The Tower: and other stories 9786155211997

Table of contents :
Contents
Preface
The Tower
The Flea’s Tale
A Game of Chess
Father Burbeks’ Secret
The Ape
A Body in the Marsh
The Gravediggers
The Bathhouse at the Joču Homestead

Citation preview

The Tower and Other Stories

OTHER TITLES IN THE SERIES Prague Tales Jan Neruda Skylark Dezső Kosztolányi Be Faithful Unto Death Zsigmond Móricz The Doll Bolesław Prus The Adventures of Sindbad Gyula Krúdy The Sorrowful Eyes of Hannah Karajich Ivan Olbracht The Birch Grove and Other Stories Jaroslaw Iwaszkiewicz The Coming Spring Stefan Żeromski The Poet and the Idiot and Other Stories Friedebert Tuglas The Slave Girl and Other Stories on Women Ivo Andrić Martin Kačur—The Biography of an Idealist Ivan Cankar Whitehorn’s Windmill or, The Unusual Events Once upon a Time in the Land of Paudruvė Kazys Boruta

On the cover: “Brickworks, Dangast” by Erich Heckel,1907, Museo Thyssen-Bomemisza, Madrid

The Tower and Other Stories Jānis Ezeriņš Translated by Ilze Gulēna Preface by Anita Liepiņa

Central European University Press Budapest ● New York

English translation copyright © Ilze Gulēna, 2011 Published in 2011 by Central European University Press An imprint of the Central European University Limited Company Nádor utca 11, H-1051 Budapest, Hungary Tel: +36-1-327-3138 or 327-3000 Fax: +36-1-327-3183 E-mail: [email protected] Website: www.ceupress.com 400 West 59th Street, New York NY 10019, USA Tel: +1-212-547-6932 Fax: +1-646-557-2416 E-mail: [email protected] All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the permission of the Publisher. The publication of this work was supported by a grant from the Latvian Literature Centre and State Culture Capital Foundation.

ISBN 978-615-5053-30-6 ISSN 1418-0162 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Ezerinš, Janis, 1891-1924. [Short stories. English. Selections] The tower and other stories / Janis Ezerinš. p. cm. -- (CEU Press classics) "English translation copyright Ilze Gulena"--T.p. verso. A collection of stories translated for an entirely new title never published before. ISBN 978-6155053306 (hardbound) 1. Ezerinš, Janis, 1891-1924--Translations into English. I. Gulena, Ilze. II. Title. PG9048.E82A2 2011 891'.9333--dc23 2011043661 Printed in Hungary by Akadémiai Nyomda, Martonvásár

Contents

Preface by Anita Liepiņa vii The Tower 1 The Flea’s Tale 26 A Game of Chess 40 Father Burbeks’ Secret 65 The Ape 79 A Body in the Marsh 88 The Gravediggers 106 The Bathhouse at the Joču Homestead 122

Preface

J

ānis Ezeriņš (1891–1924) accomplished much in his life of 33 years. He lived in a time of great social and political upheaval. Born in tsarist Russia, he died in the newly independent Republic of Latvia (1918), which in many ways resembled the present-day one – Latvia regained independence from the USSR in 1991. Born on a farm, Jānis Ezeriņš pursued his education at the Teachers College in Valmiera and began a teaching career after his graduation in 1910. His contemporaries remember him as a tall handsome man, witty and lively, his shirt open over a sunken chest – quite an unconventional, stylish gesture for the times. During his student years he studied painting and played the violin, but literature remained his main passion. As the family was more inclined to reading than farming, his father sold the financially burdened farm, yet kept their house filled with books. His father’s friend and neighbor was the writer Saulietis. A loving grandmother is credited with introducing him to Latvian folklore – songs, tales and myths. During his college years he was exposed to vii

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world literature and he read Oscar Wilde, Edgar Allen Poe, Henrik Ibsen, Maeterlinck, Bryusov, Gogol, Gorky and Boccaccio. The influence of Guy de Maupassant can be detected in his work. As a school-boy Ezeriņš was not directly involved in the traumatic events of 1905 but he sympathized with the rebels. Not uncommon for the day, he developed tuberculosis, known as consumption at the time. When World War I broke out in 1914, he was conscripted into the Russian army but was soon released because of ill health. In 1916 he spent three months in a sanatorium in the Caucasus and his health improved. That same year he married a fellow teacher Antonia, and they had a daughter Rita. In 1919 he moved to the Latvian capital city of Riga to become the literary editor of the newspaper Brīvā Zeme, The Free Land. But, his health failing, he left this position in 1922 and devoted himself exclusively to writing to the end of his days. He died on December 24, 1924. The people that now are called Latvians came under the domination of the Teutonic Knights in the 13th century who arrived to Christianize the pagans and remained as the ruling upper-class in the land. For shorter or longer periods of time the present-day Latvia has as well belonged either to Poland, Sweden, or Russia. In the 18th century it became part of the Russian Empire and remained one of its provinces until the end of World War I. Social stratification was mainly along ethnic lines. The landed gentry and the wealthy city folk were German. They kept their position by being supportive of the ruling power, the longest being the tsarist Russian administration. Consequently the Germans were granted many viii

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privileges over the indigenous Latvian population. The latter, in the course of time, passed from being serfs to peasants, and in turn became the working class in the city. In The Tower, Ezeriņš sets the time of the events just before Latvia’s declaration of independence in 1918. For a short time at the end of WWI, when the German army had the upper hand, the German nobility had visions of renewing their former dominance. The term “racism” was not in Ezeriņš’ vocabulary, but the concept had been in practice on the indigenous population for centuries. The hero in the story, Zvanups, refuses to accept it. For Latvians, over time and space and even up to the present day, the Latvian language has always remained the strongest bond. The inscription on the tower is not in Latin, nor in German, but in Latvian. In a lighter vein The Flea is written from the point of view of the flea. The young lady in the story can best be described by the French word précieuse. Her insistence on a refined lifestyle comes at the expense of her downtrodden maid. The educated sons and daughters of farmers often remained in the city upon acquiring an education and did their best to separate themselves from their peasant roots. In the early 20th century, life expectancy in Latvia was increasing, printed calendars with pictures like the Farmer’s Almanac became popular and the traditional roles of men and women were changing. All of these are examined in A Game of Chess. The narrator comes to the conclusion that life can be picked up at any age and it isn’t over until it is over. ix

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Being conscripted into the military in tsarist Russia was a brutalizing experience to be endured for 25 years. Those who returned were shadows of their former selves. They have as well been described by other Latvian writers such as J. Jaunsudrabiņš. In Ezeriņš’ Father Burbeks’ Secret the man assumes responsibility for his actions and tries to atone in later life for what he has done. It is up to the reader to apportion his responsibility, considering that Burbeks too is a victim, a soldier in the dehumanizing Russian army. Today we call it posttraumatic stress disorder which Ezeriņš has described complete with nightmares and flashbacks. The Ape is a “frame story,” thus making it more distant and removing the need of a disclaimer that the story is not about anyone in particular. The protagonist, a social climber, chooses the route open to women at the time. The changes in the lady’s surname tell the tale. Of Latvian origin, she marries a Latvian, then a Russian, and finally a wealthy German. Promiscuity no longer satisfies her once she has arrived at the top. Her constant state of boredom and an attention span of thirty seconds suggest mental illness. The lady’s downfall is her need to discover the real person behind the mask. Ezeriņš offers several levels of interpretation for this story. In the Baltic region, the emancipation of serfs had begun earlier (1819) than in the rest of the Russian Empire (1861). This brought with it one of the most important social changes of the century – Latvians gained the right to buy and own land. With hard work and careful money management some became wealthy. A Body in the Marsh brings out the differences between generations as x

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well as individuals. The repartee between the young doctor and his elderly patients illustrates the gap between the old and the new. Old Bunduls understands only the value of saving money and leaves his own son semiilliterate. His neighbor, however, uses his money to educate his son. The latter becomes a doctor and consequently returns to serve the community. The modern reader will appreciate that in the removal of a cataract very little has changed in the last century, whereas air travel has taken off, just as Ezeriņš predicted. Adolescent pranks sometimes end with tragic consequences. Sīmanis in The Gravediggers spends his life attempting to demonstrate his total disbelief in the supernatural by deliberately going against the teachings of the Christian faith as well as the ancient Latvian beliefs concerning the sun. Ezeriņš brings his tale to a conclusion in keeping with the eternal order of things. Some cultures have a sweat lodge, some have a sauna, and the Latvians have their pirts, as in The Bathhouse at the Joču Homestead. It is the place in a Latvian homestead where life began and ended. Because of its clean, warm and sterile conditions women gave birth and old people sometimes lived and died there. In everyday life, a fire was lit to boil water and raise steam in a bathhouse on Saturday nights and the people of the homestead had a bath. The story’s heroine, Ilze, is a young, strong, beautiful, kind and self-confident country servant-maid. She makes a conscious decision to have a child without any intention of marrying the father, most unusual for the times but less so today. Ezeriņš treats her hubris with kindness. xi

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Jānis Ezeriņš was a prolific writer. Some of his work has universal human appeal, some of it is untranslatable because it is so steeped in the language and customs of the Latvian peasantry, some of it is quite frivolous. This is only a small sample. Even today his work is still popular with readers young and old. The house where Ezeriņš was born was on top of a hill overlooking Lake Kārzdaba, the family name itself – Ezeriņš – is the diminutive of the Latvian word for a lake ‘ezers’. The use of this form in Latvian denotes affection. Anita Liepiņa

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Z

vanups was a painter. In true humbleness that’s what he called himself: Eduards Zvanups, painter. He was well-known in Riga as an excellent master craftsman but hardly anyone knew him personally. Only a privileged few knew that behind the impetuous but courageous, almost foolhardy daredevil whose self-confidence could go to his head was a man of absolute honour, through and through. From the very first days of his apprenticeship, when he was in his early teens, he fearlessly scampered up high scaffolding, virtually free as a bird. He helped paint rooftops, then switched to billboards, painting huge pictures on bare, empty house walls, and eventually trained his hand at drawing stylish, ornate, decorative designs. Once having chosen this profession, he almost invariably spent his live-long days high up amongst the clouds. “You’re going to break your neck someday,” alarmed acquaintances would shout from below. “And you won’t?” he’d laugh in reply. True enough, has anyone ever been able to save his own neck in the long run? The rhetorical question was 1

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more to the point than any serious answer could have been. Zvanups more than enjoyed his bird-eye view of the world from up there. The headiness of heights at which he spent most of his formative, adolescent years entered his bloodstream and irrevocably played a decisive role in his life and his relationship with people. His training taught him to look at everything in perspective. He acquired a wealth of knowledge that was in its way the equivalent of a degree in philosophy. How minute the mighty monuments became when he climbed up to the peaks of his kingdom in the sky and contemplated the city down below! And how huge, in turn, the pygmy chimneys appeared, like monstrous crayfish on top of green hay wagons! Dimensions, proportions, relationships became his guiding principles and eventually, having realized this, Zvanups stopped using the words ‘nothing’ or ‘meaningless.’ ‘Nothing’ is ‘nothing’ but, that ‘nothing’ can just as quickly, seen from a different perspective, gain meaning and significance and become ‘something.’ On the ground people walked along, scurried about, sometimes stumbled, carriages drove by, horses neighed, but he no longer differentiated between gentlemen and coachmen, as if he himself had become a French philosopher who’d swallowed the encyclopedia all in one fell swoop. But, to make matters worse, he refused to acknowledge them properly and wouldn’t give way to them. As a result he was constantly hearing a coachman’s curse, “Out of the way, you bloody scaffolding rat!” or some gentleman’s suspicious inquiry, “Hey, you haven’t turned into a Girondist, have you?” The former’s imprecations 2

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he understood well enough, but the latter’s implications meant nothing at all and only elicited a shrug – that foreign creature was no acquaintance of his. From time to time he had to work on the ground and was thereupon forced to listen to the arrogant reptiles’ empty babble. Somehow they always succeeded in slipping up on him and, tipping their top hats, would make ridiculous comments. “Go sweep some chimneys!” he’d call out in disgust and turn away. “Stop bothering me, I say!” The gentlemen inevitably left and Zvanups would escape by taking the first opportunity to climb back up even higher. And it must be said, in all truth and honesty, that there was never a dearth of these flights in his lifetime. However, with his fellow master craftsmen in the guild Zvanups was forever on his guard and very circumspect and they returned the compliment. Only once did he actually transgress and the question at issue was the asking price for gilding a weathercock for a church. The basic problem lay in the fact that this particular bird stood at an extreme height, almost as high as the tip of St Peter’s church steeple. When the convent advertised and called in tenure for the job, hardly anyone dared to take it on. Even the most enterprising master craftsman demanded five hundred for it. Zvanups listened, pricked up his ears, then coughed, frowned and announced clearly, “I’ll do it for free!” As if it were child’s play, he accomplished the almost impossible in a single day. The incredulous members of the painters’ guild took their revenge by accusing him of 3

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using unacceptable dumping price tactics and called him up before a court of honour. “That’s not true, gentlemen,” he argued in self-defence. “First of all, I worked for free, so I can’t be accused of dumping tactics. And, I only did so because this … this man (he pointed contemptuously at his colleague) wanted his faint-heartedness to be crowned with five hundred gold pieces. You surely don’t believe that the payment he was demanding was really for the supposed work he would be doing? Never! His fear of heights drove him to this ridiculous folly. No way does the completion of the job come close to costing that much. I beg you reconsider, what’s too much is too much. It was more than I could take. And truly, gentlemen, we should never allow the fear of heights to become the driving force in estimating the price of our work. At least, not while I am alive and have any say in the matter.” Zvanups said nothing more in his own defence. He was vindicated and in the eyes of his colleagues he rose head and shoulders above them all. He’d grown used to dancing on the edge of the abyss. It was an unbelievably exhilarating feeling that kept him young and agile, bold and daring, even in the second half of his life. “Throw yourself over the edge into the abyss and you’ll know what it means to be alive!” he’d joke. Nevertheless, his advice was only for his equals as normally, on the street, it only provides the illusion of risk taking and danger but quickly deteriorates and turns into a common brawl. A condemned prisoner confronts it at the very moment that the executioner cuts the ground out from under his feet. 4

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II It happened in the year 1918. Count Burchard appeared at his family’s castle after a longer absence. A small river and several ravines around the estate added such charming grace and romantic diversion that quite a few shacks had to be incorporated into the scene in order to reduce by half the beauty of the landscape. The castle was certainly not one of the ancient ones. Built in the early nineteenth century, using the plans of some Bavarian or other, the castle looked like a colossal stone cake with a fairly tall, carrot-shaped tower. The rounded forms, broken by sudden, sharp lines imitated medieval structures that had to serve both as fortresses and as summer residences. This totally illogical combination was particularly evident in the Count’s castle. Neither the usual dreariness of a medieval building nor the lightness of a happy home prevailed here. But Burchard himself saw his whole estate in a completely different light, as had his great-great-grandfather, who had had to sacrifice a dozen of his best feudal serfs in order to gain ownership of the building plans. For the last thirty years the castle had not been renovated and the devastating neglect was evident everywhere. The crumbling reliefs and the huge missing chunks of plaster on the outer walls led one to entertain an unpropitious and foul fantasy, namely, that at one time gigantic flies had overrun and appropriated the sanctum and left their sordid marks on it. Most definitely serious reasons had led to these squalid conditions. They were related to and stemmed from simple, histori5

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cal Burchard family matters. These in turn had much to do with the chaos, the insurrections and the instability within the Russian empire at the beginning of the twentieth century. For almost a century now, a part of the family resided here, in their native country and place of birth, while the rest remained in the old fatherland. Thus the dynasty’s attention and interests were not exclusively focused on only one estate and residence. As a result, it was almost inevitable that negligence would become evident both here as well as there. Laissez-faire and neglectful conceit were a common scourge that plagued the Baltic landed gentry. Its pernicious damage was most clearly mirrored in the crumbling state of the Burchard family’s deteriorating castle. But, when Count Burchard appeared in his native country for the last time, this state of affairs had radically improved and the above mentioned conditions no longer existed. The German Kaiser ruled in Riga and the unification of both Burchard’s native and father lands had begun. This was the fulfillment of not only his aristocratic ideals and political aspirations but a warrant for his dynasty’s procreant existence and future development. Once the impossible burden of serving two emperors disappeared, the dynasty’s younger members would then free themselves of their ancestors’ crippling shackles, renew their birthright to the Order of Knighthood and the whole continent would sit up and take notice. That younger members would appear, that they had to appear, Count Burchard himself no longer doubted for a moment. His own marriage to Louise Marie Men6

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zendorf was planned for the middle of the summer and the spring breezes were already blowing. In the brilliant light of both political development and his personal future, the Count suddenly came to realize how totally inappropriate and reprehensible the ruined castle and the park had become. He couldn’t avoid seeing the rusted cast iron gates, the silted up fountains, the total waste and devastation everywhere. Just getting the estate back in order and working properly would be a tremendous undertaking and challenge, but never before in his life had the young Count felt such elation, such joy and vitality. It was really only a question of time, but perhaps he would even build a new castle. Accompanied by the estate manager, he took a tour of inspection. After viewing the gigantic old structure, he looked at the stables, the pavilions, the waterfalls in the garden. Set back on his heels, he was forced to seriously reconsider what had to be taken in hand immediately and what could be left for later. The gardener was instructed to hire an assistant and given a month to set the park to rights, to concentrate on the vicinity around the castle itself, as well as to initiate work for the renewal of the orangery. Afterwards, he left for Riga. There, he hired half a dozen master craftsmen from various trades, amongst them also Eduards Zvanups, the painter, and immediately returned with them all in tow to his estate. Once the masters had inspected the specific aspects of the work at hand, they opened their chests and checked out their tools. Almost all of them got several local tradesmen as assistants, except Zvanups who, 7

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along with detailed instructions, received the medieval tower in his care. The reason for the concrete and minute instructions was the Burchard family motto. The Count maintained that it was to be found in bas-relief around the top edge of the tower, even though it had long faded and was totally illegible. “To be quite honest, my grandfather always said that the motto had never ever been clearly legible,” the Count added. Therefore, this time in particular, he ordered the use of a very eye-catching colour to spotlight it and make it prominently visible and legible. “Well, I don’t know – are you sure that will look good?” Zvanups doubtfully interrupted. “That’s your job. See to it that it looks good! At first glance it should appear to be only an ornamental decoration. That never fails to impress.” It really was high time that Count Burchard’s family motto gained more prominence. The young Count was most painfully aware of this. “Am I allowed to learn the wording of the family motto?” “You’re not likely to understand any of it. It’s all beyond you.” “Oh, really? Actually, I’m only asking in case any of the letters have crumbled or faded away.” “Yes, of course, you’re quite right. Pastor fidus animarum! That means something like a good shepherd of good sheep, as my ancestor was a pastor from Nuremburg.” “A good sheep herdsman?” concluded Zvanups, the painter. 8

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“No, no, that’s not the point of it, not at all. I always suspected that it wouldn’t come across right if translated into Latvian. Sei ein Schaefer, ein guter Schaefer … doesn’t come across right in Latvian.” “Indeed, is that truly so?” Zvanups remarked, allowing his gaze to sweep over the whole tower. “Well, there’s absolutely no need for it to sound like anything at all in Latvian.” And they set to work. They raised scaffoldings in front of the whole facade. Zvanups announced he would do his job without any scaffolding at all. That seemed impossible as there were no hooks or hatches on the tower, just small and narrow eaves. Zvanups insisted he only needed ropes. His plan was to ring the tower with as many rounds of rope as he deemed necessary. His intention was to fasten the safety-belt hook of his vest to a particular rope and then circle or climb the tower to any height or place he pleased. Since the tower grew rounder and fatter towards the bottom, there would be no danger that the rings, when fastened properly, would not stay put and slide earthwards. The only real difficulty lay in getting the ropes themselves tied around the tower. Here Zvanups came up with a simple but clever solution – he put a cat to good use. He tied the end of his rope to one of the surefooted, agile felines and, using delicious bait, forced it to run along the eaves of the tower. Once he got the first ring fastened, all the rest followed in a like manner. It cannot be denied that the rope-ringing of the tower took some considerable time and the whole procedure moved forward at a fairly slow pace. The cat 9

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wasn’t always co-operative. But, only Count Burchard’s pocketbook really knew the moderate price of the work. “Indeed,” in a happy and courteous mood, the Count once approached Zvanups. “There’s no way that you can possibly be a Latvian. No indeed, I’m sure you aren’t one!” “What on earth leads you, Mister Count, Sir, to come to that conclusion?” “Why, your ingenuity and dexterity. Your name for another – it reminds me of Dutch or Danish names. Gendrups … Zvanups … Gjellerups – no, you are not a Latvian. Teutonic blood flows in your veins!” “But what if bloodlines don’t interest me and I pay them no heed?” “Oh, but bloodlines – they say it all!” exclaimed the Count and turned away as if deeply disappointed. The work on the castle dragged on. Finally Zvanups reached the top of the tower and, perched up under the eaves, fell to whistling like a blackbird. However, once he’d succeeded in rounding the top of the whole tower, his whistling was suddenly cut off in mid-note. Right from the start he had sensed that there was something strange about Count Burchard’s family motto. But now he was so taken aback and thrown off balance that, for the first time in his life, he almost tumbled from his heights. Here most certainly was not a whiff of what the young Count had been talking about. That was not a text in Latin nor was it in German. At an almost unattainable height, a real and stark curse in simple Latvian ran in light relief around the top of the tower and loomed alarmingly over the pseudo-medieval castle. 10

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Over the years the wind and weather had not damaged it but it could not be divined from the ground below as it blended in with the general greyness of the walls. The longer Zvanups stared at it, the closer he got to its essence, the more it overwhelmed and affected him. It seemed as if he were not viewing genuine hand-made reliefs of a former master craftsman but a fateful, ghostly message in an abominable fantastic story. However, Zvanups believed in neither ghosts nor fate. Therefore, he started wondering how the whole thing could possibly have come to be. His thoughts wandered in different directions and he entertained many various explanations, but the only one that truly seemed feasible and most credible under the circumstances was a simple realization. As a ferocious and bittersweet settling of scores, one of Burchard’s feudal serfs, a master craftsman, had constructed and placed the relief of fierce damnation up here under the eaves of the tower. And suddenly before his mind’s eye Zvanups saw a multitude of slaves on the fields of the estate, fighting to loosen clumps of soil with bleeding fingers, the wind blowing and spinning through the hair of women pilloried in church courtyards and thus held out to public scorn, a huge throng of men yoked together to labour in the building of the stone tower that he himself was sitting upon. And he quaked in fear and trembling. No way would he allow himself to lay a single finger and alter the silent screaming letters of the bas-relief script on the tower… Look at each letter separately, each one very slightly but proudly displaying its brick edges! As hard as nails but made of clay and human blood. To dare to write down this curse, one either had to be like the 11

