by Inga Abele
“It’s ready, go ahead!”
Monta doesn’t answer. Ieva changes into pajamas, gets into bed and intently watches the hallway through the open door.
The teenager sits at the computer for several more minutes, then gets up with a sigh and goes to the kitchen to wash her teacup. The splash of water, the clinking of dishes. She comes to the doorway, looks at her mother as if she’s about to say something, then turns and goes into the adjacent room, where a bed has been made up for her. Ieva starts to think Monta will just go to sleep fully dressed.
But she doesn’t. She goes to the bathroom, then comes back into the hallway. She looks at the computer, then at her mother. Then she goes back into the bathroom and shuts the door with a bang.
The sound of belts and snaps hitting the stone tile can be heard through the closed door; the ringing of metal and sound of leather. Then silence.
It seems like Monta is in the bathtub for at least an hour. Finally the bathroom door opens again and a figure dressed in a white shirt tiptoes into Ieva’s room.
“You asleep? Thanks for the bath. G’night.”
“Maybe you can sleep in here tonight!” Ieva calls out sharply—too quickly. Monta starts and turns to leave.
“No way!”
“Then at least come sit with me for a bit!” Ieva begs.
“No!”
Monta goes into the hallway, but doesn’t turn the light out right away. She moves around the apartment like a cat, inspecting photographs and paintings, flipping through magazines. It’s already long past midnight.
“Please, come here, sweetheart! Can’t you just sit with me for a minute?” Ieva begs again.
“No!”
But after a few more minutes, Monta does come in. She takes a book from the shelf and puts it back, looks at the flowers on the windowsill, then finally drags herself over and sinks down onto the bed.
At first Ieva is afraid to move, as if some rare bird has just landed in the room. Then she frees a hand from under the blanket and reaches toward Monta. She can easily sense her daughter’s warmth in the dark, her pale face and long shadows under her eyelashes, her smooth and youthful skin. Ieva puts her hand on Monta’s shoulder. So thin, so fragile. She caresses the shoulder once. And then a second time. Monta says nothing, but her breathing is anxious and her heart thuds in her chest—the beating is easy to hear through the blanket. Ieva keeps caressing her daughter’s shoulder. She keeps telling herself the caresses are both strong enough and calm enough, the type of touch used to tame timid horses. Wild horses are tamed with a different type of touch. Monta is incredibly timid, not at all wild. She stays still. Ieva puts into these caresses everything she can’t say with words. They’re together again, sharing the same warmth; as if Monta were still only the hint of a person inside Ieva, as if she were still that earlier version—the three-year-old daughter Ieva could take into her lap. The harshness has fallen away, like the snaps and spikes in the bathroom. The imposing black leather and studs are gone. The makeup is washed off, all the foreign, abrasive scents scrubbed away. Monta smells like a child. Ieva’s child. Even the acrid smell of cigarettes is gone. She’s all freshness and warmth.
Her child.
This moment starts, lingers, and passes. Monta knows when it needs to end—she moves away.
“G’night, Mom.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Ieva replies gratefully.
The next morning they dress quickly and drink their tea in a hurry. They steal glances at one another.
Each day is completely different from the last, each day is a lifetime. And the night is something entirely different from the morning or afternoon. They represent numerous and varied thoughts.
Today is very matter-of-fact, and the morning is full of promises. Ieva puts some money on the table.
“For the apartment and for school.”
“Thanks, Mom… Mom?”
Ieva listens—something important is coming. Monta’s voice has changed.
“I might leave school. Tomass says it would be good to work abroad somewhere.”
She hurriedly pulls on her dark jacket and yanks the hood over her head, maybe so she won’t hear the answer, even though her own voice sounds unsure.
“Location isn’t important. If you want to do the right thing, you can do that anywhere. If you want to screw up your life, you can do that anywhere, too.”
Monta gets defensive.
“Who says I want to screw up my life?”
“So finish school and then go do whatever you want. You’ve only got a year left.”
As she rushes out behind Monta, Ieva feels like she’s tracking a fleeing animal. The thud of army boots as her daughter disappears around the next flight of stairs, and then again around the next one—Ieva feels she won’t catch up to her, like she’ll never catch up to her.
