High Tide

by Inga Abele

  Then that warning, hot throbbing starts up in her ears, throat, temples—who knows where it comes from. The last thing she remembers is the half-naked guy in the kitchen and his terrified expression when she wakes him up to hand him her cellphone, pointing to the phone number on the wall above the sink and repeating: Mom! Mom!

  Her left arm was so tightly bandaged that it felt like it was made of wood. They gave her a small pill and, when she woke later that night, she felt she had grown distant from herself. On the second morning they gave her two even smaller pills, and she crashed down onto the bed like she’d been knocked out. But her conscience wandered the ceilings, sadly observing its reflection down there on the mattress. Time dragged on like a giant rubber band, people came, undressed her and put her on a gurney, covered her with a blanket. Gave her a shot of something. Riding through countless, light bulb-lit tunnels, she felt she was exhausted to the point of death. They wheeled her off to the side; listening to the surrounding activity, the rustle of the greenish-grey cloth, she wants eternally peaceful sleep. But it’s not possible because her essence was removed from her and broken apart. Then they brought her under lights, there were several people who cut into her bare arms—all she could see were their eyes. These eyes were calm, but she was so tired. It took them a long time to find her vein and they told her it was alright to scream because it would definitely hurt, but she was so tired that she wasn’t able to tell pain from non-pain. It didn’t worry her anymore. Her only and slightly hazy desire was to reconnect with herself, to become whole again. Instead, someone gripped her face between strong hands and looked into her eyes, saying: Your heart is going to start beating faster now and you’ll get dizzy, and then you’ll fall asleep—can you hear me, Ieva, Ieva, Ieva?

  One face slowly solidifies in the fog. It’s her brother, Pāvils.

  He’s shaking her by the shoulder.

  “Pāvils? How’d you get here?”

  “I’m visiting on vacation. And you’ve scared the crap out of me my first night back.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

  “I’m happy you’re alive. They had to redo the surgery—they hadn’t stitched the tendons up the right way. You—when you do something, you do it with such drive that not even a team of doctors can deal with it!”

  “You’ll stay in Latvia?”

  “We’ll see. We’ll have time to talk about it. Rest for now.”

  “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Monta didn’t see any part of what happened. When Ieva gets back home, she’s loving and gentle as she hugs her mother’s neck. Aksels has changed, too. He’s grown more serious, darker. It doesn’t suit him.

  “Hey,” Ieva says. “Cheer up! It had nothing to do with you. I just got lost in something.”

  Aksels doesn’t smile, but hugs her tightly and shudders as if he’s fighting to hold back tears.

  “Aksels, love, please, be like you were before,” Ieva begs, terrified. “I won’t do it again.”

  Aksels is never the same after that. Some time later Ieva learns from his friends that Dace died. Overdosed on some kind of unknown pills. Had a heart attack.

  Ieva’s own heart feels a small twinge. What was she to you, Aksels? And what am I? I’ll never know. The heavens are silent.

  Aksels has become more of a homebody. Plays with Monta, reads to her, even takes her to kindergarten. He doesn’t cut his hair into a mohawk anymore, lets it grow out thick and light and short. It’s an almost unbelievable transformation, but Ieva hopes it’s for the best. If only she didn’t have to see the look in his eyes—even more hopeless than before, almost indifferent, and simultaneously shy. As if he’s waiting for fate to take away his final plaything.

  The Bus

  Ieva and Aksels head to the bus stop for Riga early one morning. An icy wind tears over the countryside. Aksels picks up Monta and buries her face in the warm crook of his neck. He never has mittens, Jesus! The cold is merciless, the first warning to all living beings that winter is on its way. Ieva looks back and sees his frozen, bare, and bluish hands locked around Monta. And she is grateful.

  They wait at the crossroads where four roads come together. The sky is black, the land around them is covered with a light dusting of snow. Their fatherland. From the leeside of the hill they can hear the roaring of fir trees in the gully by the stables. Ieva wants to hold onto this sound forever and can’t believe she’s leaving.