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Apostle John and live on a lonely island, or else put it up at such a height that neither a monocled eye could read it nor a whip touch it. Zvanups wiped the cold perspiration from off his brow and climbed down to the ground. He looked back up uneasily. “Ho, do you like it?” the Count asked. “What a fantastic tower, a fantastic tower!” “You said it.” “The devil take me, but I cannot make any rhyme or reason out of your inscription…” “How come? Oh, of course, of course! I did tell you that it would be all beyond you. It’s not meant for people like you.” Zvanups withdrew his gaze in under his eyebrows but then continued, “Nevertheless, I still think that it’s not a very commendable inscription…” “What!” the enraged Count immediately screamed at Zvanups who was totally out of line, had gone too far in daring to criticize what was most sacred. “I absolutely forbid you to speak further on the matter. I must insist that you strictly follow orders and fulfill my commands! And … and … and … see to it that you neither alter nor correct one single thing!” “God forbid, I’d never presume, no, never!” “The tower was built by Walter von Koblenz… Have you any idea who that was, Walter von Koblenz? A master tower builder. Truly one of the great masters. Not a speck of plaster must be allowed to fall – is that clear? That’s a historical monument, that tower.” 12

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“I do understand, my Lord Count, Sir. I most certainly do.” Zvanups interrupted him and his fervent testimony left a good impression. The Count repeated for good measure exactly what Zvanups was and was not allowed to do and then begged him to hurry up a bit in completing his work. “Everything has to be finished in a week’s time.” “That’s asking for a bit too much, my Lord Count, Sir,” the painter said and bowed his head. “But if you insist, what must be must be.” “I must insist,” asserted Burchard. The scaffolding was slowly being dismantled and removed to reveal the walls of the castle. The huge, thick walls of the main building had been done in a dark, brownish copper colour. The edifice had acquired such a massive and heavy appearance that it seemed to be gradually sinking into the ground. A few guests, high ranking officers of the occupying armed forces had started arriving and, accompanied by their ladies, were often underfoot in the still untidy inner courtyard. This commingling of the labour forces and the leisure class immediately caused such disorder and confusion, even distress, that Zvanups began avoiding everyone and, to keep the distance, taking his meals with him up into the tower. From this vantage point he looked down and observed how hundreds of doubled-up road builders worked at laying cobblestone highways that the Prussian army proceeded to march upon. From up there as well he once mistook the newly hired kitchen maid, Milda Pazarite, for Louise Marie Menzendorf, who had just arrived from Cologne. On realizing his mistake, Zvan13

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ups apologized to the maid profusely, reassuring her that at least her honour could not suffer again should a similar problem of mistaken identity arise anew. The approaching family festivities and the slow pace of the restoration work on the castle were turning Count Burchard into a nervous wreck. Zvanups continued working on the tower and did not actually finish until the early morning of the wedding day. Then, though he was most stressed and too busy for words, the Count still took the time to reprimand and reproach the painter that he had not done the job properly. The motto had not been brought out in distinct and sharp relief and consequently was not as boldly and clearly legible as wished. In its yellow shading the letters of the script disappeared in the brown mass of the background. “Nothing has been improved, it’s exactly the way it used to be!” the infuriated Count spluttered. “Even with my binoculars I cannot make anything out!” “I truly did my best, as much as was in my power!” III At four o’clock in the afternoon, carriage after carriage appeared in the alleys of the estate, stopped for a moment at the main entrance of the castle, the guests disembarked and the vehicles rolled off to the carriage houses. The grand portal was encased in a narrow, chiseled stone frame behind which a long dim corridor ended in 14

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an oval room illuminated by a star-shaped candelabra hanging from the high ceiling. From here the guests were dispersed in various directions, whereas family members and close relatives disappeared to the left. After long years of absence they finally all met once more. Here they could embrace, kiss, congratulate one another in privacy and then, by the open windows, delight in the fragrant air of their native land. Shortly before eight in the evening, the Count and Louise Marie Menzendorf made their appearance, on their way to the altar. The guests followed close behind but, unfortunately, the lucky first few completely filled the narrow, small chapel in the tower. The majority of the guests had to make do standing in the fairly humid and uncomfortable corridor. However, Dean Tarloff’s words reached everyone, even in the back rows, as he expressed himself forcefully, with resolution and conviction. His lesson pointed out that our Lord God was a mighty fortress which he went on to compare to Count Burchard’s castle and emphasized the aspects that made the latter similarly no less powerful. For hundreds of years it had provided the heroic knights with protection and safe haven from the indigenous barbarians of the countryside. It was fulfilling that function that very day by protecting all the honourable guests present who aspired to preserve and continue this vision. “Today, Count Joachim Burchard is the first amongst them to take a helpmate in the battle that should be renewed,” the Dean concluded solemnly. “So let us praise him and his lady-friend here on earth and forever more, Amen, amen, amen.” 15

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After the short ceremony the newlyweds headed out the door and no sooner had they been greeted with exultation by the guests than they received a three-volley small cannon salute which the army general’s party had enthusiastically contributed. The hissing thunder resounded far and wide, rolling over the Count’s forests and thus informing even the most timid of its beasts of the new wife’s heralding introduction into her new state within their home borders. In the ballroom, wedding music filled the air. “Dean Tarloff spoke well,” said the civil governor walking down the steps. “Yes,” replied Lieutenant von Zacken, “but didn’t he interchange God and Count Burchard a bit too often?” “Modern theology knows what it’s doing. For the time being everything is working out very well.” When this conversing pair entered the hall, the other guests were being seated at tables. Twilight was falling and clouds were gathering so that the lights had to be turned on. The Dean’s theme was pursued with varying professional efficacy, all depending on whether the speaker was a politician, an administrator, or a soldier. The rhetorical brilliance with which they hoped first of all to gain their lord and master’s good-will and then the benevolent attention of the other counts present was dazzling. For after all, they all had one common goal in life, no matter whether they had built their castles here on earth or on The Cape of Good Hope. Since the dinner was approaching its inevitable end, a signal rocket shot past the windows. The guests noisily 16

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trooped outdoors, some with beer tankards, others still with forks in their hands. The bold servants resolutely insisted upon relieving them of these encumbrances, thus setting their loose hands free for other chores and diverse preoccupations. The night was now pitch black. The fireworks started. The trees in the park burst into bloom with orange crowns, the waterfalls threw up rainbows, and high in the sky, against the dark clouds, balls of fire wrote a hymn of praise to the newlyweds. “Joachim, this is just so marvellous!” exclaimed the young wife, holding his hand. “Are you truly satisfied?” responded the bridegroom and kissed his wife’s fingertips. They moved further into the grounds and then stopped once more. The orchard seemed to be going up in flames. Unexpectedly, the young bride raised her arm towards the tower and ecstatically exclaimed: “Darling, look at the fireworks over there!” Count Burchard looked back at the tower – yes, indeed, a flame was appearing there as well. A ring of light was girdling the top of the tower and the individual letters of the script gave off a light phosphoric glow. Oh, that poor, silly painter! Just look at what he’s come up with! The long, narrow letters were catching fire and becoming faintly visible, even legible against the blackened walls. He could not deny that the painter had delivered an ingenuous surprise. “Joachim, it’s just heavenly!” “Indeed!” The glow of the tower brightened. The Count, trying to read it, kept his eyes glued to the script. 17

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“Wait a second, just wait!” He evaded Louise Marie’s attempts to pull him gently forward by the arm. “I want to show you the swan that’s now swimming in the pond. I’ve brought it with me,” she explained. “Yes, yes, yes.” But the Count refused to give in to her demands and didn’t budge. His piercing eyes were steadily fixed on the tower. How strange! Wasn’t the lettering all mixed up? To his mind they certainly didn’t follow the expected order and made no sense. But then suddenly it seemed that the Count had finally succeeded in deciphering something and he staggered backwards… “Magnificent, absolutely matchless!” Lieutenant von Zacken called out as he approached. “My dear lady, is that the family motto? The Count’s motto?” “Yes, it is the Count’s motto!” “What a magnificent idea. I’ll make use of it, if I may, on my father’s castle as soon as I return to Salzburg. Simply a magnificent idea! Of course, seldom would it work so well in tandem with the architecture and park, as it does here.” The crowd around them kept growing as more and more of the guests were coming to realize that it was their duty to follow suite and be just as enthralled by the clever illumination and fireworks as was obviously their host himself. They all raised and turned their heads from side to side, happily babbling along at the same time. But then Lieutenant von Zacken, stretching his neck as high as possible out of his tight collar, spelled out each letter in turn: “S … sa … s – asper … Per aspera ad astra? – No, I do not like that, it makes no sense. That’s no motto, it’s just a common proverb. Sa … sper…” 18

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“Doesn’t quite lend itself to easy reading, does it?” helpfully added Dean Tarloff, one of the few who could read a bit of Latvian. Count Burchard stood there as if turned to stone. He still had his doubts. He could hardly decipher more than two and a half words … God only knows … but the ones up there had absolutely nothing to do with his family motto. The Dean’s inquiry quickened him. “True, it’s hard to read,” agreed the Count as calmly as he possibly could but he had to turn away so as not to reveal the spastic twitching of his face muscles. “Gentlemen, there’s really not much there to admire after all. Let’s continue deeper into the park!” Once again the rockets went shooting off, the pond glittered dark blue and a dazzling swan was mirrored like a gleaming sunbeam on its surface. The Count ordered his foresters to release sixteen hares at the far corner of the park. He wanted to amuse his guests with a nocturnal hunting party and for this reason the animals’ tails were lit up. They took flight through the trees in the park and on the tip of each tail hung a tiny, pale green, lighted lantern. Some volleys had already been fired before the Count felt the time opportune for him to safely abandon his guests, as well as his young wife, and secretly return to the tower. In fear and trembling he hurried back. Music flowed from the castle and the shadows of dancing couples crossed the lighted windows. But above everything towered the ring of fire. It was all burning ever brighter and the individual letters of the words could now be discerned with no difficulty from afar. Like a thief in the night, the Count crept closer. All 19

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at once he had the feeling he had sprained his neck and had trouble raising his head. But he read it. In spite of everything he succeeded in reading it all! With every new word his knees grew weaker, his hair more dishevelled, the twitching in his left cheek worse. Finally he collapsed on a bench. However, the abominable curse was burning into his mind through his closed eyelids: “May Thunder strike dead this whole dynasty of vipers!” The world caught fire, turning topsy-turvy, swirling and gyrating head-over-heels. It seemed to him that the words themselves were springing forth from the sides of the tower, turning into birds that blazed up, flew about in the park only to return once more to their high nesting place. He had to open his eyes to see whether the unbelievable was really true, and true it was beyond a doubt – the emblazoned words were burning there as bright as ever: “May Thunder strike dead this whole dynasty of vipers!” Dear God, this was an impossible situation he found himself in! Totally impossible! What on earth had he invited his friends to and where in the world was he celebrating his marriage? Under an abominable, foul text! He had made a laughing stock out of his friends and himself, God damn it! Had he only made them look like fools? No, no, it was far worse, way far worse than that, something … well… He was beyond rational thought. Sheer chaos ruled his head. His hands trembled. Then he suddenly swayed from side to side, sprang up from the bench, galloped into the courtyard and screamed: 20

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“Where is that vulture? That vile villain! I say, where is that vulture?” The servants rushed outdoors to meet him. “Where is that scoundrel, I ask you!” “What? Who? Who?” “Zvanups, the rotten robber! Is he still around?” “He’s in the kitchen, Mister Count, Sir!” “Get the hellhound here!” In the courtyard appeared Zvanups, the painter. “You dastardly dog, you!” Count Burchard bellowed on being confronted by the smiling face of the master craftsman. He grabbed a hold of Zvanups’ head and tilted it skywards screaming, “Look, look!” “I am looking!” Zvanups answered. “But stop breaking my neck and I must insist that you address me properly!” “What!” “I only wanted to surprise and delight you, to please you, my good Sir. In all truth it is all your own doing, I just faithfully followed your very strict orders. You forbade me to correct anything. I’ve only illuminated what’s been standing up there for generations, since time immemorial, my good Sir.” “You shouldn’t have, you shouldn’t have,” howled the Count almost wailing. There was now supplication in his tones as he begged: “What can we do? Zvanups, my friend, do tell me, what can we possibly do?” “I don’t think we can do anything about it anymore, Sir.” 21

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“That’s not true, Zvanups, you’re a liar!” And once more his voice took on the former threatening tones only to recover and grow milder again, altogether imploring and begging. It became a slippery snake creeping into his ear, cuddling up, then, springing back to strike, grew dark and menacing. “Zvanups, listen closely!” “Yes?” “Climb back up to the top immediately and put it all out! Extinguish it! I can’t stand it… It can’t possibly be a joke, can it...” “That is no joke!” Dear God, how the little painter’s voice has changed, he didn’t use to sound like that. He’s never spoken like this before. “Zvanups, here’s some money, take it and start climbing … but right now, for heaven’s sake … right now!” “No, no, that’s impossible, at the moment it’s absolutely impossible.” “Do it, do it!” “No, no.” “Here’s a thousand more, but just do it!” “I’ve already been paid, thank you. I can’t possibly do it.” “You don’t want to. I see that you don’t want to, you scoundrel!” And once again, like a swooping vulture with outstretched claws, the Count threw himself at the master craftsman. This time around, Zvanups jumped aside and the green phosphoric light was reflected on his face. 22

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“You’re quite right, I don’t want to! I don’t want to! Never! It’s a real fireworks, Count! A fireworks!” The Count’s doubled-up body started twitching in convulsions. He himself looked like a dying vulture which could no longer lift its wings although its claws still threaten death and destruction. The first returning hunters were beginning to emerge from the park with their trophies, the hares. The Count laughed shrilly and then fairly calmly made a gesture in Zvanups’ direction. “Here’s another hare!” Lieutenant von Zacken approached the Count and they exchanged a few words. On the first signal, ten soldiers like alien ghosts swam out of the darkness. “Take him away,” ordered the officer and that was all. After half an hour some shots rang out at the edge of the forest. For that night it heralded the end to any noisemaking outside the castle walls. Within the castle itself, however, they were only just getting started. Count Burchard sought oblivion and blankness. He drank and danced, captivating his guests and drawing them into his whirlwind. Often in the very middle of a dance he would suddenly be short of breath, have to abandon his dancing partner and collapse into an easy chair. Inevitably he rose just as quickly to renew his frantic activities until he fell to the floor in the middle of the dancehall. The guests were terribly upset. “What’s wrong, Count, Sir?” “Excuse me, please, my foot slipped.” And he managed to get up without any help. 23

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“Who’d believe it, hardly wed and old age is upon me!” He tried to joke. But his young wife took him by the arm and led him to the farthest end of the ballroom. “You shouldn’t dance anymore, Joachim.” “Dear God, when else if not tonight!” he sighed. Sitting amongst his closest friends his eyes swept the room and he observed the guests critically. He had to acknowledge that many seemed to be sitting in their chairs stiff as statues. Verily, most of them were the magnates of Vidzeme. They were deliberately refraining from going out into the courtyard and kept sitting and sitting there, covering horrific difficulties by pretending they were tired and sleepy. And the Count became more than convinced that their heads as well were heavily bowed down under the glitter of morituri! Oh, at times like these, he was most certain that the burning phosphorus and brimstone was dripping down from the tower and seeping through the ceiling. The Count drew his head down deeper into his shoulders. And one after the other the guests followed suite. Only the very young continued to go out into the park in order to cool off. God hadn’t created them with any knowledge of Latvian. Whenever they returned indoors, they’d exclaim loudly: “Count Burchard, your brilliant tower is amazing. Enchanting, ever so enchanting!” The Count would smile and nod his head in agreement. “Yes, yes,” he’d say and close his eyes. “Enchanting…” But his veins swelled and he grew short of breath. 24

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“Joachim, you’re ill,” his worried wife was upset and whispered in his ear. “Never mind, it’s nothing, nothing….” Dawn was breaking as the ballroom slowly began to empty. The majority of the guests threw themselves into their carriages and drove home. The next few days the Count spent as a somnambulist. As night fell he’d hide deeper in the back rooms in order not to see in the gathering dusk that the tower would take on a light glow. When he could not endure it any longer, he went to live in the estate manager’s house. However, he never got the chance to start any renovations on the tower. When the German army retreated, the young couple too had to leave for their honeymoon. They have never returned from this journey. * Half a kilometre from the castle park, between two cornfields, near a small pine knoll lies Zvanups, the painter. In the evenings, as the shadows grow longer, the tower with his shadow as well, comes to visit his master and then, as in bygone days, they meet.

25

The Flea’s Tale

I

was born just as light was breaking at three o’clock in the morning. Around five, I abandoned my home nest to get to the back of the small dog’s ear that lay on the rug at the foot of his mistress’s bed. On my way there, across the shiny parquet floor, I made my first tiny foray in the art of dance. But, when I tired, I decided to return to my former home. However, when I left my quiet space for a second time, everything in the room had changed. Neither the rug nor the dog were to be seen anywhere. Only an old woman cleaning the windows. No doubt about it, she was the house maid who seemed to have had little joy in her life. Therefore, wanting to make her happy, I carefully raced across the room. I jumped up on the window sill to present her with one of my most beautiful dance routines. I had hardly succeeded in taking my first leap before the old woman suddenly let loose a horrible screech and threw her cleaning rag at me. At that very moment the door of the neighbouring room opened and I caught sight of the lady who, only a few hours ago, had been asleep in the bed. “What’s all the screaming about, Anuž?” she inquired. 26

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“My dear lady, I’m afraid to mention it … but I saw…” “Yes, what was it?” “A flea!” This announcement left a shattering impact on the young lady. I conclude this from the fact that the news almost got the old servant fired and she was ordered to thoroughly bathe the little dog. Only then did the young lady go back and sit down at her desk in the next room. Nevertheless, even after breakfast, she was still quite agitated and upset and kept wandering about, complaining about the general cleanliness of the rooms and suspiciously and very thoroughly peering into the corners. I really had to take myself in hand not to scratch her eyes out since, after all, I was a new born virgin. What highhanded conceit! I had more reason to have my doubts about her innocence than she about mine, but here she was, raising such a ruckus. She was proof positive that blind, totally unjustified hatred of my black tribe reigned here supreme. In an intensive, two-hour search of her premises, I didn’t find a single brother or sister of mine anywhere. What in the world has my small, tiny tribe done, to deserve such contempt and destruction? Surely, not because we are tiny and black, and they are huge and white? Can it be, because we are such glorious dancers, whereas they can hardly drag themselves about? We don’t even trip up under a wet rag, but other creatures immediately die under the first boot heel. Oh, anything’s possible! I realize that all these questions are far from settled and that there’s a lack of harmony amongst all living beings. In their eternal struggle to survive, fools 27

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run about, blaspheme and stumble, enrage one another and end up destroying themselves. Look, at this very moment, the lady is consuming hundreds of thousands of fish eggs but she trembles at the thought that I could acquire a milligram of her blood. Is that very magnanimous? Of course not! That’s neither a sign of generosity of spirit nor of intelligence. It’s simply a deliberate and determined slight and insult to life in general. Why should I become a passionate defender of the dignity of man? No, no. I followed the woman’s every footstep to prove the exact opposite. See, she was still very distressed and wondering whether her apartment was impeccably clean. So, I chose the most opportune moment – just as the capricious creature sat down on the bench in front of the piano and started playing a lively piece of music. “Please,” I said in my own language. “Do go on playing, young lady and, in the meantime, I’ll dance. The music is as if composed just for me.” You can’t imagine what happened the very moment I appeared on the white keys of the piano. The creature jumped up as if a bee had stung her, kept trying to catch me with her fingers, but I just continued dancing about. My teeny tiny heart almost went up in flames with glee. Her extreme agitation was obviously an embedded human trait. How virtuous, how profoundly virtuous! What a wonderful museum of innate customs are inherent in their nature. Finally, she called the servant to her aid, for it seemed to her that she was surrounded by hundreds of fleas. But, it was only me, all alone, turning summersaults across her shiny parquet floor. 28

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“Anuž, from tomorrow on you can start looking for a new job! Take a look – there are streams of the black beasties shooting up out of the floor!” Anuža just stood there, her head hanging dejectedly, while my tormentor was aflame with rage. Then I took my most daring leap in front of her. Unfortunately, I must confess, it cost me most dearly. The young lady stepped on one of my tiny front legs. I had no choice but to withdraw into a corner to recover from my injury. But, at that moment, I also made up my mind to retaliate. Truly, every living being has to reach this inevitable conclusion, sooner or later. That’s what mankind is all about! I was left alone and undisturbed. Gradually my suffering subsided and, eventually, didn’t prevent me from leaving the small crack in the floor, which had probably never imagined it would have to serve as an infirmary. I took a tour of the drawing-room – it seemed comfortable and attractive. I inspected the sofa, the chairs, the flower pots, and even spent a few moments in the dried out brains of humanity, that they tend to call the Holy Scriptures. In the bookshelves I had the honour of meeting up with several famous philosophers that were fenced in by cookbooks. I discovered that, theoretically, I was not locked out of the list of creatures that have a right to life. We have even succeeded in winning over poets to write heroic verses about me and my kind. So then … so then…. Look, right then and there, my rage intensified twofold. I left the bookshelves doubly determined to revenge myself on my persecutor’s ridiculous hypocrisy. She enjoys playing a piece of music about a flea on the piano but refuses 29

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to meet me face to face. How much more pitiful can one get than to be unable to think something through to its logical conclusion! What hypocrites – capable of loving, petting and cherishing only those creatures that they eventually plan to place on their dinner plates. Just watch how they fondle a newborn calf that they intend to slaughter for their festive table. They stroke its shiny coat and even go so far as to skim their lips across its moist, pink muzzle. Supposedly, this is their so proudly proclaimed Godlike love for all creatures, great and small. This, indeed, is Godlike love! Thank God, then, that they haven’t extended it to me. The heavens be praised that they haven’t come up with a feast that would include me. This very reason makes it easier to endure their animosity. Their love is more dangerous than their hatred. I settled down on an oleander branch and observed two pairs of wings fluttering about each other on the other side of the window. Praise the Lord, you two that have wings! In the presence of human beings they are life savers. The day was a beautiful one. Then my tormentor, conversing with her servant, reentered the room. “You knew very well that I’m expecting a guest today. He can’t stand vermin.” What an expression! Vermin! But as far as her visitor went, what else could one expect of him? Hatred in its multi-variations – that’s the ultimate goal of their higher education. Animosity towards God – their religion. They’re even capable of feeling it against inanimate ob30