And yet there’s the next turn and then the door, and then the kiss goodbye. Life gives you time to catch up.
“You know I love you,” Ieva tells Monta.
Monta’s answer is unexpected:
“I’m not sure if I believe you because you’ve never had time for me.”
“You think? Things were different way back then, it’s not who I really am. Here, take this and read it later. I found it last night.”
Ieva has given her daughter a page from her sixth-grade Latvian language workbook. The text is marked up and corrected, barely legible. Clearly a rough draft.
“Assignment #96:
Happiness! Sweet, dear happiness! Where are you? Why do you visit so rarely? I want you to visit me more often. Come visit when I’m sad, come when I’m having a hard day. Come straight away, dear happiness! Happiness! I want you to visit the orphans and the children who have nothing to eat! They also need happiness. If you, happiness, would go visit these children, then their faces would be all joy and smiles. Go, dear friend, go to those people who don’t have money, so they aren’t sad. Put smiles on their faces and love in their hearts. Do you know, dear friend, that each person and living thing needs happiness—if only a little bit?”
Coffee and Cigarettes
Monta sits with a friend at a café. Sunlight washes uselessly over the mud-spattered windows. It’s a cheap place right on the corner of the street, and whenever a tram rolls by it feels like its wide metal body scrapes against the café door.
Monta cries, smokes, and speaks:
“Jesus do I feel bad for him. You can’t even imagine. I was four when he showed up in the apartment—Aksels must’ve found him on the street, still a puppy. I remember they put him in some kind of box under the kitchen table, but I’d always sneak in and take him out, then we’d race through all the rooms. He was so cute and smart. I’ve never seen another dog like that… And then Dad shot Aksels—Aksels was Mom’s boyfriend and Dad basically shot him out of jealousy or something, I don’t know, it’s a long story. And right after that we moved in with this old woman, Faniija, over on Ģertrūdes Street. I don’t know why, but Mom took us out walking all the time—you wouldn’t believe how much we walked—the dog and I were always starving, and I remember Mom was having trouble keeping jobs, so she couldn’t even afford to send me to kindergarten. I was only five or six, and all we did was walk, all three of us. And I was so hungry. Along train tracks, bridges. It was crazy—all over Riga. We’d take a tram to some suburb or just wander through the city on foot. And you get so hungry walking around like that. Mom would stop to buy a small chunk of cheese for the dog and a bread roll for me, and we’d be on our way again. Five minutes later it’s like the bread never happened… She was restless or something back then. I remember she’d carry me on her back when I got tired—I’d fall asleep, get some rest, and she’d just keep carrying me. Then she left for school in Moscow and said she didn’t take us with her because that city was pure stress, but I wouldn’t have gone with her anyway. I had a babysitter and my grandma Lūcija—Jesus, it’s horrible to say, but if Mom died I wouldn’t cry like if my grandma died. I swear to G
od. I was around ten when I first understood people die, and the first thing I realized was that my grandma would die someday, too—and I just burst into tears. I could cry again now just thinking about it. My grandma has been amazing, she’s done everything she can for me. Mom visited often, but I just couldn’t bring myself to really talk to her. I’ve never been able to and know for a fact I never will. There was this one time she yelled at me, I don’t remember what for, probably something stupid, but later I went to her room and asked ‘Are you mad at me? Do you think I’m worthless?’ Because that’s how I felt about myself then. And I hoped that she’d get up, hug me, and say ‘No, I’m not mad at you, sweetheart, and that’s God’s honest truth.’ And I never thought she’d reject me. But all she said was, ‘No—how many times do I have to say it?’ I got stubborn all of a sudden and stayed put, just stood in the doorway and kept repeating ‘Why are you mad at me?’ And finally she said, ‘Just leave me alone for half an hour.’ You can’t imagine how I felt. We were all we had in the world, and that’s how she reacts! I don’t know, maybe I’d just pissed her off. That wasn’t the first time it had happened, but after that there was definitely a sense of finality. I thought, ‘Fuck, I could go forever without talking to you if I needed.’ I didn’t want to trust her anymore, I couldn’t laugh with her or anything. I felt like at any second I’d be told to just shut up. After that time I went to sleep on the mattress next to the dog. She came over later and kissed me on the head, but then left me alone. Maybe she was tired of fighting with me. Maybe because she’d been telling me since I was little, ‘Live your own life, I won’t force anything on you. If you want to sleep next to the dog, that’s your choice.’ But she didn’t consider that I might be lying there crying. Alright, fine, if she left me alone it was to leave me alone. Fine. After she got back from Moscow she acted like she was in heat. Always going out at night. She’d say, ‘Go to bed! I’ll be back in the morning.’ But I couldn’t sleep, just sort of doze until she’d get back around 4 a.m.—happy and smelling sweet. It seemed like she went through guys like she was flipping through the pages of a magazine. And all the massive amounts of drinking with friends—directors and actors—at the time I thought she was out of control, but I guess it also kind of made sense, and at least there was always someone around. And she’s quiet by nature. She can go days without saying a word, just thinking about something. Then the next day she’ll laugh like crazy and go wild, running barefoot through puddles downtown. And what always pissed me off the most is that she only ever talked to me about serious things in public when there were the most people around. We’d be in the mall or theater and she’d suddenly think of something and start lecturing me. Discussing aspects of my life. And at the top of her voice, like it was just the two of us. I distanced myself from her. Later I dropped out of high school. That set things in motion. I went to night school so I could get a job. Then I got my first boyfriend and we rented an apartment together. Of course I took the dog with me. Then last year the boyfriend left me. I took it really badly, it just destroyed me. It was right during spring finals week—I wanted to kill myself. And of course I can’t eat anything when I’m depressed. In one month I lost sixteen kilograms. Can you imagine? Sixteen! Coffee and cigarettes in the morning, alcohol and sleeping pills at night. Just the two of us, me and the dog. Mom didn’t know my boyfriend had left me, I just told her she couldn’t come visit. There was no reason to. I could go see her if need be. She doesn’t have any time anyway. Then Tomass came along—last summer. That’s how it goes with guys. Tomass is great, I can’t complain. But your first love is your first love, right? I feel like the trouble always starts with the second guy—after that things just get out of hand. There’s the third guy, then the fourth. My grandma once said, ‘Life can give you one, or many.’ Whatever, it’ll be fine. But I’ll never forgive Mom for what happened with Dad. He’s sitting in prison, and she won’t go anywhere near him. I think they’re even still legally married. My mom says it’s her life. She doesn’t talk about it with anyone. Yeah, it’s her life, but he’s my dad. She won’t let me go visit him. Someday I will. Right now I’m still kind of freaked out by the idea. Not of prison, but of my dad. Can you imagine? He’s basically a stranger. And what would we talk about? He’s seen so little in his lifetime, if you think about it—he grew up, got married, shot Aksels. And that’s it. Locked away in prison for years and years. That’s not a life. So what would we talk about? But the dog, he got older and died. The vet came over this morning and had to put him down. Then Tomass and I buried the dog down by the lake. That dog lived for fourteen years, easy. That’s pretty much my whole life.”
An Attack on Places/Things, or The Sacred Resources
Ieva does everything with drive. Even life.
Because places and things are so passionless. “Created only for ourselves—no, not even for ourselves, but for some inexplicable need,” as writer Matīss Kaudzīte once put it. And it takes time for you to understand what they mean to you. A morning on which you stand with your face to the sun in a glittering corner of a Riga microregion, the blowing wind, and the scent of crushed grass on a soccer field. You are alive and young. A night out with friends on the granite steps by the river. Ships and seagulls bob in the current. You are happy. A moment with your mother as she puts a cool hand to your forehead when you curl into the couch next to her and cry as meekly as a kitten, you’re thirty or more years old, but it hurts so much, Mommy! Her cool hand on your forehead immediately melts the heartache. In your past remain the bend in the road, the tram tracks, a cloud of dust, and your time.