  A lone milk truck rounds the bend and turns into the driveway of the Branku house. A dog barks, milk cans clank, the glare of sunlight, the squeaking of the milk cistern lid. Then the milk truck comes into view again and slowly drives off up the hill. Again there is darkness and wind. The road to the Zari house stays empty. There aren’t any more cows or people; not a single living sound can be heard coming from there. Only the grass will grow up through the threshold come spring.

  Finally, a pair of headlights reach out from the pine forest and a bus approaches the crossroads. The driver has picked up a lot of speed, but sees them and tries to brake. The bus slips along the road like a giant fish and eventually stops a ways down from where they’re standing.

  They hurry toward it. The door opens. Warmth. Tickets. A few sleeping passengers.

  The driver gives them an apologetic look over the rims of his glasses.

  “It slides like it’s on ball-bearings. This is my first time on this route.”

  They drive through the village, where cows will roam the streets in the morning fog in summer.

  Then the turn by the lake, where the shoemaker Mārica’s house stands. When the shoemaker died, he’d given his blessing for the house to be turned into a točka—a trade-house for distilled spirits.

  In the darkness, the headlights of the bus reveal a thin old man on the side of the road hugging a white rucksack and a crumbling pretzel to his chest. The bus driver brakes hard again, and this time he succeeds and stops right in front of the old man.

  The doors open.

  A dirty parka, a bare and absurdly skinny neck, a drooping mustache, and a red nose. Surprised at the unexpected attention, the old man stands staring like a fox caught red-handed in the henhouse.

  The driver says:

  “Hop on board, sir!”

  The old man rubs his knotted, red fingers over his knit cap and then waves them at the bus driver as if in farewell. He turns sideways and continues his way down the path to Mārica’s house, bumbling:

  “No, no, I’m headed there, y’see…”

  “Pff, you!” The driver shouts and shuts the creaky bus door. “Why’re you hanging out like some ghost on the side of the road?”

  The bus drives on and a dark veil once more falls over the landscape. But the dawn has already torn a red seam in the east.

  Why am I not going back to the seaside and Gran’s, to the west? Ieva thinks. What’s pushing me in the opposite direction? What will I find there? I don’t know anything.

  All I know is that back is back there and forward is up ahead. Right now it’s time for the road ahead. Life’s desires have fermented in my veins and formed strength, much like birch sap will ferment in a bottle to form a champagne that can shoot out even the strongest cork. The time will probably come when I’ll spend summer sitting peacefully in a lawn chair finding joy in the flowers, and I’ll use the long northern winter nights as a black cover, a hiding place, a fen, so I can regrow my clipped wings.

  The time will also probably come for low tide. When I’ll skulk back to Kurzeme, to my birthplace—in the dark, along the sandy dirt roads, by smell. Along the seashore, the manure, the blue anemones, the fragrant paths of thundering storm clouds, clutching my last, crumbling pretzel to my chest. And some early morning bus driver will notice me, pull me out of the eternal night with glaring headlights, blind me, stop and open the doors in welcome.

  And I’ll say to him—No, no. I’m headed there, y’see.

  Keep Your Fingers Crossed for Us, Brother

  Pāvil!

  Hello, hel
lo, hello! The college that accepted you doesn’t even realize yet how lucky they are!

  You’re going to fly for the first time—and all the way to America… Hm… You’re going to starve to death because, if we’re brother and sister, then we have a lot in common, and I can tell you one thing for sure—I CANNOT eat in planes! Hopefully it’ll be totally different for you, you’ll stuff yourself full of hamburgers one by one.

  I know you’re getting ready to leave, so I won’t bore you with a long letter. Just one juicy quote—yesterday some of the local women were teasing Roberts when he looked at them: Roberts is so old that the only sexual organ he has left is his eyes. Hoho!

  Also—I went to a Student Symphony Orchestra concert, Inguna’s friend played first flute. And in the “style of Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue!”