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jects – drilling holes in mountains and calling it technology, destroying forests and floating the logs down rivers as huge rafts and claiming it’s commercial development… As I can’t stop repeating – hatred turns them into giants. A bell sounded somewhere. The young lady was presented with a letter. The first few lines were a wonderful surprise. On sitting down, she continued reading with growing enthusiasm. I left the oleander branch and quietly moved to her shoulder. I dared to do so for, once again, there were only the two of us present. As far as I could make out, the letter was an invitation to somewhere far, far away. Her pulse started accelerating. Having read the letter through several times, she finally folded it up and kissed it. Of course I could only marvel at this act of paper worship, but, supposedly, it is not that rare a phenomenon in human society. Then she called out happily: “Anuž!” Just to be on the safe side, I jumped down onto the floor. Anuža appeared in the doorway. “The doctor’s not coming today. At three o’clock I’m taking the train to the seashore. But, while I’m away, you’re to beat the rugs and carpets thoroughly once more, is that clear?” I understood as well. The lady was going off all on her own. Was it smart to let her do that? Definitely not! Right on the spot, I made up my mind to accompany her. Word of honour, there was no way she could deny me that. I silently crept up to the lady’s feet and started crawling carefully up her leg. What a warm and smooth stocking! I’d almost reached her knee when I fell into some31

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thing cloud-like. It turned out to be Brussels lace and I didn’t feel particularly safe there. I continued my journey upwards. Extremely difficult going. Through folds and pleats and tucks I took some heady leaps. And all the time, I had to be very careful not to touch her rosy skin, for then, almost inevitably, she’d throw off her lacy scraps that give off a fragrance like a Ceylon forest. And, I’d land on the floor once more. I was very careful. Not far above her waist, I climbed the utmost snowy peak of her undershirt and had to be satisfied with the wonderful landscape before my eyes. “What a sight!” I thought to myself. “All these warm and rosy hills and dales God has granted you for life and sustenance, just like the land of Canaan to the children of Israel!” But, I was in no hurry, I was biding my time … I feasted my eyes and rhapsodized on the geography of this glowing body, its hills and valleys, forests and springs, that an English poet in his youth so masterfully described in his poem “Venus and Adonis”. Believe me, it’s the most valuable book in her library, a real Baedeker for the innocent traveller. It even helps a flea to find its orientation through the landscape’s most important places. It seems to me it even generously points out which sights are the most popular tourist areas and which are truly worth spending one’s time at. At the moment, however, I couldn’t make use of these practical tips. My only consideration was to find a direct route to some spot where I’d feel safe and secure. After considerable difficulties, I finally found a narrow trail that led me to the more sunny areas of her 32

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bosom. There I settled down in a lacy seam of her undershirt, exactly opposite the purplish budding peak of her right breast. I stayed very still in order not to betray my presence. I was biding my time. But while I was accomplishing all that, the lady hadn’t been idle either. I pushed my tiny snout through one of the many windows in the lace and saw that we were both being carried through fields and meadows. What a rushing, dashing journey we were on! We were on a train that was speeding along. It crossed a bridge – I heard say that it was the bridge across the river Lielupe – and soon we arrived at our destination. A gentleman awaited us there. And truly, he made every effort to present himself as such. Tall, thin, wearing white gloves – he kissed my companion’s hand and then, immediately, we made our way past pine trees. I witnessed all this through my tiny lacy window. From his very first words, I realized that the third addition to our outing was the very same honourable doctor who was petrified of vermin. “Of course” I concluded. “Everyone needs something to keep them occupied. But I wonder whether mustard frightens him as well?” The introductions to the cookbooks point out the fact that there are people who are afraid of mustard and others even faint when they see someone slipping a knife between their lips. No one can deny them that. But it must be so difficult to live one’s life in constant fear. Indeed, his whole manner of behaviour was proof that he was afraid of far more than just the young lady’s presence. He spoke of being overworked and suffering 33

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from bad nerves. He also told her he had already spent a week taking mud baths! Mud baths! It seems to me it really is worthwhile to have a good laugh about humans now and then. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll try to keep that up all my life. Then, they talked about the sun and the clouds. That must be what’s called talking about lofty topics. I didn’t find it the least bit interesting. All I got out of it all was that they were in love, madly in love, and that the gentleman had studied the history of jurisprudence for, at some point, he explained: “Clouds … the only independent body of water…. Not even the Roman senate passed laws pertaining to them.” Amazing! Human animosity hasn’t reached quite those heights yet. But, actually, thank God, to this I have no objections whatsoever. And anyway – at the moment I felt quite satisfied. Even the fact that the rosy foundation under me was constantly making high waves and that the lady’s heart was beating away like the dog’s paw on the carpet didn’t bother me in the slightest. Quite the contrary, I enjoyed the rocking motion. Considerable heat was rising up around me but, as there was also a breeze blowing about, I wasn’t getting overheated. I forgot the trespasses I’d suffered against me, but there was one particular aspect that did bother me. Why wasn’t there another flea about so we could rub snouts and have a good time together? Surely that was not impossible. But that wasn’t how it was. And this was all the fault of the woman’s conceit which she, out of sheer obstinacy, deemed to call the proper needs of a well-bred 34

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person for a comfortable, aristocratic life. A hundred nice but totally hollow words! And I experienced a renewed flood of rage and then I remembered that I had had nothing to eat all day…. But look, they were already walking along in total silence holding hands. They remained only a short spell at the seashore and then returned to the dunes. They wandered along them for a while and then turned into a garden. There, everything was sold at a price, even products that God’s earth provides for free. Finally, they, too, ordered a meal and a bottle of wine. And then, all three of us started into our dinners. I took a leap in the direction of her shoulder. Once there, I waited until my companion took her first bite and I in turn bit into her solid flesh. I sucked away! She trembled and jerked her shoulder high. The doctor peered across at her. Mortified, she in turn pretended she’d been sitting still as can be at least for the last thousand years. Then, she continued satisfying her appetite which was equal to mine. And once again, I observed that she was consuming a huge piece of steaming hot tongue that had been ripped out of some poor ox’s mouth for her pleasure and satisfaction. That was proof positive that my conscience would remain clear for however long I lived. Consequently, I immediately looked around for a new spot and a small birthmark became the easiest access point to her blood. I stung her right to the heart. And I enjoyed sucking away. She raised her hand to her breast but was valiantly able to control herself and didn’t give anything away. I realized what tremendous effort that cost her because her rosy skin took on a pinkish hue. I doubled my sucking efforts 35

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once more. Then she did flinch and threw down her fork. I slackened off. “What’s wrong?” the surprised doctor asked. “Nothing,” She answered and blushed even more deeply. “Just nerves.” Once I’d completed my dinner, I moved on to her back to see how well my injured leg had recovered. Yes, it was perfectly fine. I jumped about to my heart’s content and went absolutely crazy. The lady consumed her wine, threw herself around in her chair, laughed, moved her arms about, pressed herself close against the backrest of the chair and declared that, this time, one mouthful of wine was hitting her harder than a whole keg ever had before. The silly doctor, he actually believed her. “All in all, I’d say you need to take some mud baths, too.” He told her in all seriousness. No, I couldn’t allow that to happen, at least not yet. I stopped dancing. Truth to tell, I needed a rest. On returning to my former spot, I could once more observe the world. The veranda was in the shade. The day was coming to a close, but my mission was far from complete. No, no. My retribution hadn’t even begun. We’d just shared a meal and my dance was simply a satiated creature’s expression of delight. Retribution would come later. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Once they’d eaten, they got up and continued wandering about. This time, their path led to the river Lielupe. I discovered that they wanted to go out in a rowboat. “Do you know how to row?” asked the doctor. 36

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“Yes.” “That’s good. In my day, I had no time for sports, and now, it’s too late to start… I want to get away from the crowds. I’ve been thinking the whole time…. You see, there’s something I mean to tell you…” But then he got confused, and couldn’t get a word out. This actually was an indication that he indeed had something to say. That’s always the case with the best lawyers around. “Yes, darling! Do say it! Go right ahead!” How silly of her. Obviously, she has not studied law. A good lawyer even considers a church to be God’s waiting room and, on entering it, will spend an hour waiting his turn. To get certain things, one simply has to wait patiently, there’s no getting away from it. And, what he wanted to talk about seems more appropriate in moonlight than sunshine. Be patient! But at that very moment, I realized I had no reason to waste more time. On our way to Lielupe, I’d already decided that I had to make the doctor aware of my presence. They were silently walking side by side again. Up the white valley between her breasts I made my way to her neck and sought a way to look the doctor in the eye. That didn’t appear to be too easy. There was no other choice but to start up the old dance routine. I flew about like a fury. Yes indeed, anyone who would have looked in my direction at that moment would have thought I was weaving a black thread around my beloved’s head – I was having a jolly good time. I fell into her hair, leapt from shoulder to shoulder, until finally he did notice me. I watched his eyes grow round, his shoulders jerk but, 37

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for the moment, he only pressed his lips together severely. “Hi, doctor,” I addressed him in my language. “Is it true that you can’t stand vermin? Or has the woman you’ve fallen in love with been telling lies once more?” I redoubled my exuberance. I raised a dark whirlwind around her head. For a moment, he observed my galloping enthusiasm – and, he truly was on the verge of saying something. But, all he did do was simply raise his eyebrows. I was ever so careful and didn’t even try to leap across to the doctor. No, no, that in no way would have served my purpose at the moment. But, just to be on the safe side, he started walking with a bit more space between them. That was my first, even if insignificant, triumph. It spurred me on to new endeavours. And you know, I became as bold as to leave small black dots here and there on her white blouse. No mistake there, I did that for a very good reason. I won’t deny that that was the beginning of my retribution. Beyond a doubt, it was a small, deliberate obscenity on my part, but I justified it, for once, from the bottom of my heart. I knew very well what an impression they would leave on someone who worships as his God spotlessly clean rags. I had not been led astray. When the good doctor raised his eyes once more, he studied his beloved (and now of course mine!) from top to toe. And this time, he could not hold his tongue. “When did you last bathe?” he asked in extreme agitation. The lady blushed. The question was more than unexpected; it was both pitiless and insulting. With tears in 38

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her eyes, the unfortunate woman stared at the doctor but the nervous man refused to speak. “My dear friend, what’s the meaning of all this?” she could not stop herself from asking. “Is this what you originally wanted to talk to me about?” “Perhaps.” “That can’t be true!” She exclaimed, rushed towards him, wanted to embrace him and – oh, my God – tried to kiss him. “Ugh” groaned the doctor, pulling away. I don’t quite know what the word means in human vocabulary, but in mine it means approximately the same thing as if he’d said “You filthy flea, you have achieved your goal.” As you can well imagine, after such words of praise, I did not need to have anything more to do with them. I leapt into the shaggy coat of a poodle that was running past and lost sight of the two of them. The poodle and his girlfriends spent the whole evening wandering up and down the beach at Lielupe and I know for sure that not a single rowboat appeared on the river by nightfall. But, just as definitely, I can assure you that life with dogs is much more enjoyable than with human beings. However, I haven’t quite given up on the idea of returning to them one day. My retribution is endless. At the moment, I am full of praise for my poodle. Among other things, it was in his coat that I finally met my first tiny flea. “What a pleasure!” I cried. “Oh, how I’ve been longing for you!” was her answer.

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A

wide-brimmed hat covers my old grey head and folks are surprised at how agile my work-worn hands are at handling my walking stick. The brim of my hat protects my eyes from the sun and my walking stick comes in handy to knock small stones out of my way on the path or to poke about with in the sand while I’m deep in thought. People wonder too about my being in such good spirits and quite good healthy. There really is no reason to wonder. My back, thank God, is not of the weak kind and besides that, I have other reasons as well for being pleased with the world and throwing my hat in the air this summer. I am not a native of this area and so to familiarize myself with it, I wander about all day long, wherever my fancy takes me. In the morning I spend some leisurely hours in the garden, then help out in the household, after lunch I stroll down to old mother Baumgarten’s shop. After about an hour or more I stroll homeward along roundabout ways. I have a room at old Vīcups’ who has a whole house to himself. We are both old men with our working lives behind us and for some strange reason we get along. At times, it even occurs to me that 40

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I could easily spend the rest of my days here with him. Most likely that is what will happen, if everything works out well and continues to develop along the present lines. And as long as the neighbours don’t discover my weakness to be helpful and lend money and then try to take advantage of me. ‘He’s got so much he throws it around like chaff!’ I’ve heard people say. I’m the only one who knows the true state of affairs, that I’ve got just enough to prevent angry tirades about my funeral expenses. I like old Vīcups. Life is calm and quiet here and the desk I’m writing on is almost identical to the one that the fire consumed, along with all my papers, a few years ago. Amongst them was a short story that I had written in my early years as a scribe. That was back in the days when calendars only printed what lent itself to nice and pretty picture illustrations. Unfortunately, that was not the case with my story and so it never saw the light of day. And today I thank the Lord for that! But since then, I’ve had many an occasion to contemplate the question of how many people there are who are still around and supposedly all there, but whose lives have turned into an empty, meaningless shell with nothing to commend it. Oh my, what dark turnings my mind takes on at times! Utter nonsense, I must say! But tonight I must admit that I no longer regret the fire or the loss of my desk. At the moment new hope is dawning on the horizon that may brighten my life before the end of my days. The problem lies in my being too busy to sit down to use old Vīcups’ ink-well! Almost daily I have to walk to the grove, visit the shop and spend time trying to console 41

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and cheer up old Vīcups in his melancholy old-age. Truly, he’s almost as unhappy and tired as I was a year or two ago. Look here, I’ve just been leafing through the papers and read this article about him. What did they call him? A Cimsist, but cruel gossips just write him off for being old. They dealt with Jekabs Sakne in exactly the same manner by calling him a thief. That’s not to say there’s no truth in what they’re writing, for Jekabs Sakne is a thief, and old Vīcups is old. That’s all he hears – morning, noon and night – and he just sits there waiting for evening to fall so that he can sigh and resign himself to it all. “Yes,” he likes to say then, “I made a terrible mistake. I’ve raised and educated three generations even though it should have only been one. The first generation are still my friends, the second can hardly stand me any more and the third only curses me and thinks my still being around is almost a crime. That’s the bitter truth of it, my friend. They don’t remember anything else. For them I’m just a useless, weak old man. I’m beginning to realize there’s a cruel curse behind the mastery of an excellent craftsman. I must now acknowledge that there are only two types of craftsmen: those who never get going and then there are those who once they do, don’t stop in time. We were the ones who didn’t know when to stop….” His ‘we’ refers to all his contemporaries and colleagues who, just like him, worked hard all their lives but are now slowly wasting away to nothing in some lonely, dark corner. Old Vīcups himself is gradually sinking ever 

A famous Latvian school reformer (the translator’s note).

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deeper into the twilight of his room. The wind is taking its last turn through the maples outside his window and his room is becoming darker, quieter, lonelier. Leaning on his miniature organ, old Vīcups seems to be imploding before my eyes and shrinking day by day. “But isn’t it strange,” he continues and raises his head. “You’re in your prime and charging through life at a gallop, like a mighty stag in the forest. You’re bursting with energy and able to fight you way through all and any obstacles without the slightest difficulty. Even when your antlers get caught in branches, you come out on the other side with a victorious crown of green foliage in them! Taking time off to rest seems sheer indulgence and laziness. And when your hand drops from exhaustion, in its downward sweep it still hits a nail on the head. And strikes it accurately! But then, suddenly, unexpectedly, someone comes up behind you and says, ‘Step aside, old boy! Time to stop this nonsense.’ That’s exactly what he says, ‘Old Vīcups, stop your nonsense.’ And you’re so startled you do step aside but keep a sharp eye on what the rugged newcomer is doing. And he has the gall to demolish most of your work and start anew… Oh, I am an old fool! You leave bent double and no one even bothers to spare you a single glance. You are needed – you exist, you are useless – off with you! You are just a nuisance taking up space in the room! It’s an ancient law, my friend, and we are simply its difficult subjects refusing to submit ourselves to its inevitability. And to top it off, we don’t know what to do….” His voice starts shaking, he stops speaking and silence reclaims its realm. After a while I can hear his fin43

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gers seeking something and then suddenly the sound of miniature organ music fills the air…. I can hardly make out his silhouette but old Vīcups is sitting up straight, his hands stretched forward, his head slightly bent back and he is listening intently. We both pay close attention to what he’s playing and eventually it seems that no union on earth can possibly be more poignant than the sound of his music and the deepening blue twilight. Finally the music stops and I hear the old man quietly sobbing. Leaning over his ivory keys old Vīcups cannot contain his tears. After a moment or two he sighs, “Now I feel much better.” But I am so moved I cannot answer. Night gently floods the room along with the sound of our breathing. “Old Vīcups,” I finally say, “aren’t you giving up a bit too soon? There’s more to life than mourning its passing. What if we all were to follow your example? I’m convinced that happenstance plays dirty tricks on everyone. Don’t forget about the silly brick falling on a passerby’s head. A pointless death and that’s that. But maybe even that accident or coincidence has its lucky side as the hapless victim never learns of his bad luck. Not everyone can be that fortunate even though we all fall victim to something or other.” “True,” old Vīcups interrupts. “We’re all victims. But that’s what’s so rotten about it. That’s how we all get finished off.” “Why on earth should falling victim to chance be the end, old Vīcups?” “I don’t believe in overcoming difficulty or recovery, nor do I believe that doctors do a bit of good. They’re 44

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all like the gypsy tricksters at the Karzdaba market who cure a limping horse by hammering nails into its healthy hooves.” “So what if they do?” I answer. “One’s sense of satisfaction at having led a good life has nothing to do with how happy or sad one’s been nor with how much suffering and pain one’s had to endure. Neither does our state of health or the survival of death and destruction have anything to do with it! Just think of how often defeat or misfortune has made you truly see and appreciate what a grand life you’ve had. I’m convinced that the internal logic and harmony within one’s life give it its sense of unity and completeness so that finally the toll of one’s death bell sounds like a sacred amen. Your life can consist of many fragments but seen altogether it mustn’t be fragmentary. Or, as you yourself put it last night – a page from God’s good book that the angels have torn to shreds. You have to learn to put the bits and pieces together. And it’s our job in our old age to do exactly that and nothing else. That’s how any life, even the most seemingly pointless and ridiculous one, can ultimately gain meaning and significance. Let’s give the child who’s on his first night vigil with a horse herder the chance to experience and understand what this way of life is all about. He has to come to realize that there’s a real reason why the herder spends countless hours in the dark forest hunting for and breaking off dried branches, gathering bark, roots and stumps which get thrown together in a huge pile on the side of the grazing pasture. For at the end the herder strikes a match and sets it all on fire. And it all catches fire to blaze brightly, giving off light and 45

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warmth and a final glow. Isn’t that exactly what each of us should be doing as well? All the days of our lives can remain heaped together in a senseless jumble unless we take the time to contemplate it all. Too few of us illuminate the past to put each day in its place. The power of our bonfires reveals the significance of each and every moment of our lives. They are the ones that feed this victorious phoenix. That’s the way it is, old Vīcups, all we need is just that….” “Yes, sure, that damned match,” old Vīcups adds with a laugh. “You’re not asking for much!” “So what! Don’t you see that we get too caught up in the insignificant, even stupid things! We brood over the single, isolated moments, or weeks, or even years in our lives, instead of meditating about it as a whole. That’s why we fail to recognize its real significance. Unfortunately we’re still a long way off from understanding and grasping this fact. I believe that that’s what should become our one true goal in our old age. Surely the time will come when an architect won’t be asked how he built his houses, or you, you old headmaster, won’t need to explain how you taught your lessons. The only question of any importance will be how you structured and dealt with your life as a whole. Making sense of the dichotomies and contradictions of existence, discovering the rhyme and reason of our lives must become our top priority. Only then will we realize the horrible disservice we normally do those whom we usually pity. With this realization we would come to see that they were happier and more fortunate than we. I’m convinced we should actually envy them. For example, I’m talking 46

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of the kings who lost their heads in the guillotine. The breadth and depth of their experiences have yet to be overtrumped and the scale and score of their life’s music cannot be presented in the sounds of your little miniature organ.” “Your silly examples are more than ridiculous, my friend,” old Vicups comments impatiently. “True, examples have never convinced anyone. We’ve all witnessed death but in the depths of our being we refuse to believe that one day we’ll die as well.” “What nonsense.” “No, I’m serious, old Vīcups. Whoever believes his death is imminent dies soon thereafter – that explains many a suicide. But we have very few examples to use as it is, since no institution exists that registers one’s life and experiences. It’s really quite a joke to think that what gets registered is where and when some poor soul was born – and just imagine – where and when he died. But what about the rest of his days? No life is that shallow, so meaningless and empty that we cannot gain valuable lessons, if from nothing else, then at least from the mistakes made. What do we do? We bury them all in cemeteries. What fools we are! When are we finally going to learn to differentiate between life and its ashes? True, a few people get eulogized – but what are eulogies about? Like the one about Pythagoras! And why him – simply because by sheer accident he was the first to come up with the right answer within a half hour of being asked the right question. But, in terms of its story value, the rest of his life is not even worth comparing to that of a good shepherd’s.” 47

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“Yes, yes, that’s what you’ve been telling me for quite some time,” old Vīcups interrupts me. “But can you then explain to me what one’s supposed to do instead?” “A child – whatever he fancies, an adult – what he’s capable of, an old man – what he can’t do without. For the latter it is the necessity to give one’s life structure and meaning, bring it together into a unified system.” “But what if that’s impossible?” “Not a single life, not one chain of events exists that won’t gain the necessary symmetry if we add a unique event deliberately and consciously to give it this balance. If a beggar, who’s led an abysmal life, chooses to lie down on the steps of the president’s castle on the night of some festivity or other and dies there and if some merry drunk guest on leaving stumbles over him, then this beggar has given his life the kind of decisive conclusion I’ve been talking about. He has just as much right to a noteworthy biography as the diplomat who, on falling over him, breaks his neck and dies on the spot. Because of this one moment the beggar’s life has gained more significance than poets could ever give it whenever they grow eloquent writing about poverty, death, and destruction.” “Alright, alright,” I hear old Vīcups laugh, “but how does your own life shape up in this context?” I have to laugh in turn and admit, “True enough, hardly anyone lives what he preaches.” “See, that’s exactly what I was waiting to hear!” “Just what were you expecting to hear?” “Exactly what you’ve said!” 48