The first time Ieva travels to Milan for some European conference, she spends her free time wandering the wide, overgrown boulevards, listening to Austrian journalist Michael Schulter’s monologue:
“And the main thing that left Western society speechless when the Iron Curtain fell was that there was nothing behind it! You have nothing! Everyone thought you’d all pull out these masterpieces from hidden drawers, just like the masterpieces of the people who were convicted as dissidents, driven out, or who emigrated by choice. You had those kinds of huge works, true, but it turned out you could count on one hand the exceptions in the vast majority that remained immobile and indifferent. How do you judge that? Where are the sacred resources of Eastern Europe? Maybe there aren’t any at all?”
Ieva looks into his thin face and sharp eyes, which are partially obscured by his round glasses—in the stark daylight their lenses shine like scrying crystals—and she feels she has no opinion. She is the very immovable mass Michael is talking about.
And suddenly, without warning, a scene from her memory washes over her—Gran’s footprints in the roadside sand, butter so yellow it’s as if the cows were fed nothing but marigolds.
Why this memory? She shrugs. Michael doesn’t get an answer.
But when the plane from Copenhagen breaks through the layer of clouds over the Baltic Sea and resurfaces over the eastern coast, Ieva glues herself to the round window. Piltene—a dark dot on the map. Mordanga—a fleck. The Venta and Lielupe Rivers—golden hairs. The absurdly tiny fir trees—thick combs with an occasional deer among them. What would they all be without the heat coursing through Ieva’s veins? Piles of wood people call homes? Water? Pine forests? They’re self-explanatory. Coldness, foreignness.
For some reason this morning, Ieva has the strong feeling that Gran isn’t dead. That she’s living with Roberts in their seaside cottage. Ieva borrows a car from friends to drive out for a visit. More than ever, more than a child is capable of, she believes it’s possible to drive straight into the past. That there’s an island somewhere where everything that once was is alive and well, where it’s possible to go and see your past self draining a cup of milk at the wax-cloth covered table. Why not, if the taste of milk from your childhood is still on your tongue. The cows were milked early when the sun first rose, then the milk poured into an enameled, metal can, covered with the white saucer with the chipped, gold rim, then set in the
front hall on a stone block. Outside a hot summer day lights up, covered with a dewy, sun-kissed glaze. There’s no refrigerator at home. One cup of milk has already been poured and set on the table for you, the little one, live-culture milk at its natural temperature with a thin, sweet layer of yellow cream settling on the surface. As you start to drink it three small, brown pancakes are placed in front of you, and then the cow pokes its head through the open kitchen window. Gran places a “Selga” brand cookie on the cow’s long, narrow tongue, and it disappears like fine dust on a wet grindstone. Oh, Ieva knows about this spectacle, the cow’s tongue—lithe and scratchy, like an incredibly strong tentacle that almost always tries to pull in Ieva’s little hand, tear off a hair ribbon, or drool all over her apron. As she’s watching the cow, Ieva knocks her milk over with her elbow. “That’s enough!” Gran scolds the cow, not Ieva, and pushes its darkish blue head outside and closes the narrow blinds. The cow heads toward the sea and Ieva catches up to it halfway. The morning has begun.
It could be that nothing has happened yet—it’s still fall. The stove is lit. The big water kettle hisses. Gran takes a cast iron pan with a mustard-marinated roast out of the oven and goes to the pantry to get the apple wine. Ice blows in from the front hall. A white dog with a black head sleeps on the edge of the well-worn armchair, until it slides off and lands with a rustle into the pile of onions covering the floor like a thick rug all the way to the window. There’s a porcelain sugar bowl on the table with one handle missing and a sprig of lingonberries painted on its side. And a silver spoon placed in raw cane sugar.
Later, the bed will be made for you in the other room, a scratchy linen sheet put down and a rag quilt on top, heavy as a person. You’ll shiver for more than ten minutes in the freezing bed as you wait for it to warm up. The light will go out, you’ll talk about this and that. Maybe you’ll get a bedtime story, or a story from Gran’s childhood. You’ll warm up as you stare at the low, whitewashed ceiling beams. And the sleep you finally slip into will be a calm and welcoming return to a world that never ends.