam up.

  “What hot breaths. Did you have drinks, or what?” Rūdis wipes the windshield with one hand, his other hand steering the wheel.

  “If you were to take off your boots and raise your frozen feet, we could blow on them and warm them up.”

  “Yes … now I understand why you like Matīss.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he has no comeback for your sharp tongue.”

  “You’re wrong. My tongue is as smooth as silk and as tender as down.”

  “More likely as smooth as a scalpel.”

  In such a way they banter back and forth until we reach the hospital. Having got out with Tamara, I indicate to Rūdis not to wait, but to take off. I’ll walk the short distance home. I want to accompany Tamara for a few steps.

  “As you wish. But don’t kiss too long or you’ll get a sore throat,” Rūdis warns. I slam the truck door shut but he rolls down a window. “Matīss, don’t forget, the cognac is waiting.”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Oh! Why did you let him go? Like this your cold will get worse. Give me a quick kiss and run after him. Tomorrow morning I’ll come to see you.”

  “Yes?”

  “Yes, for sure. I have to tell you some things.”

  “Really!? Once you start, you have to finish.”

  “Oh, God … who loosened my tongue,” Tamara is annoyed with herself. “I’ll just explain all tomorrow, so, please, be patient. How stupid of me, now you’ll imagine God knows what.”

  “Hey … At least you could give me a hint of what this is about.”

  “Don’t get uptight! It’s nothing bad, just the opposite. You’ve got a bit of patience, don’t you?”

  “Uh-huh …”

  “Well, good then.”

  She gets up on her toes and we kiss much longer than Rūdis could stand. It’s biting cold, but I don’t want to let Tamara go.

  “I laughed at Rūdis, but my feet are freezing too,” Tamara taps her heels one against the other, and our embrace is undone.

  I always feel that this last moment of farewell is the hardest—who’ll be the first to look away and turn to go? Tamara has the upper hand, but she hesitates. Backing away step by step, I raise my hand and wiggle my finger tips—bye, bye, bye. Smiling, she waves in response, then turns and briskly walks away.

  Life isn’t so bad after all—a wonderful opera just now, Tamara so lovely, there are no words to describe her. My mind is filled only with bright thoughts, and my steps skip along with them. My toes are freezing from the cold, but that’s just trivial, in a minute Rūdis and I will sit with a glass of cognac in a room warmed by a fired-up woodstove. What more can one small dust particle seeded in the infinite vastness of the cosmos wish for?

  At the turn-off to our street a big, horn-honking truck with a tarpaulin-covered bed forces me off the road. Curious, I stop—where is the truck rushing at night, what is it after? Out of the corner of my eye I notice sitting in the cab beside the driver my neighbor Pēteris, who is showing the driver where to turn by poking his finger at the windshield. Seemingly he hasn’t even seen me, or he would have said hello or maybe even stopped. Probably he and his company are going to a party. Well, all right then, why shouldn’t they, just as we did, to celebrate the eighteenth of November. They’re Latvians after all.

  I wait for a bit, for the truck to roll on to its destination. Let my neighbor’s crowd disappear into his yard, then I’ll continue on. God forbid that Pēteris should see me and decide to invite me to join them.

  What now though? The truck stops at my house. The tarp is thrown back from the truck bed and three, four … five policemen … no, it looks like even more jump out. It’s dark, if it weren’t for the snow, nothing would be visible. From the cab more men clamber out—altogether there are some eight or even ten of them. If I’m seeing correctly, all with weapons in hand. Two or three, I can’t quite discern, remain shifting from foot to foot by the fence, while the rest hurry into the yard. I want to go and ask what they’re doing there, but my legs have a mind of their own—they slide backward, until my back is hugging the gate of house number one on the street. Where will you run, you madman, hide, while they still haven’t seen you! Get away somewhere, it’s dangerous here! My head is in a muddle, but my steps are certain and quick—in just a few seconds I’m already beyond the street corner. They’ll be arrested, that’s for sure now. God forbid that the police should start to shoot! That can’t be allowed but how to stop it? What can I do? I’ll tackle one policeman but meanwhile another will arrive with a rifle, and alles. Some reinforcements would help … hell, what reinforcements? Kolya as an old partisan maybe could think of something, but it would take some time to reach him… I can’t do anything, just throw snowballs. Helplessness st
rangles my breath. My neighbor Krūmiņš’s dog Džeris is barking non-stop. He, of course, would be ready to leap into the fray with bared teeth and claws. Crawl into your doghouse, little idiot, you might get pilloried for running off at the mouth like that.

  For sure that piece of shit nosed out something. But how? We lived so quietly, protected ourselves like nuns from sin, and now look. Maybe Hilda didn’t tell us everything about Boris’s breakout. My fingers grope for a cigarette pack in my pocket. Must have a smoke and a think. My hands tremble like those of an old drunk, the matches break. My back is wet and my whole body is trembling. That’s from anxiety, old man, not from the freezing cold. I must pop some more pills, for relief. I throw a couple in my mouth, topped with a handful of snow. What to do, where to go? To Tamara’s? Yes!

  I speed up, but my patent leather shoes slip and slide until my legs give way, and I collapse to the ground. I get up and start to wade through the snow at the edge of the sidewalk, where it hasn’t been ironed into ice. My progress isn’t as quick as I’d like, but I make headway.

  When I approach Robežu Street, I slow down. Events unfold almost as they did a half a year ago in June—once again I’m in a tuxedo and once again I’m fleeing, just that now I’m on my own. That time Rūdis had reached the other side of the railway tracks, and would shortly have been herded into a cattle wagon to be deported. Stop! Where am I going? What will I tell Tamara? That I looked on from around a corner and skulked by house foundations like a lost and frightened dog, but now I’ve run to her to cry on her shoulder? I’ll just upset her needlessly and what good would it do? When everything is explained, then yes … Maybe it won’t be so bad, but let Tamara live in peace, take care of the little ones, as long as … as long as she still can do it. I turn around and hurry back.

  I start to feel ashamed that in my animal-like fear I had lost clarity of mind and strength of heart. Just as the captain of a sinking ship shouldn’t abandon the deck before his crew and passengers, I too, as the owner of the house, had to clutch onto the door jamb until the very last. Please God, give me the strength to be firm, to not flee and to weather the storm together with Rūdis and the rest. If I can only manage to get there in time now. I stretch out my fingers—they’re not trembling as crazily anymore. However, my whole body suddenly shakes—as I hear the thunder of a machine gun round. My legs once more function on their own accord—from fear they stop and freeze. What’s happened now, forward, move, move! Stumbling, falling, I run, my shoe soles slip like hell, until they drag my butt up in the air. I fall on my back and remain lying there. My tailbone aches so badly that even with a mighty push I can’t stand up. While I’m reeling sideways, from around the corner the same big truck pulls out and speeds away in the direction of the city center. It seems to me that I hear Hilda’s screams and policemen’s curses from the tarp-covered truck bed. Up on my elbows, I wave for them to stop, but the driver flashes a bored glance through the window at me and barrels on, as if saying, he’s not going to prop up some drunken bum.