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Now I am sorry I didn’t make use of the opportunity old Vīcups’ question provided because I know I’ll have to trouble him with some information sooner or later if I don’t want my behaviour in the near future to surprise him too much. And so I go on to say: “I’m afraid I’m going to have to give you some more insights into my life, even explanations….” Old Vīcups puts his foot lightly on the treadle of his miniature organ and strikes a quiet chord. “What about?” he asks. “About this and that, about everything we’ve been talking about and discussing at length, but more than anything else at the moment, about my need for more living space. Now that, my friend, is truly your business and I believe I owe you an explanation. First of all I must confess that it’s no accident that I’ve ended up here with you, as you most probably have thought. Coincidence may ruin one’s life but it certainly does not rule where one spends one’s life. It has sure ruined my life, there’s no denying it. No, actually, to be quite honest, it was not coincidence but a game of chess that did that. And I arrived here determined to try and repair, even improve whatever I could in my empty, meaningless life.” “You don’t say,” my friend exclaims in surprise, and I sense that his attention is now fully focused on me. “Yes, that’s the way it is. But let me start from the beginning. It all started more than thirty years ago. I’d just got a posting as a scribe in a small rural district not far from Riga. It was precisely the year of the second 49

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song festival. The local teacher spent every Sunday working up a sweat in rehearsals with the district choir and breaking his conductor’s baton over the singers’ heads. In those days, as you yourself well remember, there were quite a few who were partial to that particular teaching method. To clear my lungs of stale office air, I used to stand amongst the tenors and sing along in quite a plaintive voice ‘The Heavens Are Telling the Glory of God’. It was plaintive because I didn’t waste much thought on the glory of God but concentrated on the opulent glory of the local girls who’d arrive from the whole district. There was a rich shopkeeper’s daughter called Miss Baumgarten amongst them…” “Oh,” old Vīcups interrupts me, half seriously, half in jest, “I have a sudden inkling where this is leading, indeed I do!” “Exactly, that’s the way it is, but if that’s the case, I don’t suppose I need to continue…” “No, my friend, now I definitely want to hear it all.” And I have to continue, “You see, this young lady was the most decent and upright one of the lot, or at least so it seemed to me. She really had a good voice and always showed up for rehearsals. By the time Midsummer’s Night or St John’s arrived, we had succumbed to much more than just the power and glory of choir music. We had fallen in love. That’s one of life’s great mysteries. Keeping love secret is just as impossible as attempting to hide away the breathtaking fragrance of a flower. Love has its own fragrance and there’s no way on earth that you can conceal it. Folks spent more breath over us than we ever did between us! 50

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On arriving in Riga for the song festival, we walked the streets along with all the others, singing constantly, only we had twice as many reasons to rejoice and sing! Once, during a moment of leisure, we stopped in a café for a cup of coffee. There was a box with chess figures on the table. We quickly established that we were both familiar with the game and, while we were waiting for our coffee to arrive, we decided to have a go at it. Amidst much silly giggling that’s exactly what we did. I must confess that my young lady played enthusiastically but badly. In keeping with the social norms of the day and to show consideration for her game, I restrained myself from attacking her king too often, although it cost me considerable effort to do so. I believed that good manners demanded that I show respect towards my fiancée by deliberately making wrong moves to indulge her in the sweet taste of victory. My diligence and courtesy paid off. “My, my, who’d have thought I was such a good player!” she exclaimed on leaving the table. We finished our coffee and continued our sightseeing of the city. When you are young and madly in love, the old town of Riga is an enthralling place to be. No tower’s too high to climb nor cellar too deep to explore. When we were in the crypt of St Peter’s church I teasingly asked her: “Doesn’t this frighten you?” “What should I be afraid of?” “The stiffs, of course.” “Are there many around here?” “One, two, three, four,” I counted pointing at the half-collapsed metal caskets. 51

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“I only see one, and he’s still half alive.” “Really?” I laughed. “They’re the most dangerous ones.” “You’re more than likely right,” she laughingly replied. At that moment I didn’t really catch the gist of her joke, but during the rest of our stay in Riga I noticed a gradual change in her attitude towards me. She became careless and indifferent, ignoring my questions and making me the butt of her jokes, quite cruel ones at times. Dear God, I wondered in painful surprise, what has turned such a loving lass into such a fractious stinker and what does it all mean? Actually all it meant was that she was losing interest in me, and her supposed love for me was on the wane. On the way home, she hardly spoke to me. I started fantasizing about who could have stolen her affections away from me. No one in the choir, of that I was sure. I went off on wild goose chases and drove myself crazy until I persuaded myself that the country lass had fallen for some city slicker. If that were the case, I just needed to wait it out and the nightmare would pass quickly enough. And I couldn’t even really reproach her as only by facing temptation do we come to recognize the true nature of our feelings. But after a week or two, at the most three, she no longer even acknowledged or recognized me. However, speculations about our former relationship kept growing by leaps and bounds. Some had even set us a wedding date. “When are you finally tying the knot?” the local school teacher inquired after he had confirmed that I had got the district’s finest catch. 52

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“It’s too early to say,” I replied because I was too embarrassed and far too egoistic to admit the truth. Everyone kept congratulating me and I had the devil’s own time not only learning how to turn them down but how to deal with my heartbreaking situation and teach myself to accept the truth about our relationship. In spite of her cruel negligence of me, I was still madly in love with her. But then gossip started rolling in the opposite direction and I came to hear what I had yet to admit to anyone, myself included, to be quite honest about it. Miss Baumgarten has turned down the young scribe and a parting of ways has transpired. How could I have been so blind for so long? Didn’t I know any better? Confronting the truth through the words of cruel gossips made the whole thing so much more difficult to endure, giving my heartache a stinging, bitter dimension. That was more than I could bear – their pronouncement that she’d walked out on me, as if a parting of ways would not have sufficed. That’s all I heard, day in and day out. Sheer, intolerable torture. Once our office Cossack arrived blind drunk but intent on begging us to pay him the salary we owed him. I told him I didn’t have any money to do that. ‘How come?’ he demanded and refused to back down. He’d been waiting to get paid for the past six months and again he was getting nothing! “Don’t shout in here,” I told him. “Maybe your wife should come to take care of the matter.” “My dear Sir!” bellowed the good man immediately. “Wife! Do you even know the meaning of the word? 53

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How dare you even let the word cross your lips! You have no idea what the word means and you’re about as close to taking a wife as the cow is to jumping over the moon! Ha! You don’t even have enough gumption to beat a mere lass in a simple game. I’d say our young Mister Scribe is one big blow bag!” The office Cossack dared to throw that in my face without any fear or trepidation. Heaven only knows what else I might have had to listen to from the old drunkard if I, totally enraged, hadn’t thrown him out the door. But I’d heard enough to have it turn my life into a waste land. According to him, I didn’t even possess enough gumption to beat a girl in a game of chess as I’d immediately realized that the game he was alluding to was no other than our game of chess. ‘So that’s how she’s already succeeded in spreading that bit of news about. Oh, how demeaning! Why in the world does she hold it against me?’ I was totally horror-struck. ‘Surely she can’t believe that I’m that thick and that she won because of my witlessness?’ I kept telling myself that that was impossible but the more I dwelt on it and thought about it, the more I was forced to concede that her sudden cooling of interest sprang from the game at that damn café. After I’d reconsidered every minute detail of that day, I even remembered that, before our game, she’d talked of wanting to tour the castle but afterwards hadn’t shown the slightest interest in anything any more. We had continued going about together but the stink of the … well, how should I express it, old Vīcups … half-dead stiff began to filter through. No doubt about it, the drunk Cossack had only spoken the truth. 54

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I immediately wrote to her demanding that she say it to my face. She didn’t reply. I wrote again, and again. She finally answered my third letter and began it simply and directly with ‘leave me alone.’ But it also contained the message, and I quote, word for word ‘I have no idea what old drunkards gossip about, but I do know that you, a living, breathing human being are incapable of knocking over my wooden king. If you are incapable of doing that much, then how dare you imagine that you could reign in his stead?’ Let me tell you, old Vīcups, with that everything became as clear as day. Either she was interpreting what happened that day as a fateful foreboding or she saw me as nothing more than an impotent and hapless simpleton (and I was completely convinced of the latter). In that chess game, with the best of intentions, I had foolishly forfeited the one woman I truly loved and couldn’t live without. Gradually the whole district started to look upon me as a moron and my reputation collapsed. I was a loudmouth and braggart whose words never turned into action. So, my friend, what’s the lesson in all that? That you can gamble on nothing and still lose the most precious thing in your life. You see, an old stump in the bog can still have the power to tip over not just a wagon but one’s whole life! My whole life had just got turned topsy-turvy. It enraged me and put me in the depths of despair that such insignificant foolishness had cost me the love of my life. And how my ego suffered under the local gossips’ never ending, daily attacks! The mockery and jibes became so unbearable that in the shortest time possible I felt justi55

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fied in packing my bags and leaving the district. I found a similar job on the opposite banks of the Daugava River and hoped to eventually leave it all behind me. That’s what I’d hoped for but of course nothing came of it as I couldn’t erase a single thing from my memory. For several years I didn’t spare a single woman even one glance for I was in a furious, blind rage and hated them all. How was I to avoid doing so if the best one turned out to be such an impossibly ignorant and thoughtless feather-brain. These thoughts tortured me constantly and went on forever until they took possession of my life to become quick sands in a ceaseless whirlpool. The heartache was intolerable and that’s when the thought of revenge first entered my mind. I started writing a diary which transformed itself into a kind of story but fortunately I subsequently lost it in a fire. But that wasn’t the most important thing I started doing. I bought a game of chess and taught myself all the moves. I practiced every day, day after day for months. I got a hold of about half a dozen teach-yourself books on the game and read up on the history and theories of chess. For a while I hired a partner to play with but when he left, I turned myself into my own major rival and friend in turn. At first it didn’t work out too well until I acknowledged that one has to have gone through and endured many of life’s bitter lessons before one learns to truly honour and appreciate one’s opponent, be it in real life or in a chess game. After some hard months of practice I succeeded in playing my solitary game and double roles quite well because I paid as much 56

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attention to my role of opponent as I did to being my own best friend. By sheer accident I came across a chess problem that had a considerable sum as prize money. I figured it out in one evening but like a vainglorious fool I declined the prize money. I felt I had to be above making a profit off of my own hard earned knowledge at fortune’s hand. But I did gain something valuable from the experience – I realized with some pride that I was a brainy fellow! And what happened next? A year later I was on my way to Riga to participate in a chess tournament where I won twice. I defeated a post office clerk and a German baron. My name appeared in newspaper articles. They stated that some young and unknown Mister Sils, a scribe from the countryside, had revealed unbelievable talent in the chess tournament. They were absolutely amazed that such a master at chess could spring from such a rural environment. I must confess I gained considerable satisfaction from the recognition and felt my revenge complete. ‘Let them read that on the other side of the Daugava and marvel at what morons and fools can achieve.’ My victory was supreme and I cheered in jubilation. I made no effort at all to differentiate between how much of my happiness was made up of my sense of having achieved power and fame and how much was the sweet satisfaction of revenge. Beyond any doubt, taken together, the two cooled and quenched my thirst to pay off an old score. Some time later a local historian and Latvian patriot used my name to prove his argument that Latvian intellectuals were on the rise and triumphing over the Germanic ones. Seen in that light, ha, ha, I thus became one 57

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of the first successful rebels fighting the Germanic landed gentry that has had to endure far more serious attacks lately….” “Marvelous, absolutely marvelous,” old Vīcups interrupts with a laugh from his dark corner. “I had no idea that you were one of our leading rebels. But tell me, did Miss Baumgarten ever hear of your victories?” “Yes, I believe she did. Some of the news I received about her confirmed this, otherwise I’d have made sure that she was informed. I also learnt that her forthcoming marriage to some post office clerk or other, planned for a date shortly after my victories, had been called off just as inexplicably and suddenly as her first. The school master wrote me long letters full of cruel and ugly gossip about it all and, even if only half of it were true, according to him she thereafter gave birth to a son out of wedlock. At least this fact proved to be true. My sense of satisfaction at having gained revenge fulfilled my expectations – my beloved’s presence gradually faded from my memory. Later, when I had the opportunity to inquire about her whereabouts, I was informed that she no longer lived at her father’s and she had disappeared without a trace. However, my mistrust of women had grown such deep roots that I never overcame it. Whenever I met a beautiful girl the thought of possible betrayal frightened me off. This feeling initiated the middle phase of my life that should have been the most important and significant period in terms of my life’s work and achievements. Unfortunately for me, it only became a lonely and boring stretch bridging my youth and old age. I achieved nothing of any importance, 58

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in spite of several new triumphs in chess tournaments. They simply failed to give me any sense of joy or satisfaction. They were only the financial means that allowed me to reach grey old age. I kept working in an office, wrote and rewrote, copying and filling out official forms till I started turning into a hunch-back. Clients and colleagues came and went, a flood lapping and flowing past my door, but I was the single, solitary rock amongst them, never failingly there, an aging, lonely man. And then suddenly I noticed that my hand was beginning to tremble. I put down my pen and took up lodgings at a neighbour’s. For about a month he kept borrowing money from me and thus forced me to move further down the road where I hoped to find more peace and quiet. But you can’t imagine what a disappointment that was, my old friend! Peace and quiet I found only when I was fully occupied working hard. There in that awful, narrow little office with its crowds and noise and often silly worries. But here in your garden with the heavens open in all directions, to the right and the left the horizon, the sky above and reflected in the still waters – I couldn’t find it anymore. These wide and open spaces didn’t contain peace and quiet but simply an old, weak man with his silly and meaningless existence, with his empty and inane past. This realization hit me very clearly and explicitly here in your home. Have you, old Vīcups, ever drawn symbols on the blackboard to teach your pupils about the scope of experiences and the polarities in life – I mean I don’t know whether that kind of thing is 59

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done, but symbols could easily do the job. You could quickly draw my life as being stuck in the neck of an old whiskey bottle. Or better still, draw a steep triangle whose base is made up of Riga, songs, chess and my youthful immaturity. The two sides flow together hazily close to this base line, only to rise together to one sharp point, death. That’s how you feel once you start fading, withdrawing from life, long before you really are at death’s door. I saw my life as being senseless, pointless and meaningless and it so overwhelmed me that I ended up in despair, living in a fog which hid from view the sunset’s potential brilliance. That was true as recently as just a year ago. Luckily I put on my old glasses one day and forced myself to take a good look at my past life that I had condemned to being only an infertile and parched desert. You can’t imagine what I found there, old Vīcups! Roses and jubilation, love and passion, happiness. True enough, fragmentary and incomplete with the rare and colourful highlights strewn about in total confusion, helter-skelter. I stared back at them long and hard through the prism of bygone years and then I started rearranging them in my mind’s eye. I made use of my hard trained iron will and determination that I acquired when I used to play solitary chess and had to move my opponent’s chess figures to have a really challenging game. And it worked wonders! My mind took control and my colourful if sketchy past got woven into a huge, inexplicable pattern. But I discovered its meaning. Do you know what I saw in it, my chum? Get up and walk! As if I were reading the Holy Scriptures and I did get up, I put on my shoes and left on a journey. 60

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First of all I went back across the Daugava River and visited the old district in order to find out where my former sweetheart lived. That was no easy task. I couldn’t find any of her relatives as her father had died some ten years previously and all the rest had moved to unknown destinations. ‘But what about Minna Baumgarten?’ I’d ask. No one knew anything for sure but maybe she’d passed away as well. However, their old servant that I tracked down knew enough to tell me that she had settled in a township and opened a small corner shop with what her father had left her. She eked out a meager living but survived. Her son had died long ago.” “Indeed, she’s been living here at least for the last fifteen years or so…. But go on, go on….” “What more is there to say…? Everything has gone full circle. One morning this past spring I entered her shop. Behind the counter sat a silver-haired woman reading a calendar. Was that her? Yes, most likely. However…. My old bones took to trembling. ‘Good morning’ I said. She raised her head. ‘Good morning, and what can I do for you, Gramps?’ She hadn’t recognized me. But then she started harkening to the sound of my voice and observing me closely. ‘Old Sils?’ she questioningly exclaimed, clapping her hands. She was bursting with delight and surprise. ‘Yes, I’ve come to settle old scores.’ ‘Glad to hear it, glad to hear it!’ 61

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She led me into her back rooms, asked whether the sun hadn’t been too hot, wasn’t I perhaps tired, did I want something to drink. As if we’d already met the day before. ‘No thanks, today was a good day for walking.’ She sat me down on a sofa. I’d actually sat on it once before in my life. The old woman, unable to come up with anything better to do, started feeding her hens by scattering bread crumbs for them through the open window. ‘I’ve got two goats, four pairs of hens….’ ‘I don’t own a thing.’ ‘That’s alright. I weed my garden, sell envelopes and the day’s done.’ How long are you going to keep up that kind of conversation? I placed my hands simply on my knees and my explicit gesture caught her attention and relaxed her enough to calm her chaotic flow of words. She turned herself into one big question mark. ‘I’ve come to challenge you to my rightful game, my equalizer, a rematch.’ There was a moment of deliberation, of respectful silence but I sensed that my announcement didn’t really surprise her. She knew exactly what I meant. As if that’s the way it had to be. ‘Alright.’ She said after a while. And her answer was just as simple and direct. Then she disappeared in her shop. What! Did she intend to play a game of chess? And indeed she returned with the only box of chess figures in her shop and we started our game.” 62

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“That’s crazy!” old Vīcups exclaimed. “Not at all. At that moment I realized that truly that’s the way it had to be. And if there was anything wrong, then only in the fact that I more or less lost that game, too. Blame it either on my suppressed excitement or on her excellent game – to this day I suspect that maybe, just like me, she’s spent her life polishing up her mastery of chess just for this decisive rematch. Did I ever have to put all my skill, experience and concentration into the game to save the situation. By the time I could say ‘checkmate’ my fingers were trembling. ‘I’ve won.’ She meekly dropped her head.” “Oh, yes,” old Vīcups draws out in a long sigh and that’s the only word that passes his lips that night. I repeat my request that surely now he won’t deny me a second room as living space in his house. Surely he can understand that it would be most inappropriate for me to become her boarder, can’t he? But the old man refuses to speak. I can sense that he’d like to reproach me about something but doesn’t trust himself and therefore keeps quiet. I suddenly feel totally downcast and tell him: “My dear old friend, don’t imagine that I’m doing all this because I’m madly in love – what kind of love can there be between two old people like us. But I have to save my life. Do understand that I had to rescue it for myself in order to give it some sense and meaning.”

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He sighs, gets up from his chair but, when saying farewell shakes my hand far harder than he has on previous evenings. In the morning he walks about on his homestead and starts calling all his animals by name. He brings me to his hog pen and, pointing at an extraordinary specimen, announces: “That hog there is for your wedding feast!”

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C

langing their war medals and thumping their peg-legs resoundingly, they appeared amongst their fellow countrymen as early harbingers of famous approaching wars. These fellows wandered about, through markets, pubs and church yards. Everyone spoke of them as Nicholas’ soldiers, but no one had any idea where and how they had aged so quickly. And, wherever these worn-out men sat down, folks gathered round to heed their words. Instead of local gossip about all kinds of unlucky happenings, misfortunes, and brawls in horse stables, they heard of heroic battles that were fought in the defence of important fundamental principles somewhere in far distant lands, about the liberation of both one’s fatherland and people from evil forces, even from the Turks and other similar villains. All the folks who had up until then only heard of heroic deeds and acts of courage amongst infamous thieves and vainglorious smugglers, stood dumbfounded. These tales of broad oceans and far off lands sparked new longings in their bosoms and put newfangled ideas into their heads. And the eyes of the old soldiers would take on a new glow and they’d talk for days on end, from one year to 65

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the next. The clanking of the medals on their chests reminded them of the clamour of far-off battles in which they had once participated. When they ran out of stories to tell, they resorted to creating them, wonderful tales of adventures and heroism. They devised tales about a youth who had single-handedly defeated a thousand adversaries, about a five-year old boy who had crossed an abyss to carry arms to his father in battle. And there was nothing unbelievable in these worldly and wise chronicles. If anyone found it hard to swallow it all immediately, the whitehaired old narrator would thump his peg-leg against the ground in a friendly manner and call out: “Do you find it equally hard to believe that this leg is made of wood as well?” Not far from where the river Aiviekste flows into the river Daugava, there lived two such old men. One was a tall, emaciated but wiry old fellow who fought hard to walk tall and with a military gait. On meeting someone, he always greeted them by raising his hand in a military salute to the worn-out edge of his headpiece. That was Šķautnis. But the other one, a bit fuller, a bit shorter, of patriarchal good-will and drowning in a silver-grey beard, as if in a mossy covering, was old Father Burbeks. It’s a good thing that people have names that fit them exactly. Then there’s no confusion, as is the case with our local miller Jēriņš whose appearance didn’t really bring anything else to mind but an elephant. Šķautnis’s name was as appropriate to him as was ‘Father’ to Burbeks.  

His name means little lamb in Latvian. The adjective ‘šķautnains’ refers to an angular, edgy person.