  Really, really hope to hear back from you!

  —Ieva

  P.S. I think Troyat’s Les Eygletière is an awful book. There isn’t a single protagonist! It’s the first time I’ve noticed one missing. Maybe my realization is to the book’s credit?

  P.P.S. The meaning behind our initials: I—tension, emotionality; P—shyness, distance, loneliness. Does that fit?

  * * *

  Greetings, American!

  How are you? Are you already placing your hand over your heart when you hear the national anthem?

  “When the euphoria of a first meeting fades, you must quickly find a new acquaintance to maintain happiness and so life doesn’t lose its edge. Year after year passes by in smiles and tired jokes, and the road is littered with hundreds of temporarily—for a week or two—amused people.”

  As you can see, I’m reading the ocean book again. Doncho and Julia. All alone in their watery wanderings.

  If Gran and Roberts were to finally kick me out and I’d somehow have to get through life on my own, I don’t think the results would be good—I’d make it to the bottom of the front steps, and that would be it. I don’t know anything about the world! So many people know what pain is (right now the time is 13:10 and the radio just started to play Dārziņš’s “Melancholy Waltz”—how perfect!), what misfortune is, but they live on and shine, and are happy. I’m spoiled rotten. I have everything, but I’m always depressed. Sad. Brother, it’s awful. I want to understand: what’s wrong with me, who am I, why is this happening?

  “. . . people are not limited in their abilities, but are rather limited in what they demand of themselves. In a moment of need, or even if we’ve made the conscious decision to, each of us is capable of mustering the kind of strength we never even thought we could possibly possess.”

  Hm… It’s a nice thought, I’m waiting for that moment of need. I could even get angry at myself in the end. If I could… The book has answers to all of my questions, and simultaneously reprimands me for them. Because I believe books. Maybe unnecessarily?

  “Fear is a product of either nerves that are shot, or a stupid upbringing.”

  I don’t want what I immediately write down, but my hand moves like a sailboat across the paper, on its own accord. I think my fear comes from somewhere deep down. From the day Mom and Dad decided to split us up and left me with Gran and Roberts. I can’t imagine a better childhood than what I had. Books, books, books, the sea, and Gran with her muddy boots and white handkerchief in the potato field.

  But each time I see Mom and Dad I suddenly feel a horrible emptiness tearing through me somewhere deep, deep down. Like in a desert. I’m not condemning their decision, I know about Mom’s illness and your condition, but I still can’t entirely understand the separation. We’re polite, but say nothing, and I’m really scared that I’m not loved. So be it, I think, it’s not within our power to end it. I’m glad you got in touch with me, and were so sincerely and from the bottom of your heart able to convince me there was no reason to be afraid. The desert sprouted plants. Now you’re my flower, my brother. A wonderful gift.

  I hope you’re not tired of reading all these whiny letters—I can’t, I don’t want to, I don’t know how… The only people who I respect are probably you and Gran. And Jonsy, the woman from Iceland who I met on my trip to Sweden. She’s so courageous!

  “Man is a curious creation. I’ve observed a close connection between my mood and the wind. Today, with a fresh trade wind blowing, everything in my body rejoices.”

  Across the Atlantic with Dju—yaha! Where does one find a trade wind in Latvia?

  Write me!

  —Ieva

  * * *

  Hello, my dear brother!

  Life is horribly complicated, or else horrible and complicated. I’ve suddenly realized—everything is happening to me and it’s awful. I can’t avoid it anymore, I’m not as flexible as I was as a kid or a teenager, I’m stiff as a pole, and each splash of mud lands right onto my soul. I must be destined to live the life of a lightning rod. Right now I’m just one big compromise. In my mind I want to boss everyone around. Let them call me mentally incompetent! Out of the box and without boundaries. But on the surface I’m so quiet…

  . . . the meek will be spit out…

  Oh but I know, I know already! But I can’t let loose, because I’m not alone anymore.