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There was nothing to add or subtract – their names fit them accurately from head to foot and they remained faithful to them. From time to time these old codgers would meet and then stick together for a time. But it was not at all easy for them to keep their rendezvous since, inevitably, a misfortune would befall old Father Burbeks while he was on his way to meet his friend. As a result, the journey would usually take him a week or so, and that with considerable difficulty, even to cover a distance of two or three miles. For it always just so happens that along the way folks are awfully busy with their farm work. And if one looks closely, it is quite obvious that a pair of helping hands is urgently needed. You see, the sun’s blazing down like crazy, the rain clouds are gathering and it’ll be pouring in an hour, the latest in two, but the folks at Vijgrieznis farm have hardly started stacking their hay ricks. What’s a person to do? How can one possibly walk on by? Of course one does not, and old Father Burbeks throws off his jacket and works along side until the hay is saved. Then of course, he’s on his way once again but, just on the other side of the grove, there’s the next problem. Two maids are harvesting spring rye, the smooth, succulent, cutting, slicing sound of their scythes at work filling the air. But, there’s not a single binder of sheaves in sight. Good God! One simply cannot forsake the cut ears of rye to lying around on the ground! Old Father Burbeks hails them and then ties the ears in sheaves until late in the evening. But, with the falling twilight the old man takes off unnoticed, or not until he’s already striding along at 67

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some distance. While he is making his way through the underbrush, the dried bread crust in his hand becomes damp with dew. It turns into sweet and soft bread, as refreshing and full of grace as the evening itself. Old Father Burbeks takes as big a bite out of his crust as need be and see – after a week on the road, he arrives at his friend’s as sure as sure can be. They meet like true comrades-in-arms and continuously trade their smoking pipes with each other. Then Šķautnis takes old Father Burbeks for a walk. They don’t converse much while they’re walking along but, if the two old friends do talk, it then inevitably involves stopping to reset the war medals on each other’s chests. “This medal, it is the one you got down in the valley by Sima, isn’t it?” “Yes. And you?” “I got mine by the Black Village. That was hell….” “It was, wasn’t it?” Soon their wanderings came to an end, however. Šķautnis and his medals got laid to rest in the graveyard. They are dark yellow, round discs, three or four of them, and it is quite possible that some time later a patriotic local researcher will dig them all up again in order to sell them for big bucks. But old Father Burbeks was left all on his own. His wanderings about slowed down considerably. Wherever he stopped, he’d stay for some time. No longer did he have to hurry on to meet his waiting friend. And so it came about that during his last summer he spent a whole two months on our farm. It just so happened that my brother was also at home at the time. He 68

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was the only truly pious one amongst all the theology students at the University of Terbata. He and old Father Burbeks became fast friends. Rumours began circulating that we had taken the saintly little man prisoner and were preventing him from wandering about from one farm to the next and stopping him from spreading his beatifying smile and gentle words of advice amongst them. And in all honesty this was the case. It is no lie that a young maid once exclaimed while embracing him: “Father Burbek, carry me off alive to heaven!” That’s the kind of man he was. My brother compared him to a bearded ancient sage who, on having waded through rivers of blood, now stood purified on the opposite riverbank as an absolved apostle. It may be that he enjoyed adding such pleasant human moments to his strictly academic considerations and intellectual pursuits. The same definitely cannot be said of Father Burbeks. Once, after some very hard work, the latter lay asleep in the farmyard. We happened to be there as well, and my brother could not resist trying out some of his clever theological ideas. “See…” he said, “He’s resting. He’s all done in from the hard work. And while the other labourers have started arguing about payment, he’s simply fallen asleep. That’s very clever. That’s how we will all be some day. Death is the highest price one pays for life here on earth. He is the only one present who is truly aware of that price. The man is a living evangelist… And I….” Here’s where old Father Burbeks became visibly restless. My brother of the Hutterite faith lowered his voice but, nevertheless, old Father Burbeks suddenly rose up 69

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before us, brushed back his hair and, in a serious voice, sternly said: “Shut up! And I’ll repeat what I’ve just said. Just shut up!” He took to shaking his head as if his huge, white mane had unexpectedly grown too heavy to bear. “What? What’s wrong, old Father Burbeks?” “Such talk is sheer nonsense. Meaningless blabber. As if you have found the right man. An apostle … what do you really know about the man? Tell me? Shame on you!” We just shrugged our shoulders. However, old Father Burbeks did look very upset indeed. He refused to provide any explanations but simply added: “You are just repeating all the blather that all fools spout. Fools, I tell you. You go to school…” he turned to my brother. “But you don’t use your brains one little bit. You do not know a thing, you understand even less, but won’t leave anything alone, in peace. Oh, damn you!” Hereupon, he turned abruptly on his heel and headed for the granary. We were left in no doubt at all that what enraged him most was the fact that everyone held him in such high esteem and had such a good opinion of him. He turned around once more and, with fierce reproach in his voice, repeated: “Oh, damn you!” “Father Burbeks!” my brother suddenly called out. “What?” the old fellow turned sideways and bent his head. “What else were you going to add? Anything else … you have said more than enough, haven’t you?” 70

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“Why are you getting so angry?” I threw myself between them, laughing. “Is it really so dreadful to get called such names as ‘our saintly Father’? I know that you alone killed over a thousand Turks, but…” “A thousand Turks…,” old Father Burbeks hurriedly interrupted. “Then see to it that you don’t forget it.” Turning towards the garden then, he sat down on the low stone wall. “Hard, if you only knew how hard…” he sighed, averting his gaze as we came closer. We sat down beside him. “Yes” he continued in a subdued tone of voice. “I’m so fed up with your palaver. What about the Turks! We beat the Turks, the Turks beat us, and the whole thing is over and done with. As far as that is concerned, I could be looked upon as a noble old fellow. But that’s not the way it is, my dear boys, that’s not what I am. Far from it. You would be better off weeding thistles than talking such rubbish. All you are doing is pulling a sheep’s wooly coat over a big, wild wolf. Ah, forget it! What about the Turks! I laid hundreds of them low, and did the dust ever fly, let me tell you, but then I felled someone special and – that was it. The end. And I’m so mortified, so conscience stricken, and I’m ashamed of you both, my lads. You don’t take any notice, don’t realize how blind and foolish you are. Oh, oh, my sweet, little innocents. Now look me straight in the eye! Look! You do see it, don’t you? You must see some of all that, surely?” “Nothing.” I replied. That threw him totally into a tizzy. 71

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“Then I’ll have to tell you.” He started out in a raised voice but it quickly subsided and trembled weakly. “My dear lads, it all happened fifteen years ago. We were returning from the mountains in the Balkans, from those famous battles – the flags were really flying high. Oh, we had to cover huge distances and so we marched on for endless days and nights. We were on the road for ages. But we were young – so what, nothing to it! Several months had already passed since we’d fired our last shots. Consequently, we were in high spirits and happily dreaming of peacefully smoking our pipes. And so, somewhere along the road home, we landed in a big city. Don’t ask me what it was called, I don’t remember. And, as we marched through it with our heads held high, our proud chests to the fore, my dear lads, the city folks almost went mad! They threw their hats in the air and screamed out words of welcome! And we, we marched and we sang. We just kept singing and singing and I felt as if my heart would burst, as if I were in church! And the girls we passed by looked us straight in the eye and heaven was just around the corner. Yes, lads, believe me, I’m telling it to you straight, just as it happened…. Finally we were taken to these enormous barracks and told to give our weary bones a good rest! They could not have said anything better than that, let me tell, lads! That was our first real chance to catch our breaths and we lived there for two whole weeks. At the beginning, all we did was slack off; we didn’t even feel like taking a look out the window. But the second week, the second week, my dear lads, there was no way to keep us in the barracks. No holding us back. Something’s simply pull72

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ing you out of the room, into the yard, and from the yard, into the street. When night falls – everyone’s restlessly fingering and stroking their beards. And so, one evening, I too, slip quietly down from my bunk – and off I go. My feet itch, my hands tingle, everything’s topsy-turvy and I have no idea what’s going on. A pub? I carefully count my coins – seventy-four kopecks. Exactly, lads, I remember that as if it were yesterday, seventy-four. So, what the hell, a drink for four kopecks. I drop into a pub and a warm path works its way down inside my chest. And then, I’m back out in the street. I wander about, aimlessly, until I end up in the smallest, darkest street ever. Angry people are rushing past me but I just keep going and keep looking. I don’t even know what I’m doing there, but I keep looking. And then, suddenly, at a street corner there is a woman. As I approach, she pulls back into the shadows. Oh, my dear lads, it’s a sin to admit this, but a blazing flame sets my bones on fire. There she stands and there stand I. Finally, I shift from one foot to the other and back again and then say: “Now, see here, what do you say?” “Nothing … so?” “So what?” “It’s … come along.” See, that was the beginning of the end. For two whole years I hadn’t seen a single woman! I could not get a word out, took her arm and let her lead the way. Once we were on the move, we landed on the other side of the street which was even darker. She found a narrow doorway there and we slipped in like two thieves about 73

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to rob each other. The wooden stairs creaked something awful, let me tell you, boys. Then finally a room, stuffy and moldy, with piles of rags all over the place. And there, there I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I grabbed her like a wolf. I must have been completely out of control, transformed into the devil’s own halfbrother. Hands like pitchforks, a foul, blade-like mouth, barbed and prickly and totally monstrous, for sure, for sure. But, nevertheless, I so wanted to be gentle, I longed to be kind and loving. And she surrendered, she threw her arms around me … clung to me, quieted … and the whole world collapsed suddenly, imploded into itself like the bellows of an accordion and became ever so small and narrow, so very narrow and I couldn’t breathe... But when I came to, she was lying there, so calm like she was having a good sleep. I simply sat back some ways off and watched her sleep. Rosy pink she was, tired too, so I let her sleep. And young. Let her get a good rest. I waited, and I waited, but then all at once I was struck by the fact that she was not breathing. She was not even moving. “Why in the world should she be sleeping so soundly,” I thought to myself. “Why doesn’t she come for her money and let me get on home?” “Hey you,” I called, “get up!” I went up to her, looked – yes, sleeping like the lady of the manor. But just then, raindrops started popping from my forehead and my hands dropped to my sides. For you see, she would never get up again. She was dead. I collapsed into a chair. But only for a moment, then I was up again like a shot. Dear God, could it be true? Could I have really pounded her into ashes on my dastardly anvil? 74

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Or maybe God himself was playing a bad joke on me and, to spite me, had her die in my arms? What in the name of God was going on? That was me, me, Father Burbeks, lads, that’s Burbeks for you! The very one, right here before you. A half-crazy, ignorant henchman, mad as a hatter, through and through. Look, her rosy colouring is fading, there are blue shadows appearing on her face, and her arms are stiffening. And I just stand there, scoundrel that I am, and sulk. What should I do? Call the police? Run away? Lads, I decided to flee. What else could I, a soldier, do? Then just as I am heading for the door, in the corner, behind the headboard of the bed, something rustles. A small four-year old girl appears from under a pile of rags. Rubbing her eyes with her tiny fists, she comes marching straight towards me. “Where’s Mum?” That’s the moment when I realize, lads, it’s no joke to hear folks speak of ghosts. The Czar himself would not have half so frightened me. I back up and blend in completely against the wall. The little girl smiles, then she trots up to the bed and begins shaking her mother by her clothes. I see nothing but the child. So small, so helpless, so frail and starving. Barefoot. Incredible. And then all light fades before my eyes … I only hear that something is still rustling by the bed. “Don’t wake her. Wait a while.” I say. I guess I’d thrown myself onto a bench by then. Having dug around amongst all the things on the table, the child picks up a few crumbs of bread and finally turns and comes up to me. 75

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I give her a hug, stroke her head, and would you believe it, she once again dozes off. I take her up into my lap and she falls sound asleep. And then … then … I am overwhelmed by the feeling that the entire house is sinking, deeper and deeper, that the earth will swallow it whole. But that was sheer nonsense, of course. The house stood, just as it had always stood, and the night was turning towards morning. So, against my better judgment, I did stand up and, embracing the little girl very carefully in my arms, I headed out into the street. I marched quickly, heading straight back to the barracks. I simply could not come up with anywhere else to go. A moist wind blew in my face when suddenly, the little girl woke up. She opened her eyes wide in terror and started crying. It became louder and louder and she would not stop screaming. She slapped my face with her hands, tried to throw herself out of my arms, but I held her tight and kept running straight ahead. I thought it was the best thing to do as I surely couldn’t abandon the child, could I? But then she started howling, roaring breathlessly until she turned black and blue in the face – and I, I let her slip to the ground. Like a small bundle of leaves in the wind, she threw herself in the opposite direction as I, sobbing and puffing all the way, reached the barracks.” After a short pause, Father Burbeks continued. “I really don’t recall what happened in the following days. Maybe I did consider the idea that I should go and report it all to someone, somewhere, find out something, somehow…. But while I was mulling all this over, my battalion headed out once again. 76

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To this day I’m still wandering about in that foreign city, running about out of control, shouting and falling and getting up again. Every night, as soon as I fall asleep, I’m back there. I hear the child wailing and I’m pounding my head against the cobblestones until my head splits open and I awake…” “Listen, listen, wasn’t there someone wailing out there in the fields?” Burbeks called out suddenly, turning his head towards the orchard and listening attentively. “No, I guess there isn’t anyone out there. Not at all. So that’s it, lads, now I’ve told you everything, and you can do whatever you like with it. But it’s too late to do anything with me. This old dog’s beyond the pale. Just don’t start telling me that all that happened fifteen years ago, that it’s long in the past. No way, it’s all right here, it’s my life.” At this point Father Burbeks grew silent and it seemed he’d never breathe another word. My brother gazed at him with grave and solemn eyes. The old man felt his stare. He moved uneasily and then said: “I have told you all this, my lads, to enable you to see what good people are all about. The golden Sage! So now you know! See! No, no, my dear lads, we are all like that – each one of us has something sticking in our crop. Whether it be the church warden or the pastor himself. Somewhere, hidden deep inside, lies a nail, a rusty one, and we are too ashamed to confess it, even to God. It digs in, in the course of one’s life, see, lies there and rusts away and destroys one’s whole life. There’s no getting away from it. Finally, you both end up becoming one. And that’s the good thing about it – if there were 77

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no nail, there wouldn’t be any goodness … and I wouldn’t get called ‘Father’ but just old Burbeks. That’s true, that true enough, my dear lads.” Father Burbeks got to his feet. He stood there for a while, and then looked closely at each of us in turn. “Well then, God bless!” and he marched off along the one side of the orchard. We didn’t try to stop him. He walked slowly until he eventually faded from sight in the still to be harvested wheat fields.

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E

ven though all the oceans of the world known to mankind have been crossed innumerable time, fantastic, golden-orange horizons keep dawning in dreams, enticing and beckoning to hoist sail. And sure enough, the old mariner surrenders to temptation, abandons home, family and friends to disappear without a word… Oh, what ungodly, unquenchable thirst for adventure, what eternal longing leaving no room for the repetition of a single, no matter how coincidental a step! For those in its grip, life is not a quest for enlightenment that philosophers are eternally seeking but simply a straight arrow shot off into the heavens that never returns nor dies in its cradle of birth. Three stories on this subject had been told when we, a group of friends and acquaintances, like the society of old in Decameron’s tales, left the city far behind. In our case we were not escaping the plague but, driven by boredom and urban dust, seeking refuge on the banks of a beautiful Latvian river in order to spend fascinating evenings together. 79

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In the field on the other side of the river, the day’s last haystack was raised and on the calm surface of the river her fantastic sister came to light, only to have her tall central pole occasionally chopped short by the lapping water. It seemed to swim downstream for a while and then mysteriously reappear at its original point of departure…. Somewhere further to the right, the final strokes of a scythe resounded in the silence. Two ducks smoothly cut the air and circling slowly vanished from sight in the violet twilight. One of our friends had just completed his wayfarer’s tale and the heavy dew was about to drive us all to our feet, when the oldest amongst us proposed lighting a campfire and promised a story that would be a worthy ending to our current series of tales. He was a real skeptic and a man of few words so that his unexpected offer filled us with pleasant expectations. In no time at all we had broken up the branches horded for the fishermen’s return. Once the fire was cracking he began his tale: “You are all such lovely, naïve children and your stories are filled with so much faith in human nature that a little skeptical doubt will only do you good. Our eternal longings undeniably have a power and beauty of their own and therefore you see them as godlike. I want to share with you one of my own personal experiences. It is especially fascinating as in its essence its rational interpretation contains similar reflections as the stories about the honourable mariner or the adventurer who wanted to die on top of Mount Everest. Ten years ago I met a woman in our fair city who had managed to change her surname three times in short suc80

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cession. Originally, her name was Miss Liepukalna, after that, for two winters, Mrs Rietuma and then, for the same length of time, Severova. However, when I met her, she was unofficially called Baroness Schlippenbach. Her first husband she had laid to rest in a cemetery but, when the second one showed no intensions of following suite, she simply left him and became the mistress of a Russianized German. At the time I had barely finished my education as a theatre director and was constantly on the lookout for original and unusual characters. That’s how I came to meet my first Latvian baroness. In a suburban restaurant she came to confide in me that she’d had both young and old lovers, bachelors and married men, highly intelligent ones and village idiots, Russians and Germans. All that was left for her at this stage was to sort men out according to some still indefinable quality. I suggested that she try her hand with the handicapped or crippled, the blind or the deaf and dumb, but my proposals came too late. “I’ve had a go at them all and there is simply nothing left,” she answered and with a gentle hand turned down my advances. In those days most women couldn’t leave my golden locks alone, but in her eyes I was a deadly bore. She herself was in the full bloom of a thirty-year-old woman that had succeeded in sucking out the life, energy and intelligence of all the men who’d fallen for her. Every muscle in her body radiated sensuality. When it didn’t find a corresponding echo, it would weaken for a moment, only to flare up again with as great intensity as before. It emanated from her in a warm shimmer. The outrage her self-possession induced in society turned into helplessness in the face of her overpowering, ripe beauty. 81

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The fact that she did not throw herself blindly and head first into her adventures only augmented the impact of her transgressions. For truly, she opened her arms only to those she thought could fill them with a new and unique experience. Perhaps here lay the secret of this insatiable, sophisticated and worldly woman’s vitality. Since she now denied him her foot, Baron Schlippenbach was reduced to kissing her shoe. However, even then each kiss had to be recompensed with a piece of gold although, truth to tell, the lady had absolutely no use for it. Earlier, she might have sought to buy a dispensation, turned to God for a few extra days of grace with it, but what good would they be to her in her present state? With rare exception, she was incapable of granting more than thirty seconds of her time to any one individual and that simply because it is the accepted length of time necessary to politely kiss a lady’s hand. After a while she disappeared from sight, leading to the assumption that she had moved away or been moved to join her first husband. Either possibility corresponded closely to her Cleopatra-like character. However, around the time carnival bells were beginning to ring, she reappeared in all her regal splendour. Amongst the magnificent carnival crowds she shone like the sun, causing dawns and sunsets and adding a golden edge to the clouds. And then, you see, came the last evening I ever spent in her company. It was at a masked ball made spectacular not only by the masked and costumed guests but also the flora and fauna. A small canary caused riotous merriment by flitting from lady’s head to lady’s head but only to ones whose hats carried some traces of greenery or flowers. 82

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When the carnival queen arrived, I was flattered to be chosen as the one with whom she exchanged her first few words. It was common knowledge that she was unapproachable so that anyone she turned her gaze on was happy beyond words. At that moment we weren’t wearing masks. “As you see, I’ve fortunately found a new world philosophy for myself,” she said. “To be quite honest, a wonderful addition to the old one and that will give me a new breath of life for a few more years.” “What do you mean?” I exclaimed in surprise. “Look, the idea is utterly devastating – one simply refuses to recognize what one’s known only too well. This is particularly meaningful for those who believe they’ve been everywhere, seen it all and done everything. Of course, I know very well that I’m acquainted with almost everyone present but, for the moment, for the next half hour, they are all strangers to me. It’s a way of giving depth and meaning to our shallow world, like using mirrors in a narrow room.” Then she turned my attention to a bizarre looking man who was costumed as an Arcadian god but only to ask: “Do you recognize him?” “No, I can’t say, not immediately.” “Of course, his mask is not half bad but unfortunately he’s forgotten to remove his rings.” She turned away as if in aversion and I assume it was because under the satyr’s horns she had so quickly recognized the commonest of her fellow citizens and one she was long fed up with. 83

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Rigid, she stiffly sat down on a sofa and appraised each guest with her critical gaze. One quick glance and she’d divested them of their clumsy masks and costumes. However, she didn’t withhold her admiration from anyone who denied her immediate recognition. It took quite some time for the realization to sink in that her eyes had been following a gentleman who most certainly was very successfully costumed as a real ape. With artistic tour de force he imitated his Java friend’s movements, walking in the animal’s slow, slightly lumberous gait while trailing his long arms along his sides. One had to admit that, judging from his heavy shoulders and short stature, he had chosen a most suitable costume. To heighten the impact of the naughty nature of his creation, he wasn’t averse to unraveling the plait of the one or other lady and fleeing with the ribbon he had incredibly adroitly stolen out of her hair. Mistress Schlippenbach was unable to remain seated on the sofa. A few seconds later she was already walking on the arm of the hairy gentleman and it was quite obvious that her escort felt very flattered. He bent his head in his lady’s direction and paid her utterances the utmost attention although he himself never uttered a sound but simply growled in quick, low tones as befitting his role. He didn’t want to give himself away with an inappropriate sound or gesture and his dancing was so preposterous that only the mistress’s enthusiasm could cover up his incredible clumsiness. “I beg your pardon, may I cut in for a moment?” a gentleman’s voice sounded behind them. The hairy cavalier stepped back from his lady with a bow, truthfully a bit 84

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too hastily and discourteously but, on catching sight of me the woman glowed with excitement. She threw herself at me in order to confess that this was the most beautiful ball of her life. “That’s some man!” forgetting herself she shouted at me almost as if I were an intimate old friend. “Not at all like the rest of you! What temperament! What abandonment behind that reserve! I have yet to find out who he really is … but he keeps drawing me to himself with such febrile passion…. I don’t think I’ve ever had one like him before.” “See, life is not narrow and shallow after all.” “True, I’m beginning to believe that once again.” “And his eyes,” the woman continued, grasping my hand in hers, in which I felt a feverish trembling and a seemingly unconscious seeking for protection, “I have never ever seen eyes like his before. They flash through the incredibly fine and meticulous mask. It seems so authentic that were I to meet him in the forest I’d be frightened….” At that very moment her cavalier reappeared in the ballroom and, taking a deep breath, the woman rose to her feet. Without a second’s hesitation she rushed into the colourful crowd to cross the floor to the other side. There her cavalier was pinning a rose to a lady’s shoulder. Although I didn’t have the slightest feeling of what others call twinges of jealousy, I nevertheless chose to enter the twilight-filled neighbouring room. Its windows opened onto the closed veranda. It was secluded and cool there. Occasionally, a masked figure would enter, 85

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look about for a lost partner but then, finding the room empty of what they desired, they’d part the heavy draperies and disappear back into the ballroom. Some ten minutes had passed before the curtains were once more parted. In the bright stream of light from the ballroom I saw Mistress Schlippenbach with her cavalier whom she was pulling by the hand. Protesting lightly at first, he finally surrendered and crossed the threshold together with her. I hear the woman’s suppressed, passionate whispers: “Darling...” She repeated the word some five times. Then suddenly, she threw her arms around his neck and her lips were lost in his horrible mask. What followed was a nightmarish, incomprehensible but angry growl. At that very same instant, as its echo, an even more dreadful, terrified scream escaped from the woman’s hastily raised head… Now she was desperately trying to escape but couldn’t. With one bound I was at their side and, looking into his maw, saw her cavalier’s ferociously bared bright, white, sharp teeth. Absolutely no doubt about it, he truly was a real and genuine ape. I desperately attempted to free his victim from his clutches but with a growl he picked her up and heroically carried her into the ballroom. After tremendous trouble and effort they were able to force him to give up the unfortunate woman. By then she had lapsed into complete unconsciousness. The woman’s face and lips had been savagely bitten and drops of blood slowly rolled down the sides of her white throat like purplish-red beads on a white veil. 86

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On the second day she regained consciousness for a short while but was quite evidently out of her mind. Towards evening she died.” Our old skeptic finished his story and, without taking any notice of how it was affecting us, started stirring the campfire’s coals. In the east a few rare stars were beginning to twinkle and a thick fog was rising from the river. After a longer pause one of us murmured: “But that’s totally unbelievable…” “What makes you think so?” without lifting his head inquired the narrator. “Even if I were to believe it about the woman … then, nevertheless…” He was interrupted by the narrator’s sincere laughter. Throwing branches onto the fire he said: “The woman, my dear friend, you don’t necessarily need to believe existed but you can rest assured that the ape truly did. It turned out that he was a trained ape a circus director had brought along with him.” Somewhere from up river came the muted sound of dipping oars – our fishermen returning home. Under the burning summer sun they would go haying in the meadows the whole hot and humid day but, once they were caught up in the thrill of fishing, they couldn’t resist the waters of the river at night. Their youthful brawn never gave them a moment’s peace. See, one of them has already cried out a long ‘Ahoy’ and we’ve echoed his call. But that is a different story and a different yearning.

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J

uris Bunduls was rolling in dough. This trait should suffice to characterize him but, unfortunately, he was a miser as well. That’s not something that stood him in good stead, nor would it anyone else, for that matter. Nevertheless, Juris survived with both without a problem until, suddenly, at a ripe old age, a third one befell him – he started going blind. He could no longer differentiate between the forest and the clouds and the sun seemed identical to the full moon. That actually would not have been so bad, as at times it can be quite pleasant to mix the two up, especially in one’s youth, or to confuse a forest with a rainstorm – in dry weather. But, to confuse an ordinary piece of paper with a bank-note is never opportune, no matter be it dry or wet weather. Consequently, contrary to his satisfaction about his first two characteristics, Juris was not at all happy about his failing eyesight. In particular, because he had plenty of strength left in him and, as is the case with most misers’ offspring, his son did not appear to be very frugal. “You really should go to see a doctor,” his daughterin-law suggested, since his son had given up talking to him about it. 88

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“Travel over a twenty miles,” growled her father-inlaw “just to ask how it will all end up?” But, as his eyesight constantly grew weaker, he finally made up his mind to go at least to see a veterinary surgeon. “The best thing about that,” concluded Bunduls, “is that I need walk only some two and a half miles.” Of equal importance was the fact that, no matter what the problem was, the vet always asked for less money than any other doctor. And, last but not least, there could not possibly be much of a difference between a dog’s and a human’s eyes. And, although these calculations were quite accurate, it must be pointed out that, first of all, Vilka manor, where the vet lived, was a bit closer. According to old Teutonic knight records, it was only two miles away. Secondly, there is no rule stating that the vet, on examining small pups, sheep and even rabbits, could not demand payment exceeding the value of the animal itself, in other words, very little. And thirdly, in spite of the accuracy of Bunduls’ speculations about the similarities between dog and human eyeballs, and any zoologist could confirm this, his visit to the vet’s was not a success. To begin with, the vet could not make head nor tail of what Bunduls was talking about, but when the latter finally and concretely pointed at his own eyes, the vet shrugged and behaved in a very boorish manner. “Surely you all haven’t turned into animals – or have you?” he asked. Bunduls thought it beneath him to even bother answering to the likes of that and left, slamming the door shut behind him. 89

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He assumed that he was simply out of luck as far as his attempts at regaining his health were concerned. But then, a strange white membrane started growing across his eyeballs and turning the whole world from twilight into dark night. “It’s the end,” sighed old father Bunduls, huddling on his warm, built-in seat ledge behind the tile oven. He realized that he was becoming a burden to himself and others. These were not the days of the holy disciples when the blind were made to see. He would simply have to get used to it – oh, God! The following winter was hard on him and only from the dripping icicles did he learn that spring was approaching. “It’s not the clouds or the hills or the lakes that I miss,” he thought to himself. “I’ve been looking at them for sixty years now so I can well do without them. It’s something else altogether that sticks in my crop. And now that I do regret ever so much.” And that something else was the fact that he could not run his farm anymore the way he was accustomed to. For truth to tell, he couldn’t even turn over the stone that had been so easy to move the previous year. And under it he kept some important papers. Among them were some IOUs from people whom he had once, in a moment of frivolous thoughtlessness, lent some money. “Soon I won’t even be able to find the bloody stone,” he feared. But it just so happened that that particular summer Assistant Professor Krūmiņš came to stay in the hamlet of Lejvēri some ten miles from Bunduls’ homestead. While on holidays there, Krūmiņš started treating pa90

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tients with eye problems in the old pub. Stories began to circulate about the marvels the man was performing. But since he turned out to be someone from the district, and as it was a well-known fact that nothing good ever stemmed from any local talent, old Bunduls didn’t pay much attention at that time to what was being said. “He was such a useless pup when he was the neighbour’s shepherd boy,” said he. However, old Juris so ruined his eyes with his relentlessly hard staring that he didn’t protest when his son finally harnessed the horse for the trip to Lejvēri. Shortly after lunch they arrived in Lejvēri. A long queue of patients had already formed. As soon as he got his queue number, Bunduls settled into a corner seat on a bench and meekly sought satisfaction with what his ears supplied him. In spite of their whispering, he could soon differentiate the various voices and by gradual degrees worked out that there were eleven patients present. “I’m not the only one with two pits dug into his forehead,” he mulled over in his mind. “If I didn’t have all those people owing me money, I swear to God I would not be seeking daylight. For if all one needs eyes for is to evaluate foreign harvests (a covetous burden hard on the heart), then it’s better to do without them.” Had he continued along this train of thought he’d have reached the conclusion that a blind beggar had to be the luckiest person alive. However, his philosophizing was suddenly interrupted by an old woman’s babbling. She had just left the good doctor’s office. He did not hear a confirmation of his own position in her words, so he felt obliged to pay particular attention to what she was prattling. 91

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“Oh my, oh my,” she sighed in a quiet, bumbling, toothless voice. “That doctor didn’t have a single sensible thing to say. He asked, ‘How old is the bride of Christ?’ And I replied. ‘Seventy-eight.’ But he immediately, ‘Why are you still gadding about here, surely you have your bridegroom right there before your very eyes! At your age you still want to leer at some young men or what?’ My, oh my, the very idea! But at the end he did write out some medication…” “Did it cost you a lot?” Bunduls asked hesitantly. “But not a thing, my dear! There I am, opening my purse, when he asks whether I can recite the Lord’s Prayer. What a nitwit! So then he says I should knot up my purse strings and just put in a good word for him with God instead… But that is the absolute truth of the matter, folks, he doesn’t have the time to spare for a decent prayer, look at the crowd of people here…” Bunduls didn’t bother listening any further and happily settled back on the bench. “Truly, not bad at all. Even though he doesn’t believe in God he doesn’t go in for cut-throat tactics, either.” Those were comforting thoughts that almost helped him forget that he regretted being there. The opening of an office door and the general silence that ensued stopped his further musing on the matter. “Doctor…” a voice suddenly arose, and this time it was a young and energetic one. “Could I ask you…” “Yes?” “I’ve arrived here at your office from the city … the train leaves at six and I’d hate to miss it. Would it be possible for you to make an exception and take me out of turn?” 92

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“Out of turn? If no one has any objections…” “Surely that’s beside the point, doctor, I can pay you.” “You can buy a sausage with your money, but not my time!” The short and snappy reply rang out and Juris had considerable difficulty in recognizing in that answer the voice of the previously polite speaker. This exchange, however, could only be appreciated fully by someone able to observe the obesity of the well-fed man from the city. Juris, however, was completely in the dark. He slumped back against the wall and pressed his hand against his heart. Luckily it lay beneath his vest’s inner pocket containing his money-filled purse. “Can’t be paid for!” It was no small matter that the old man was getting upset about. He’d just been of the highest opinion about the doctor and now he had to radically revise it. “What a day,” he continued worrying and fretting. “Three rubles won’t do here, he could rip off as much as five.” And every few moments his shoulders would rise, only to fall dejectedly – that occurred whenever his worries about three rubles turned them into five. A couple of times, he was on the point of getting up and leaving but this powerful upward movement always ceased once he had raised his shoulders. Now Juris urgently needed to question his son. But the latter was being delayed by the famous shops in Lejvēri where, as everyone knows, one can shop as splendidly as in Riga. “The devil’s taking his due,” raged the father and, if only there had been the slightest bit of light, he would have been off to seek his son immediately. 93

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“Aahh,” and his sigh, filled to the brim with all his trials and tribulations, his doubts and hopes, as well as the heavy burden of his dark prison, resounded across the whole room. “Are you in pain, old man?” asked a sympathetic voice. “In pain, my lass, in pain, what else but in pain. Not seeing is like being buried alive.” Young Bunduls showed up. His encouraging words cheered up his father considerably and, when it was their turn, he led the latter into the doctor’s office. The famous doctor’s simple sincerity would have surprised young Bunduls if he hadn’t been able to explain it with the man’s rural background. Nevertheless, the thirty-five-year-old Professor’s face did reveal an exaggerated high sense of self-esteem. He was one of those academics who had already reached such heights that he no longer needed to pay attention to formal good manners, could choose to be either extremely gallant or extremely boorish and did not give a tinker’s damn what others thought of him. After a short examination, the doctor informed them that the father’s blindness was no serious malady. A small operation was necessary and the patient needed to stay in the hospital at least for a week afterwards. “Can you leave him here as of now?” “Yes, I suppose … yes, of course,” the happy son replied and begged for further instructions. “See here! Nobody’s even bothering with the likes of me,” and the patient collapsed deeper into his chair. 94

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“However, the operation can only be carried out tomorrow,” said the doctor upon finishing his explanations, and wrote out an order form for a bed. “Take him down there and they’ll show you everything.” After settling his father in the hospital, young Bunduls drove off. The patient, however, felt terrible. The same doubts and worries were tormenting him that had previously plagued him at the door to the doctor’s office. His son had promised to return only in four to five days. Indeed, here he had a bed to sleep in, but at home he had a perfectly good wall-bench at the side of the warm tile oven for free! Oh! Oh! Now his dark space started turning into a fantastic wolf’s maw that was slowly closing in on him and his bed became a hard, sharp molar. And see, all the other patients were just as distressed and restless in their bunks. “I hear the doctor’s a good man but expensive.” No one answered. “What did you say?” asked a voice after a while from the corner across the room. “I said the doctor’s a good man but terribly expensive.” “Well, it all depends on the patient. If you’re poor, it’s for free. If you’re rich, you pay double. That’s fine with me.” “What! Then some will have to pay for ten beggars!” Bunduls bolted upright in his bed. But just as quickly, he realized that his blindness tied him to it and he couldn’t get away. 95

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Juris collapsed back into his bed and did not breathe a word. “My Lord Jesus! Why are you bringing such punishment down on me? I’ve only got darkness left as it is, but do you have to wreak such havoc on my peace of mind as well?” He kept this up for over an hour, half talking to God, half to himself, until he returned once more to the question of the doctor and his unfairness. “If some kind of differentiation is needed, then surely according to age. Should I, an old man who’s going to die in a few years’ time, pay the same amount as some young pup that’ll be getting both eyes back for the rest of his life and spending the next fifty years turning them in all heavenly directions?” Finally, the ensuing general silence bore witness to the fact that evening had come, perhaps even night had fallen. Juris felt tired but could not fall asleep for the life of him. In all humility he began to recite the Lord’s Prayer. But, when he got to the words “and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive our trespassers” he broke it off abruptly. He was angry with himself for having picked such a bad and inappropriate text. “No, no, there’s a special prayer for each of us… ‘Now I lay me down to sleep…’” he started off anew, finished it and fell asleep. Silence still reigned when he awoke once more and, in his private darkness, he continued castigating himself with ever darker thoughts. At nine o’clock he was taken to see the doctor. “And you are Bunduls?” asked the doctor. “Yes, Juris Bunduls from the township of Drikāja…” “From where?” 96

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Only then did he realize that he’d revealed something that was fraught with danger. “From the township of Drikāja,” he repeated in a hardly audible voice. “Ah, then I know you!” For the first time in his life Juris was frightened by the revelation that someone knew him. He blindly lifted his head. “Ho! Then you’re the same Bunduls who … remember? I’ve still got a bump on my leg.” Juris trembled. And truly it seemed he was remembering something or other. It must have been on some Sunday morning – his oat field had been wiped out, consumed – his best oats gobbled up, on the field bordering onto – and he’d pounced on the neighbor’s puny little shepherd boy Krūmiņš and given him a light thrashing – and then – and then – “But it was all meant as a joke, Sir! I swear to God! You were truly an amazing boy, simply a beautiful child! I can’t avoid asking myself, what do you look like now?” “That you’ll find out soon enough!” Juris’ knees went weak and started turning numb. But the doctor worked away with his instruments and chatted cheerfully, quite in a jolly mood. Consequently, Juris had no time to get upset or afraid since he had to pay close attention to every word that was being said. And oh my God, the doctor did finally come to touch upon the crucial, the most painful point in the whole discussion. Unavoidably he wanted to know whether old father Bunduls was still as frugal as he’d been in the bygone days of long ago. And what about his great afflu97

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ence, or had his son perhaps done his share in depleting his reserves? But then, out of the blue, what a wonder, the doctor turned to praising old Juris’ frugality, and the patient could take a deep breath of relief. Silently, in the depth of his heart, he was already thanking the man for his kind and considerate words. “Yes, yes,” continued the doctor, “it’s never a bad thing to be penny-pinching and salt it away. After all, you never know what awaits you in your old age. Some unforeseen illness and you have money for medical treatments. You turn blind and you have the funds to see a specialist. You are a very fortunate man, father Bunduls! At least you now know that you have not been frugal for nothing.” “Aahh,” unexpectedly slipped through the patient’s sorely pinched lips. “Is it all so hard on you? Yes, only too true. Wealth flattens you like a night-hag pressing down upon you. The same is true of blindness. Don’t worry! Be happy! You’ll soon be rid of both problems.” If the patient’s head hadn’t already been strapped onto the chair’s headrest, in spite of the darkness, at this very moment he’d have found the door. Without the slightest warning the doctor’s instrument touched the patient’s left eye and, with a sure and practiced quick flick, he peeled away the milky membrane. The eye promptly filled up with blazing sparks which gradually turned into the most wondrous light. A never previously experienced sense of joy overpowered the old man. In one snatched instant he saw a green tree outside 98

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the window, the red roof of a house, the winch of a well, a rooster on a wattle fence. But what was the most glorious aspect of it all – it was as if he were seeing it all for the first time in his life! Lord be praised! Then the doctor’s silhouette caught his eye. Yes, what was said about him was really true. He performed incredible operations. And the patient was overwhelmed by the desire to find the sweetest words of thanks, embrace him, simply touch his sleeve in gratitude. This moment of absolute bliss had, however, one weak spot – his slightly aching eye. But, pain generates more of the same – and you see, once again the patient was forced to confront his old, convoluted fears. Only this time they were far more devastating. For this wondrous light the doctor would surely be expecting far more than just a few sweet words of praise and gratitude. How could he have forgotten that? And the doctor’s shadow against the window grew into a threatening cloud in his small corner of heaven. The patient held himself in the ready for the flashes of lightning above his own head. “At the moment one eye is enough,” the doctor’s words interrupted his train of thought. “We’ll take care of the other one at a later date.” The patient’s eyes were bandaged shut and he was brought back to his bed. And once again he was back in his world of darkness. Even though this darkness was not as full of hopelessness as previously, nevertheless, there wasn’t the slightest doubt, to his way of thinking, that the fruits of his labors and his life long efforts were about to be plundered and looted in the most barbarous fashion. And he had more than enough time on his 99

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hands to be forced to endure this devastation in hundreds of different ways. Now that he’d seen the light, he had no intention of ever doing without it again. However, the incorrigible mistake that his son had made, it seemed to him (oh, this thoughtless son of his), was that he had brought him here, as if the only savior of his eyesight could not be anyone else but the thoroughly and righteously thrashed shepherd boy in days of yore. No, no, whatever one doctor was capable of performing so was another, in particular with eyes that were so easy to treat and cure. This time around and here and now, he’d have to pay for the thrashing. That was as certain as ‘Amen’ in a church service. And the deciding factor would not be the size of the switch he’d used but the tree stump he’s heaved at him afterwards … actually, a tiny little one it had been … that’s where the goose-egg sized bump came from … Ahhh … and now it seemed as if the tiny little stump had been placed under his side and was pressing into his ribs to squeeze the life out of him, that … The ill man was incapable of further thought. Restless, he shifted about in his bed and moaned. The bandages around his eyes were slipping higher. Through a small slit, he was able to reassure himself that he could see quite well with his operated eye, in spite of it smarting badly. And then, all of a sudden, he realized he wasn’t tied to his bed any more. Exactly at that moment a thought shot through his head and instantly burst into flower. He should hastily see to it that he escaped from this torture chamber. As soon as evening had fallen and 100

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it was night, he dressed quietly, put on his shoes, tied his neckerchief around his neck, slanted his bandages to the side and was on his way. And all that without anyone noticing. He was in a hurry to get home. The night was warm and the heavens overcast. That evening’s fallen rain lay in huge puddles in the road. When the hiker was already past the Ķikuts’ lumber mill, the wind started rising from the sea side, a low fog rolled in and it began to rain once more. That made walking quite difficult. However, Bunduls didn’t lose hope. His back was wet both from his exertions and the rain. The farther he got, the worse the terrain. He had already fallen several times in the middle of the road. His eye bandages went slipping down his nose and finally fell off to the ground. And then he sensed that the good eye, with which he could see, was beginning to water and burn and gradually getting dimmer. Upset, he hurried on. The rain was getting worse and fiercely beating his face. And soon he couldn’t see a thing anymore… Somewhere to the right a grove was sighing and the wind was blowing mightily around his ears – and he stopped, alone and blind in the dead of a pitch black night, totally exhausted, soaked to the skin. His feet kept marking time in the mud, his hands grasping at the air, his operated eye turning into a burning, blistering hole in his forehead. Harnessing his last ounces of strength for a final effort, his foot groped about and he found his way out of the quagmire. When he stepped into the next deep puddle, he again fell and here he lost his cane. He searched around him but didn’t find it. That was when he came to realize that there was no real road underfoot. His boots kept slipping as if on 101

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river sludge. He bent down to feel around with his hands. He came upon stubble and had to stop dead once again. And, unexpectedly, through the rain and the darkness, he began to call for help. “Oh, my good fellows! Is there really no one about out there?” he called, extending his arms out in front of him. His hoarse voice commingled with the rain and the darkness and fell to the rain soaked ground only a few feet further ahead of him. Then, his arms thrust out before him once more he took a step forward, hoping to find higher ground to sit down on. He had walked onto a meadow. In front of him he heard the wind blowing through the forest. He headed in that direction – and quite by accident, his feet slipped on something slimy and shallow, and a splash followed. Like two broken wings, a pair of hands fluttered above the water, the water bubbled and then silence reigned. In the morning an old shepherdess caught sight of a pair of feet sticking out of the marshy pond. Frightened to death, she forsook her animals and ran to inform the homesteaders that there was a body lying in the marshy pond at one corner of the pasture. Epilogue Everything has its own epilogue, whether it gets written down or not is really beside the point. This time around, let’s ignore the doctor’s surprise that a patient had escaped and let’s focus on the impact 102

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of this sad event on his home and township. After Bunduls had gone astray and lost his way, an order was passed that all the roads that could not be distinguished from a plowed field had to be improved. That order has not been cancelled to this very day, although no one bothers to see to it that it is carried out. Anyone who’s ever driven through the township is sure to know that. Some will plead that they’re not blind and can quite easily tell the difference between a road and a field, since furrows in a field form a circular pattern whereas those on a road are straight. On the other hand, there are those who point out that with the development of air travel we can forget about some country roads. Others will even go so far as to claim that these roads must be neglected for the sake and improvement of aviation. These folks are quite right, as only a horse would judge otherwise, and he’d do so totally out of self-interest. He’ll never succeed in flying through the air with his wagon loads. However, after old Bunduls’ death, most everyone’s attention got caught up in the scandal about his gravestone. Long ahead of time, Bunduls had entrusted his friend Kricups with the task of erecting his tombstone and paid him an appropriate sum of money for the job. One must assume that he feared his son would spend too much money on one. Young Bunduls raised no objections at the time. However, when he visited the gravesite in the cemetery the summer after his father’s death, he read the following epitaph at the foot of the granite pedestal. 103

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Here lies Poor Juris Bunduls *15 Oct 1849 + 9 Aug 1913 This so enraged him that he decided to sue Kricups in court. “That’s blasphemy against my father’s good name and reputation,” he wrote in his petition. “My father was never a pauper; he never lived in a poorhouse but in his own home.” The son presented many other facts as indisputable proof to the correctness of his argument. He even pointed out that, after his father’s death, he’d found several very valuable bundles, one of which had contained an IOU for three hundred seventy rubles that Kricups himself had signed for his father. “Therefore, there is no way that he did not know the state of my father’s financial affairs and it is only out of evil, spiteful and deceitful intent that he could describe him as poor.” Young Bunduls appealed to the court to 1) sentence Kricups for the sum of three hundred seventy rubles and grant them to him as his father’s heir and 2) order Kricups to alter the wording on the gravestone to a more acceptable word. On his own behalf, Kricups explained in court that he had indeed borrowed three hundred and seventy rubles from Juris Bunduls, but when he had wanted to repay him, the old man had not been able to find his hidden bundle of IOU papers. This fact had so upset Bunduls that he had begged him to make him, poor Juris Bunduls, a headstone for the exact sum instead. And that he had truly, out of deepest sympathy, used precisely that word, as the poor man’s fate, it seemed to 104

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him, was indeed one of the most pitiful and unfortunate he had even known. “After all, he ended his life in a quagmire.” The court paid the petition no heed and threw it out. The only thing the act did achieve was that old Juris Bunduls, a year after his death, became a far more popular man than he had ever been in his lifetime. In this fact alone one can recognize, in a certain sense, his kinship with many a famous fellow. But his son was left with no choice other than to cover the intolerable epitaph with a sheet of marble on which he ordered the stonemason to carve in the following statement: “Here in the bosom of God lies Jur, the son of Michael Bundul” – but he asked his wife to choose a noteworthy verse to add at the bottom. Two whole evenings she spent leafing through vintage hymn books published in 1852 but ended up not finding a single one that seemed appealing or appropriate. Finally they both agreed upon the following wording: All that I hold in my heart Gives me rich comfort indeed. These two lines have now been carved into Juris’ headstone and they are easy to read. But, unfortunately, it all happened too late to change Juris’ lot. In the whole wide district, when they speak of him, it is of ‘poor Bunduls.’ His son objects vehemently but there is nothing he can do about it.