  . . . if my life was just mine and mine alone…

  My boyfriend is a gloomy person with an entirely wrecked world outlook and with a cruel relationship—scores to settle—with this life. And I don’t understand why this life has chosen him for me. And I agree with him on everything because I don’t have the heart to hurt him (“E tu, Brute?”), I stand silently by him and hope for peace, but… I at least learned one thing during my short time in Stockholm—always look at everything from both sides. A shitty trait! It’ll never let me just be.

  . . . he who comes first, to him I shall belong, and adorn him with chrysanthemums…

  . . . a lone crane flies among the clouds, completely alone, without friends it lets out a strange and fearful cry…

  Brother, I want to see you so badly! Please, please!

  When will you be back in Latvia?

  I’ll call you.

  —Ieva

  * * *

  Hello, brother!

  I’ve finally worked up the energy to write to you. I got everything you sent—even that lovely little note. I knew I’d write back to you, because I really want to see you, but threshing time ruined a few of my plans. True—you sometimes only need a minute to write a letter, but for me to write to you, I also need to be in the mood.

  I don’t know what’s going on! Sometimes I’ve been in the kind of mood where I can’t stay put somewhere for more than three days. Now it’s the same, but with the one big difference being that I’m tied down, can’t get anywhere and feel a huge sense of discomfort.

  It’s morning, I’m eating dried plums, looking through the Sudmaliņas journal, and I want to cry. I want Riga and I want Sudmaliņas, I want it to feel like the Baltica-88 folklore festival. I don’t really know, but I suppose you’re having a good time right now. Things in my life have changed, but we’ll talk about that when we see each other.

  I am as ever—your Ieva

  P.S. I’ll call you all next week in the evening until I get a hold of you.

  So I can’t wait, I have to tell you—I’m going to the General Register Office today to register. July 9th. Good God! I’m eighteen years old.

  So alright, I’ll just lay it all out: I’m going to have a baby in the fall.

  * * *

  Hey, brother!

  Thank you so much for your letter, which I only got once I was at the Zari house. That’s why I’m writing back late.

  I haven’t written anything about myself all fall because the season seemed to stretch on for a lifetime for me. Getting used to a new life is the same as trying on new clothes. The fit is a bit tight in places, and loose in others. No joke, just up until a little while ago my eyes were still wide in surprise—is it really still fall?

  As a result of all of it, I’m at the Zari house with Andrejs. We had a hell of a
time with the repairs. We’re not that far from Gran, but the wildlife is totally different. Black sand in the forest, grass to your armpits. When there’s a storm the sea doesn’t blow in through the windows, but instead crashes far beyond the wet fields. Gran cried when I left. Roberts has just been crying non-stop. He’s survived the war and Siberia, and still can’t wrap his head around the fact that Latvians once again have their own, independent state. He either cries, or sits with his buddies at the store and discusses Virza’s Straumēni. Roberts gave me a cow for my dowry—Salna. She’s a blue seaside cow, one of Zīlīte’s calves. We put a string around her neck and led her all the way here along the roads through the pine forest. We made it without any problems. Now I have my own cow among Andrejs’s brown cows, I can wrap my arms around Salna’s neck and cry when I miss my old life.

  I have to do my own cooking, draw my own water from the well and carry it, light my own stove with damp firewood.

  The old collective farm stable is just beyond the orchard. There are still a lot of horses in it. The pastures stretch on until our vegetable patch. Sometimes voices can be heard coming from the old manor, but other than that we’re completely alone.

  At first I really missed home. I’d think of Gran and my friends, then go into the woods to cry. But then Monta was born and I didn’t have much time for crying. My daughter is beautiful and healthy, born on the first day of frost. I looked at her, and only when I saw her little face did I understand what a child was. First and foremost—a huge responsibility. A person who will be by my side my entire life. That’s for certain. As is the fact that one day she’ll see me die. But I’m not thinking about that just yet. Old age is the last thing on my mind.