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he jolliest people in the world are gravediggers. Could it be that that’s because they see the meeting of life and death from a different perspective than those who first hit the bottom of a grave when they’re dead? This question should have been discussed with old Sīmanis, but he’d already passed away. He had stories to tell that far surpassed anyone else’s. From early childhood, he had lived next to the cemetery and dug hundreds of burial pits in his lifetime, even though this job was not exactly what was foreseen as his official duty. He had a huge circle of friends and acquaintances and therefore, whenever any one of them passed by on their way to digging a grave for their mothers or brides, he’d inevitably join them of his own accord and, by the sweat of his brow, work alongside. Towards the end of his days, his labours were reduced to the wagging of his tongue rather than the heaving of his shovel. But, in the long run, this was a logical development, since most people turned to the small, stout old man only for advice. And, standing at the lip of the grave, he’d freely dispense it while others did the digging at the bottom of 106

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the pit. He knew not only how deep to dig. That all depended on the soil in the grave and the age of the bones that came to light. But he knew as well where to deposit these bones so as not to dishonour the ashes and dust of our ancient forefathers. He was the one to make the final decision about the size of family gravesite plot as in his judgments he took into account a family’s virtues and wealth, its fecundity and endurance in the face of misfortune and death. His surliness towards the tradesman Kurmis was related to this. Sīmanis found fault with his claiming a third of a hectare for his own personal gravesite. The sly old fox had quite correctly assessed that no decent girl would ever want to marry tradesman Kurmis and therefore he’d never have a wife or children whose deaths could justify his receiving such an ambitiously large plot of consecrated soil. Even though he protested against Kurmis’ plan, he quite generously advised others to increase the size of their family plots in the cemetery before the price of land was raised to new heights. His altruistic advice, that always proved to be very good and correct in the long run, as well as his expertise in the one aspect of life that most people prefer not to consider, brought him fame and recognition. His, in any case, was greater than that of church wardens, who frightened people with their tales of graveyard apparitions, or even that of the parish pastors who preached of the resurrection in such a manner that they only succeeded in confirming the wardens’ implanted fears. Sīmanis, like most gravediggers, was a disbeliever and insisted that the graveyard was the safest place to be – 107

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not only for the dead, but also the living, especially for those who believed in ghosts and apparitions. Sīmanis could swear to this with absolute conviction since, in his lifetime, he’d only once seen a ghost and it had been a pretty sad sight. No sooner had Sīmanis shouted: “Wait, wait, where’s my flintlock?” than the poor ghost had taken off as if the devil himself were at his heels. Later, the old man had learnt that the ghost had been in his wife’s pocket. She had wanted to break him of his habit of going to the pub and coming home at some ungodly hour of the night. But, as is always the case, his wife had wasted her money on the servant boy as surely as if she’d paid some quack to heal her husband of his appetite. He ate and drank as was becoming of any mortal being, but particularly a gravedigger. Evidently his stomach digested food well, since his body was living proof of this. “Ten heads aren’t worth one good stomach” was the conclusion about life that Sīmanis had reached, although he’d picked this up from others who were of the same opinion. The philosophy that most people base their lives on is always borrowed from somewhere. The conclusions we reach on our own are unacceptable in the eyes of our fellows, since they fail to contain the liberating element of an authority. Otherwise, Sīmanis was an independent thinker who came up with his own conclusions. This was confirmed by the simple fact that, to his district’s ancient proverbs, he was gradually adding dozens of new ones. Once, at the funeral of Ribuks, he got beat up for no reason whatsoever. Consequently, he was forced 108

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to return home in the dark, but during this journey he came up with one of his more splendid sayings: “the backside’s for thrashing, the mouth’s for screaming.” Even more famous was his improvement on an old proverb: “if you dig pits for others, you’ll never dig your own.” That turned into his motto that he later passed down to the gravediggers that came after him. But the most attention was paid to his simplest and most often repeated expression: “nobody returns from there.” That actually stemmed from an incident in his childhood when he’d rammed gun-powder into the china bowl of his mother’s brother’s pipe – and that as prankish revenge. This mischief-making took a bad turn. His relative seriously injured his face and never recovered. He finally gave up the ghost after suffering great agony. God only knows what the weak old man would have done with Sīmanis if he had not been carried off to the cemetery. For ages Sīmanis was haunted by the enraged, contorted and disfigured face of his unfortunate victim who, gritting his teeth, had raised his fists in his direction. How his fingers had cracked as he’d balled them! How loudly he’d groaned as he’d thrown himself helplessly about on his bed. But the night he’d died, an hour prior to that, he’d raised himself up on his elbows in bed and threatened him in a croaking voice: “Just you wait, I’ll remember this!” Sīmanis was so terror-stricken he didn’t even dare attend the funeral and never learnt where his uncle was laid to rest. For years his mother’s brother’s menacing words haunted and tormented him. It wasn’t until he himself had laid several people to rest in their graves and 109

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shoveled huge mounds of earth over them that he was struck anew by his relative’s words. For the first time, in high spirits, he burst out laughing: “Well, you old hack, no way you are getting up out of there!” Plenty of people worry about that and therefore this simple truth sweetly crosses the lips of both men and women. How heavenly it sounded coming from Rimkus on the death of his wife, or from Ozols of the Līču homestead as he took leave of his last rival for the hand of the beautiful maid Made. One or two other proverbs that stem from Sīmanis and have broadened the repertoire of the community’s mode of expression about these cultural matters could be added here, but enough said when one declares that all the expressions in N parish that pertain to shovels, funerals, caskets, and that, in one way or another, express skeptical but jovial views about life and people, are in some way related to old Sīmanis. Living so close to the graveyard cultivated his tremendous indifference towards everything that did not have anything to do with death and escorting people to their last resting place. Actually, he didn’t love them unless they were dead, and his helping out with his shovel and advice had nothing to do with the living, even though it could appear to be so. All the same, Sīmanis would have kept up the graveyard’s fame for some considerable time if his life hadn’t come to an end as abruptly and unexpectedly as was worthy and appropriate to the course of his life. It all happened on a bright Saturday in May. As was usually the case, two sturdy lads, with shovels on their 110

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shoulders, stopped off at Sīmanis’ house on their way past. They were called Ķīsis and Kāposts and on their way to dig a grave for their neighbour. “If you have to do it, you have to do it. There’s no way of getting around it. You’re not going to abandon the fellow on his deathbed, are you!” said Sīmanis on receiving them. “Who’s given up the ghost this time?” “Ozols from the Līču homestead.” “Aha, so now he’s gone and died too?” Sīmanis waited a moment to see whether the two lads had any questions about the job at hand but, as none was forthcoming, he picked up his shovel. “Let’s go!” “Yes, of course, Sīman, no doubt about it.” Kāposts stopped him. “But, surely not before wetting our whiskers. Here, take a swig or two!” Sīmanis took a slug from the bottle and shook himself. “That hit the spot.” “Why are you always using this bayonet?” the other lad questioned him, pointing at his shovel that had been worn down to a sliver and reclaiming the bottle. “Is that the only one you’ve got?” “Of course not, but they’re for other jobs.” When the lads lamented that there’d be little good from such a blade, Sīmanis took it upon himself to explain to them that this particular shovel had only ever been used to dig graves and had consequently been worn down on the job. “Have you ever laid eyes on a similar one?” asked Sīmanis, already on his way to the graveyard. The lads 111

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had to admit that it was a unique one and that they’d never seen the likes of it. “So you see,” he then continued. “It’s about time you learnt that this shovel is one of those things that gains in value the more it gets used and pared down. The museum at the Cathedral has already offered me a thousand rubles for it in order to put it out on the altar there! But I’m going to wear it down to the point that it’ll be transformed into gold. Then the general superintendent of the church will wear it like a medal on his chest, instead of a cross, and will exclaim ‘Look here, it’s old Sīmanis’ shovel which has been used to bury so much riffraff and dishonorable men. But, it has also dug the way to heaven’s gates for many others!’ And a lot of the faithful, you should be informed of these facts, will stretch out their lips and kiss it and wear down the noble object ever further. Thus, in turn, transforming it from gold into diamonds since they are more valuable than gold itself. And, when this shovel has been reduced to the size of a five kopeck piece, then there won’t be any place in the whole wide world worthy of the honor of housing it. The Pope will want it for himself, all the patriarchs too, the monarchs as well, and all the nations will rise to their feet, so to say, to get Sīmanis’ shovel in their possession. That I can swear to. Wars will start and blood will flow like the spring floods in Grīvs’ valley, and – the gravediggers will be in business again! Ha, and the grave that I’ll be lying in, you really must hear this, will grow and expand to no end. Commanders, generals, popes will lie down beside me, and I’ll say to them ‘How are you, my old 112

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drinking buddies, my dream has come true, old Sīmanis’ dream has come true, so to say!’” Both lads enjoyed listening to the old gravedigger’s whoppers – they knew he habitually told cock and bull stories. By the cemetery gates, they each threw back another good slug and then walked on to the plot where their friend’s grave was foreseen, close to four birch trees. “Now then, Sīman, what about wearing down your precious instrument a bit today as well?” said Ķīsis, throwing down his jacket. Since the sun was already beating down and the digging was not easy through the network of tree roots, the others followed suite. At first, all three of them dug together, but then, in order to rest, they took turns one after the other. Eventually, two of them rested, while the third dug, as only one at a time could work freely at the bottom of the pit. Finally, there was only room for Ķīsis, as no one else could freely swing a shovel down there. This was because he had long legs but short arms that kind of made him look like a kangaroo. The whole time Sīmanis kept up his patter, presenting them with tall tales he’d been collecting for years in pubs and at festivities. His treasures were as carefully cultivated as any biologist’s who gathers rare plants in the marshes of Pieslaiste. When Sīmanis’ voice suddenly fell silent above him, Ķīsis called up out of the depths: “Don’t drink it all, leave me some!” “Oh, how lucky you are!” Sīmanis called out, pulling the bottle away from his lips. “Don’t be envious of us, who are still here above you on top of the earth! Let me tell you, we’d have died of 113

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boredom, if the last bottle had been emptied long ago, and our heads, so to speak, consequently full.” After this artless revelation, Sīmanis approached the edge of the pit in order to instruct the digger how much he still had to dig. “Dig with your shovel at a sharper angle,” he advised and then broke into song. He was joined by Kāposts, who was dead drunk by now and lying propped up against one of the birches. As the sun was setting in the grove Ķīsis saw it as a ball of fire on the rim of the cavity. He was working slowly and with great care, making sure he was not throwing any sand in the sun’s face. The ancient laws of one’s ancestors forbade it, even though Sīmanis declared all that to be sheer nonsense. “Young lads believe old wives’ tales so that, once they’ve grown old, they need not believe in anything at all. The sun. What is the sun? I say, my good fellow, darken her flaming red hair, throw it right in her snout!” “How dare you talk like that? Not even a dog dares snarl at the sun!” “A dog’s just a dog, but a human being, as you should well know, comes to realize that there’s a price on everything. The day will arrive, Ķīsi, when you’ll be inevitably forced to shiver and shake like a dried out sheepskin coat, and that’s when you’ll discover what the sun is all about! Ha, ha!” His mocking, beastly laughter so raised the lad’s hackles that he deliberately landed a shovelful of soil behind Sīmanis’ collar. 114

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“You’re even ahead of me, my boy, you’re starting to bury people alive!” The lad continued working and suddenly his shovel hit upon something that was harder than sand or clay. He pushed the sand away and discovered the round end of a log in one corner of the grave. “What the devil is that?” he called out. “Aha, that really is something,” squinting with one eye, stated Sīmanis. “That’s a kind of coffin. To be quite accurate, it should be called a casket.” Ķīsis had never before seen an old-fashioned casket made by hollowing out round aspen blocks. Even Kāposts got up to admire it. “That’s old war booty,” Sīmanis, the expert know-itall, continued. “And two things are possible here. Either we smash up the block, if, so to say, the wood is moldered, or we close up the pit.” Ķīsis gently tapped the end of the casket with his spade and was about to exclaim that it was nothing more than a block of wood when, after the third tap, a splitter cracked off it and out of the hollow rolled a longish oval object. Ķīsis leapt back since, at the first moment, it wasn’t at all clear whether it was living or dead. It was only Sīmanis’ happy cackle that made him come to his senses. “Oh, pass it up!” the latter shouted, but Ķīsis wasn’t quite up to touching it yet. “Idiot, it’s a bottle!” “True enough, it’s a bottle alright!” in his deep voice added Kāposts. “I can almost see that with my own eyes!” 115

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Only after several such encouraging comments did Ķīsis dare to bend down towards it, while Sīmanis slapped himself on the buttocks and jumped about half a foot high. “Hm, there’s something in the bottle,” said Ķīsis, lifting the moldy container against the sun and testing its weight. “Do you really believe that I’d start dancing about in my old age for an empty bottle? Not on your life!” Their unusual find put them in a happy mood, although the lads didn’t suppose the vodka would still be drinkable. After all it had spent more than fifty years lying under a cadaver’s skull. “The devil’s own drink!” declared Sīmanis. “You can’t buy anything like it either in Riga or Jelgava!” Then he started explaining that this was already the third bottle of its kind that he, so to say, had had something to do with. He didn’t forget to thank the ancients for this jolly good tradition that resulted in such bottles coming to light and swore repeatedly that the liquid had to be drunk on the very spot. Sīmanis lowered a ladder into the pit, climbed down and received the heady find from Ķīsis. “Hey, Kāpost, come on down here!” he shouted, while cleaning up the bottle’s exterior. “This is the only drink that is really worthy of a gravedigger’s gut, and we’re going to drink it right here, at the bottom of this very pit! Sit down, both of you, damn it! Kāpost, you sit here, and you there…” “By Jove!” the lads finally made up their minds. “Let’s do it!” And each one sat down in his respective 116

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corner. Sīmanis was about to knock the neck off the bottle when he, unexpectedly, placed it on the sandy bottom of the pit, fell to his knees, and leaning forward, peered into the opening left by the casket’s block. “Hey you, rascal, come on out!” he shouted into the hole. It seemed he even listened for a moment to see whether anyone answered. But, when he got no response, he stuck his hand into the hole and rolled a yellow skull out, along with some moldering rags. Ķīsis trembled at the sight. “Leave those bones in peace!” “No, no, my laddies, drinking alone is not in keeping with gravediggers’ traditions. Let’s have the owner join us. Surely you know I’m right!” Sīmanis struck his hand in a second and a third time and kept on pulling out bones, one after the other. When he’d got quite a pile together, including the pelvic bones, Sīmanis very skillfully arranged them at a new spot against the wall of the pit. He poked the thigh bones into the sand and stacked the rest of the bones accordingly above them until he had the whole skeleton together. At the end, he threw his hat on top of it. It was more than obvious that this wasn’t the first time he was doing this. The assembled skeleton unmistakably presented the shadowy structure of a human being. Sīmanis gravely bowed before him. “How are you, you old rascal!” he said. “This bottle, so to say, we’re going to empty in your honour and drink to your health!” Both lads agreed that, all in all, they’d ended up in witty company and even Ķīsis smiled in satisfaction. 117

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By lightly tapping the bottle against the sandy bottom, Sīmanis popped its cork and, wiping the mouth of the bottle once more, took the first mouthful. “Oh!” he snorted and without any further comment passed the bottle over. Dizziness overcame them. Their lightheadedness came out of the bottle but, even more so, arose out of the air they were breathing in. It emanated from the shadows that were starting to thicken at the bottom of the pit and from their unusual guest kneeling in front of them. With the lengthening shadows of the evening he took on more and more of a human shape. When the bottle had made several rounds and had stopped once more in Sīmanis’ hands, the latter corked the bottle shut with his chin and sacked forwards to address their bony guest. “My friend,” he began. “We’re convinced that you can’t have any objections to spending a few moments in our company! Although our manly hearts, as you should know, would enjoy it far more were you a virgin or at least a woman! Whereas our stomachs would regret it exceedingly, believe you me, an old stout fellow! For in that case there wouldn’t be this wonderful bottle of balsam here for us to find, since it could only have been buried with a true veteran boozer. Rejoice with us, no matter what you were during your short sojourn on earth, whether a fop or an honourable man. On this earth man has, as you should know, only one lifetime but under it, life ever after. And, even if we’ve seen you looking worse than you do now, whether you were a highway robber, murderer or horse thief, my good friend, how are we to 118

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tell now whether you weren’t the Archbishop of Riga? Has the devil broken off a finger from your right hand, just the way God did when he fell out of the pulpit? For you see, it’s not important who we bury, as you probably know, as much as whom we end up digging out. And since I’m an old and experienced gravedigger, I must confess that we bury, as you well know, stinky stuff, at least a lot stinkier than what I find when I dig it up. Judge for yourself, what smells worse – a bedbug a month before death or a bedbug a month after death? But the same question is just as appropriate when put about unfaithful wives and betraying friends, about kings and squires and keepers of houses of ill-repute, about disgusting witches and all loathsome, evil old men whose rage fills the universe and even an hour before death, as you should know, threaten a small child with their fists. Don’t laugh, stop and think about us…” Here Sīmanis moved the bottle out from under his chin and interrupted his gushing flow of words. The two lads marveled no less about this than about the darkening evening which had settled into the bottom of the pit quite unnoticed. But their haughty guest, to whom the speech had been addressed, paid no heed to Sīmanis’ serious queries and laughed even more ferociously. Only, instead of the sound of laughter coming out of his wide open mouth, out rolled darkness in huge blasts that evaporated against the first stars. The lads begged him not to continue his tirade. It was long past the hour for them to be heading home. Sīmanis, after having downed a good mouthful, sank down on the end of the block. He was gradually pulling his head in 119

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between his shoulders and staring intently at the skeleton. Its bony forehead, lit up only from above, took on a different expression and blazed forth a ghostly pale light. Increasingly, they all sensed the growing intensity of their fourth companion’s presence. This feeling was reinforced by Sīmanis’ hat on top of the broad skull. “Are you finally going to answer me, my friend?” Sīmanis asked, as if in passing. But, this time around, the lads were surprised to hear a few notes of uncertainty in his voice. They even observed that Sīmanis seemed to want to withdraw even deeper into his own corner. For the first time, deathly silence reigned supreme. The stillness was accompanied by a slight sense of horror. It seemed as if, on this evening in May, together with the gathering dusk, light, white snow was falling on their heads. But, strange as it may seem, they enjoyed it for it seemed to hinder rather than hasten their leave taking. Sīmanis, collapsing ever more into himself, swayed forwards several times, fell back, then forwards once again, constantly and closely observing and staring at his motionless friend, as if he had something of importance to discover. He stared stiffly into the bony face which just as relentlessly, but somehow with the challenging look of a braggart, returned his stare. It appeared as if they were taking each other’s measure. Damp coolness descended into the pit once again. Ķīsis leaned up against Kāposts. “Wait a minute! Surely it can’t really be you!” Sīmanis called out without any warning and feverishly turned 120

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towards the ladder. But then he got a hold of himself and stood there stiffly, not budging from the spot. Now the lads could clearly see that he was imperceptibly working his way back into his corner, without ever taking his eyes off the corpse. Kāposts opened his lips to ask a question but he’d lost control of his voice. Instead, Sīmanis moved a knee forward as if he wanted to retrieve the hat off the skull. Suddenly, the bones, of their own accord, or because the sand had been jarred, came swooping down upon him and filling his lap. Howling and fighting them off, Sīmanis crashed heavily into the corner of the pit with his shoulder. In an instant, the driving force of this move caused the corner of the pit to collapse and it almost half filled up with sand. With the utmost difficulty Kāposts was able to free himself of the sand first, but Sīmanis was nowhere to be seen. All that was visible of Ķīsis was a pale shiny face that was hardly distinguishable from the corpse’s head. He immediately freed Ķīsis but the latter was of little help to him afterwards. They hurried to push the sand off the old gravedigger and got to his left shoulder first. It took them another two minutes to reach his head that he’d covered with his arms across his eyes and mouth. It was unbelievable, but Sīmanis made absolutely no effort to set himself free and, in this respect, proved many of his best proverbs wrong. He simply lay there dead, his face horribly contorted and squeezing a thighbone tightly between his fingers. What had been said proved to be true since Sīmanis had unwittingly dug up his mother’s elder brother’s bones.

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I

E

very parish is famous for something. The Prauliena parish has its Būdānu hill, the Piebalga parishes have their beautiful lakes, but the Agare parish is proud of its paupers. The latter parish’s home for the poor and disabled resembles a living museum to which one should take pupils from schools far and wide. These excursions would teach our budding citizens some home truths and convince them most thoroughly of what happens to one who gives in and becomes addicted to alcohol and gambling, who succumbs to the madness of excessive love or who simply survives an unfortunate accident. If there were a law to prevent the influx of beggars and paupers into the Agare parish, it would surely have stopped the parish council elders from building a model institution for the disabled and poor and from hiring a good housekeeper. Now such a law is no longer necessary. That explains why its poorhouse has such a diverse collection of inhabitants. Take a look at the following: Mr. Prairie-hen, a man with only one arm and one leg, or Mr. 122

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Sunshine, who’s spent a part of his life in Brazil, or Mr. Woodpecker, a poor devil who got beaten to pulp at a local fair, or Mr. Puffball, as well as a few other odd types. But, the one who is the most famous parish pauper of all is Moneyed little old Ilze. And she doesn’t even live there! Although she has such a promising name, she possesses absolutely nothing, if you ignore her bent back, her generous and warm heart, and her strange mind that has never recovered from the hard knocks she took when she was young. With her light burdens she wanders about in the summer visiting the local fields, forests and the occasional village. However, for her permanent winter abode, she’s chosen the small bathhouse at the Joču homestead. The word ‘chosen’ is very appropriate here as there are quite a few other homesteads in the parish as well that h a v e a n e q u a l l y d i r e n e e d for someone to give their place a ‘s o u l.’ Since Ilze has deliberately picked this particular homestead’s little bathhouse to shelter her in winter, something of the past must still prevail in her mind. However, it must be pointed out that the bathhouse stands at the edge of the forest, from where she can visit anyone she cares to, but ignore everything she wants to. Once upon a time there was talk of supplying her with a small parish pension. But once the chief elder of the parish council explained that, from time to time, she is the one to provide the kindness and comfort that is needed in times of grief and heartache and that it is hard to say who hasn’t benefited from her generosity – for don’t we all sometime or other suffer from these mala123

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dies? – the subject was more or less exhausted and he thus put paid to the discussion. To top it off, an objection was raised that she had, in her time, wasted all her hard earned money splurging on a brick gravesite in the cemetery and thus, by her own design, turned herself into a pauper. “Let’s not view paupers’ graves through green glasses,” the chief elder chastised the council members. “In this case the parish itself is to blame for not appointing a guardian for her.” “But, surely if need be, she can sell the gravesite’s bricks – there must be at least a hundred or so there,” his obstinate deputy wouldn’t let up. “Who knows, maybe Ārgals will buy the site for himself.” “That’s sheer poppycock! Her child lies buried in the grave and there is nothing for sale there.” “Yes, you’re right, of course,” his stubborn rival had to concede defeat. “I’d quite forgotten that.” “Something like that is impossible to forget!” While they’re wasting council time on a fruitless discussion about Ilze’s supposed small pension, which she has neither requested nor ever intended to ask for, the old woman is roaming about in the summery pine forest of the Joču homestead, going from clearing to clearing to see what changes the previous winter has brought about. That’s what she has been doing every spring for years now. She has taken the task upon herself to wander through the forests and glades, glens and semi-clearings, exploring them to find the most promising and fruitful areas for eventual harvests in the summer. Wherever she finds that the strawberry shoots have grown too thick 124

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around the stumps or piles of branches, she breaks them off, pulls out the mightiest weeds and finally, if it’s been too dry, waters the thirsty plantation from the nearest brook. Afterwards, she’ll suddenly fall to her knees amongst the white blossoms of her wild strawberry fields, raise her arms to the heavens and exclaim: “Oh Lord, Thou still sows my fields Even as my old age doth weaken me!” In summer she makes her rounds from homestead to homestead and distributes her bounty of wild strawberries to all those who’ve been generous to her in their turn. And her particular miracle never fails, since she never lacks berries for either a homestead or a hungry mouth. Whenever everyone else has gone wild strawberry hunting and returned from the forest with empty baskets, little old Ilze goes out as if gathering wild fruit were a child’s game and returns from her forest sojourns with baskets overflowing with wild strawberries. At the homesteads she regularly shows up shortly after high noon, when most of the adults are taking their afternoon naps and only children and pups are playing about in the yards. More often than not, it’s teatime before the mothers notice that their children’s mouths show traces of wild strawberries and ask: “Has little old Ilze been here?” “Oh, yes, oh yes!!” And the children inevitably grab a hold of their mothers’ stripped skirts and beg: “Let’s build a little bathhouse like the one at the Joču homestead so that dear little old Ilze can come and stay with us!” 125

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II All of this happened a long time ago. At the time in question, Ilze Stameriena was working as a servant maid at Mighty Sīlis homestead. In those days, servant maids were paid twenty rubles a year, but already then Ilze was getting twenty-five. She’s as strong as any of the farmhands and works from dawn to dusk along with the best of them. Whenever and wherever she puts her hand to a task, it never goes amiss. Some praise her to the heavens for her excellent work and others for her good looks for, truth to tell, she really is an extraordinarily beautiful woman. Well-built and statuesque, with bright cheeks, a milk and honey complexion and eyes … whomever she casts a glance at can’t resist smiling back. During the livelong working day she has to waste half of her strength and energy fighting off the farmhands who are constantly after her. They cannot leave her alone and behave like bears around a honey-pot. Invariably they succumb, give in to the temptation and desperately try to touch her, loosening her braid, pinching her hip, or even attempting to tumble her into a hay stack. “Keep your hands to yourself. How dare you!” she exclaims when their own farmhand Jukums is forcing his attentions on her and trying to feel her breast. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it!” “But I don’t!” “Why not? Does it hurt?” “Exactly! It hurts. Three years ago a bee stung me!” 126

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Oh that’s the way the land lies! Those are only bee stings, those swaying, enticing orbs under her shirt. She is only playing games with him and teasing. He’ll show her! He throws himself at the servant maid, determined to suckle at her breast and draw out the bee sting’s poison with his tender, hungry lips. But she draws back and strikes him a hard blow across the cheek. “Just you wait!” he cries, turning as red as a boiled crayfish, and just like a crayfish, escaping by scuttling and crawling off backwards. “Until the next time? Just give my hand a chance to recover! OK?” Ilze laughs in response and shows him her scarlet palm. So they keep teasing each other until Mighty Sīlis begins to show an interest in his servant maid. “Why are you bothering to raise such a ruckus with those farmhands, Ilze?” he asks. “What else am I supposed to do?” “What else? I suggest you look the other way.” “I do, I do, but I don’t see anyone else coming.” Hmm, she’s looking and doesn’t see anyone else coming her way? Really, was he, Mighty Sīlis so small and insignificant that she cannot be bothered taking any notice of him? And why does she keep turning away, looking towards the edge of the forest? There’s surely nothing there for her. And, at their next meeting at the gate, Mighty Silis stretches himself to his full height, blocks the whole entrance and repeats: “Well, is there really no one there to catch your eye if you look the other way? Look really closely, now, I tell you!” 127

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Ilze just laughs, raises her head and explains: “My eyes are watering from the overwhelming sight. It’s impossible to distinguish anything in particular.” “Do let me by!” And Ilze hurries away, leaving Mighty Sīlis behind, white with rage. How in the world is one to know what that gal has in mind. She keeps dancing about like a squirrel but throw her a pine cone and she refuses to fall for it. See, in the evenings, if work gets finished early and there’s no one down at the lakeside, she slips over there for a swim. Instead of having supper, she’ll take off on her own! She’s afraid of nothing and nobody! She swims out quite a stretch, it’s really amazing, and she can keep that up for a whole half an hour. Her lithe body turns a rosy pink from the exertion and the sunset turns it even rosier. Once, as she’s coming out of the water, she sees Jukums sitting by her clothes. What an incredibly foolish and crazy situation. “Get lost, I say!” But Jukums just won’t budge, as if he’s deaf. Actually, he’s completely forgotten why he’s sitting there on the beach, that he’s come down to pay her back for all the terrible wrongs she’s done him. He simply stares at her as if he’s seeing a miracle. “You rotten devil, get lost, I say! I must get dressed, I’m cold!” But Jukums cannot budge, he is awestruck and stares and stares, as if the sight of her has enchanted him. ‘The devil be damned, but you are so incredibly beautiful!’ he wants to shout but doesn’t dare, for how would it sound? 128

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Ilze goes and hides in the lakeside reeds. But after a while she really does start shaking from the cold. “Please, let me get dressed,” she begs him but to no avail. Finally, not seriously worried about anything, Ilze hurries up the beach, grabs a handful of sand and throws it in Jukums’ face. While he’s busy dealing with the unpleasant surprise, Ilze quickly pulls on her shirt, skirt, and jacket and is fully dressed in less than a minute. “Now we can head home,” she says with a chuckle but Jukums has not finished rubbing the sand out of his eyes. He’s working so hard at spitting the grains of sand out of his mouth and cursing her that he can hardly answer. “You’re crazy!” he growls. But Ilze, now kindness itself, pulls him to the water’s edge and helps him wash out his eyes. Jukums in turn is as meek as a lamb. Oh, her wonderful art of doing everything with such ease and grace. His bones melt as her hands glide gently and carefully over his face. By thunder, he’d be more than willing to have sand thrown in his eyes on a daily basis! But isn’t that exactly what she does every day? And not just in Jukums’ eyes? Then they’ve cleared everything up and are on their way home. “What’s going on between you and the boss,” he asks warily. “I don’t like it one bit!” “Oh, but I do!” “You like Sīlis?” 129

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“Why not, he’s such an oaf and has money to burn, that’s the kind I like.” “More fool, you.” “Yes. More than likely.” Now the young farmhand is totally bamboozled – is she serious or just joking. How in the world is he to understand all this, he never knows where he is at, he’s never able to get a handle on her, no matter how hard he tries. And he’s been trying hard since last summer. She blows hot and then cold, just like with all the others. He sure is caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. At the corner of the orchard the shepherd boy crosses their path. What in tarnation is that little twit doing here, jumping about like a crazy, tiny grasshopper? “Aren’t you supposed to be asleep long ago?” Jukums asks in exasperation. “But we’ve got that cat business tonight….” Really, why is he bothering him with cats tonight! Mouth full of green apples but still trying to talk. And he’s right, Miķelītis has secretly been in the orchard and stolen little green apples that he’s crunching away at. “Here’s one for you, too, Ilze, I’ve kept the most beautiful one for you,” he says and hands her a small, bright red apple. “The loveliest one for me! You’re really a fine lad! Just wait a moment…” and Ilze grabs the boy by the shoulders and kisses him squarely on the mouth. Pearls of perspiration burst from Jukums’ brow. Before his very eyes, the most precious, the most longedfor caress is being squandered and spent most unwisely. 130

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He glares angrily at the shepherd boy but doesn’t say a word. He is now more determined than ever he’ll never say another word! Making strange grimaces, Ilze munches the apple while the boy tags along under foot like an unwanted mongrel. Jukums’ rage is beginning to boil over. It finally explodes like steam from a too tightly lidded pot. “Oh, you’re driving me crazy, Ilze!” “What?” “Nothing, nothing!” By now they’ve reached the farmyard. Jukums takes a look at his hayloft in the barn against which the glow of the sunset is hazily fading. Well, what else – off to bed! He is not going to lose any sleep over claptrap. Jukums raises his eyes in the direction of the hayloft, a dark gaping hole, and is forced to admit to himself that gaining peace that night is going to be far from easy. He’s already spent a couple of nights up there without getting any shuteye! Two mighty leaps and he’s at the ladder, two huge, nimble jumps up the ladder and he’s at the top, in the loft. ‘What’s going on, why is he being so curt,’ Ilze wonders. ‘Why, he hasn’t even said goodnight!’ But just as suddenly he reappears at the head of the ladder and, without using his hands, climbs back down. He’s pressing little black balls of fur to his chest and aggressively leading with his chin. He tries to head past Ilze but she asks: “What have you got there?” “Cats!” The shepherd boy quickly explains that a cat with her kittens has been nesting with them in their loft but now 131

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the kittens have got too big and are turning into a terrible nuisance, day and night. They are never at peace and so the two of them have decided to drown the lot of them that night. “Are you off to drop them in the ditch?” Ilze asks as she rushes over. “Oh my, oh my! Such tiny little cuties!” “Perhaps, but awfully noisy nuisances!” the boy persists. And Ilze doesn’t know what to do. She knows very well that drowning is the fate of farm kittens but somehow, at the moment … at the moment … “How can you?” “They’re such rotten little devils!” growls Jukums. He’s feeling awkward and looking very uncomfortable. He realizes that his indignation is on the wane and if he hesitates too long, then it’ll be even more difficult to get rid of them, particularly as Ilze is gently stroking the little balls of fur. And with every caress she’s augmenting the kittens’ appeal and weakening Jukums’ resolve. “Stop fooling around,” he says. “If you like the kittens that much, take them!” “What am I supposed to do with them?” “It’s so obvious that you like them, so take them.” “I can’t do that, Jukums.” “So take one to remember me by!” “In remembrance?” Ilze thinks for a moment and then laughs: “Which one?” “Whichever one you like.” 132

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The girl closes her eyes and stretches out her hand to pick one in a stroke of blind luck. Jukums disappears with the rest. When he returns a few minutes later his hands are empty. “Look at that, you’ve just saved a life!” he says as he comes closer. “Is everyone else already asleep?” “Why don’t you two head off to bed too,” Ilze answers. “But you, Miķelītis, take this one back to his nest.” “What, back to the nest?” Jukums is surprised. “True, but … even alone he won’t give us any peace, either.” “That won’t cause any harm!” “How can you say that!” “Well, he’s now our very own cat, isn’t he?” “Our cat?” “You heard me the first time, Jukums.” The farmhand bows his head, wanting to catch every sound and whisper as it passes her lips. But the young servant maid no longer opens them and doesn’t make a sound. A slight sunset glow lights up her face for a moment but she starts melding with the night as her pale clothing fades into the twilight. “Oh dear, oh dear, Ilze!” Jukums sighs and begins his heavy climb up into the loft. The boy is hard on his heels. Ilze disappears through the kitchen door. On falling heavily into her squeaking bunk bed, she doesn’t waste a moment’s thought on Mighty Sīlis, or Jukums, or the shepherd boy. She’s daydreaming and fantasizing about somebody else altogether different. That is to say and she can’t deny it, he is one of them, but so different 133

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from all the rest, nevertheless. If you take a careful look, then you can’t avoid noticing his magnificent physique and his powerful hands, like huge bear traps. No doubt about it, she’s thinking of the blacksmith Tencis, at the smithy in the Joču homestead, which lies three kilometers away from Medņi, her present location. He laughingly bends iron with ease, so is it any wonder that he succeeds with hardly any effort with a weaker creature? That’s hitting the nail squarely on the head! Nobody else comes even close to attracting Ilze, all those silly coxcombs who are constantly teasing her and imagine that if a girl is young and fresh they immediately have to turn her into an old hag. Yes indeed, the blacksmith need only step forward and they all spring aside! What a joke, ha, ha, they all jump back like pups with their tails between their legs. There’s one major obstacle, however, one thing wrong – the blacksmith’s married. He has a porcelain white, delicately built little wife and, whenever they’re standing side by side, then it looks like a meeting of heaven and hell. But truly, it’s not a bad thing. A delicately built, porcelain white little woman needs a strong and brawny man and Ilze has no intention of interceding. Of course it would be wonderful if he were still a bachelor, then she’d have no qualms nor hesitate in sticking her foot out and making the giant tumble to her majesty. Oh, yes, ha, ha, he’d fall flat on his face before her. Maybe it’s just as well that … really, it’s quite alright…. Dear God, nothing bad has happened just because the little porcelain doll, the delicate little woman has succeeded in catching the blacksmith’s eye first. That’s what happens and it can’t be helped, it’s quite 134

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alright, I tell you. Everyone says that there’s nothing wrong there. So what if Ilze has to ball up her fists and work hard at seeing it too, but so far she’s been very successful at it, she truly has. There’s nothing wrong with that. The blacksmith and his delicate, little, porcelain white wife so love each other that they have absolutely no idea that she even glances in their direction. And they’ll never know. Why should such a thought ever even cross their minds? Never! She could perhaps, sometime or other, clue them in, drop a hint, but that could lead to something terrible. What, for heaven sakes? Well, the delicate little wife could simply start crying and wringing her hands something awful one day, but at night, on realizing her husband’s no longer at home, she’d start tearing at her face, pulling out her hair by the fistful, banging her beautiful little head against the corner of the blacksmith’s anvil until she’d fall down right there…. This loving and beautiful little creature lying there on the damp and coke encrusted, grimy clay floor… Ugh… No, no, that would be inexcusable, unthinkable, just awful. Yes, yes, she knows one should feel a bit of fear and trepidation when facing God. Exactly, just a bit. Yes, quite right, it isn’t true piety to have a crush on a married man. But, as long as she does it without sinning, then surely being madly in love with him is alright. She has no intention of committing a sin! But, why isn’t she allowed to sin just a little bit, just a teensy weensy bit, just slightly, against one of the Ten Commandments? It doesn’t mean she loves You less. Dear God, can’t You see that! She loves You just as much, not less, than before. See, even at the moment as 135

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she’s considering the question – does one really have to marry the person one loves? And it seems to her that it’s not absolutely necessary, that one could do without that, although she’d be willing to do it tenfold if the opportunity arose! Is that what’s called being willing to sacrifice oneself? What’s the sacrifice for? For the poor little delicate wife who knows surrender and satisfaction! But Ilze’s not sacrificing herself out of cowardice, or faintheartedness and fear. Dear God, are You paying attention? Surely You see how easily your innocent child is succeeding, that it’s costing her only a slight grinding of teeth to come out unscathed on the other side. True, she has to do that and, however painful, she has the strength to endure it! You do see that, don’t You? Is that why He is … our strength … and maybe it’s not so bad after all to love in this fashion … with great suffering … and pain… Around midnight Ilze finally falls asleep. In the morning, as soon as it’s light, she’s up and about and, once she’s stepped out into the yard, she’s singing! Yes, she’s singing in jubilation! And Mighty Sīlis comes out to wonder what in the world is going on. Ilze answers that she’s waking up the shepherd boy! “You sure are something else, you bitchy broad” he tells her. But ‘how I wish she were my bitchy wife’ he is forced to admit to himself. But the whole situation is too much for Jukums, he can’t stand the frustration anymore and gives up. No gal is going to turn him into laughing stock, that’s for sure. However, when the axe wound in Jukums’ injured leg starts giving him trouble and the boss insists on his go136

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ing to see the blacksmith, Ilze appears out of nowhere to say: “Call the cat and get it to lick the wound. It’ll heal quicker that way. But I’ll drive over in your stead.” The farmhand’s proud heart immediately succumbs. Yes, that’s just like her, always helping you out. She’ll even feed the horses for you on a Sunday morning so that you can sleep in like a king. What’s she up to? What’s she really all about? She’s more witch than woman, that warm-hearted bitch! III Round about that time, both of Mighty Sīlis’ horses get stolen in the winter. He buys himself a beautiful colt in their stead but some of his land would have had to go fallow if, in the spring, he hadn’t come up with the brilliant idea of organizing a plowing bee. “Do I dare do it?” he looks around fearfully. And his invitations to the bee are just as timid. But to his great surprise, everyone turns up, even the extras who usually get invited because one figured that out of sheer laziness or indifference a certain percentage will fail to show. Only the farmhand at the Joču homestead has to go to Plaviņas and so their old boss delegates the blacksmith. Such a crowd of young and powerful giants have never appeared at Sīlis’ place before. They walk about as if they’ve come for a party and not a plowing bee. Sīlis even lets it go to his head and imagines that he is such a 137

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powerful figure in the community that no one has dared stay away. Jukums comes to quite a different conclusion and as a consequence is in a foul mood the whole day. Just look around you, all the local bachelors have shown up, be they farmhands or farmers! And boy, they sure work hard, the devil take his due! Maybe a blackbird, flying from field to field would be able to describe it all in his quick trill, if only he were capable of appreciating the beauty and magnificence of those powerful bodies and the competitive toughness of the young men who turn the furrows with the greatest of ease while plowing field after field. Just look at the farmhand from the Sestuls’ homestead who, on completing his round, turns on his neighbour to ask: “Well, how about it? Going to make it by nightfall?” “Shut your gob!” Dimpēns, a homesteader and farmhand in one, tries cutting him down to size. “How about you replacing my nag and then I’ll be done before teatime!” And believe it or not, by teatime all the fields are plowed. Sīlis wanders about from the one to the other, happily mumbling something unintelligible to himself. Then, once they’ve hung their plows around their shoulders and started leading their horses towards the lane to leave the farm, he recovers enough to shout, loud and clear: “Well, I’ll be damned! You all could turn the whole world topsy-turvy if you set your minds to it.” 138

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Then he adds in a quieter and friendlier tone, “Let’s go see what Ilze has prepared to fill our empty stomachs!” “Don’t worry about our stomachs,” the blacksmith laughingly answers. “I wouldn’t mind a drop, but it’s their hungry hearts that need attending to!” “What the hell are you talking about?” Jukums rights himself almost angrily and suddenly feels sorry for Ilze. “Oh, right! But will poor Ilze have been able to cook enough to feed this huge, hungry crowd?” Just listen to the upstart talk! As if he were cracking a muleskinner’s whip through the air and each knot in it has accurately struck an unsuspecting head. Now the blacksmith is up in arms as he’s not going to allow this young whippersnapper to attack his friends with his own woven handiwork. “Jukums, that’s a fine way to talk. You sound like a dog in a manger. Haven’t taken a bite yourself, but won’t let anyone else eat his fill either.” And then the farmhand from the Sestuls’ homestead – that’s how everyone thinks of him these days, as he’s neither the one nor the other yet – grins from ear to ear and adds loudly for good measure: “Let’s have a look see whether he and his boss haven’t already finished off the little bit that was available. Let’s have a look at the leftovers, shall we?” Everyone present explodes into laughter, including Sīlis, even Jukums finally. The hell with them, but he can’t come up with a cutting reply quickly enough. They all turn towards the barn, tie up their horses, throw down some hay, tie some oat bags to their horses’ 139

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muzzles and head for the dining table. It’s turning more than cool outdoors. Yes, there’s no denying it, that’s the way it is. Why don’t they all remain outdoors, sit around by the pump, indulge in a bit of gossip? But it’s turning more than cool outdoors. The warmth of the sun at sowing time is quite similar to that of a young, high-spirited girl who teasingly runs and hides behind every corner, only to turn into a demanding and exhausting wife from whom there’s no escaping, not even in a hayloft. However, Ilze is neither shy nor obtrusive and even comes out tops when compared to that bright heavenly body. See, she welcomes all the plowing bee participants in the farmyard as she comes out of the farmhouse with a bowl in her arms and looks each one squarely in the eye. “Such magnificent plowmen!” And then she’s back from the summer kitchen and her voice rings out at the dining table: “Sit down, lads, sit down, do! And feel free to take off your heavy belts.” And the lads happily follow her cue and immediately feel much more at home. But her boss heaves a huge sigh as a crucial question crosses his mind. He is forced to wonder what his life would be like should Ilze ever leave and not be there to run the whole show. “What have you got to groan about, now that your fields are plowed?” Dimpēns elbows him in the ribs as he’s passing by. “Nothing, absolute nothing, neighbour, I’m just looking for a chair for you.” 140

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The huge, piping hot soup bowl is steaming in the middle of the table like Lubānas Lake in the evening mist and the little bowls with their spoons around it are the small fishing boats with their oars. “Pull at the oars as hard as you can!” Ilze laughingly urges them on. A moment later she’s placing a giant beer pitcher on the table to loosen their tongues. The room gets filled with noise as if there were fishermen somewhere nearby. Vessels get knocked together, then there’s a splashing and a splattering, followed by rolling growls of laughter that sound like growing, far-off thunder on the horizon. Sīlis is back to worrying about his homestead’s future while Jukums is secretly keeping a close eye on Ilze. And Ilze? She’s constantly rushing outdoors and back in, opening and closing the creaking door. When the lads have had their fill of the good catch and can toss their oars aside, Ilze clears the table. Only the huge beer pitcher remains in the middle, oozing cool dewdrops like tears from the weeping Staburadze waterfall that everyone enjoys drinking. The farmer puts some brandy on the table for his guests, Ilze refills the beer pitcher and, only when the lads want to have a drink with her, does it dawn on her that all day she’s not really been Ilze, but simply a servant maid who hasn’t had a moment to herself. “You sure drive her harder than your work horses!” the blacksmith remarks to Sīlis, who blushes crimson to the tips of his ears. “No at all, by God,” he replies, trying to save his reputation. “It’s not my fault. It’s all her own doing.” 141

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“Stop making excuses. We all believe you, don’t we, lads?” And the moment Ilze returns, the Sestuls’ farmhand grabs her in a bear hug and demands to know who she’d like to sit beside. “Where I’d like to sit? Who’ll take me in his lap?” They are all so thunderstruck by this sudden turn of events that, to break their incredulous silence, Ilze quickly continues: “So, who? Nobody! Oh, you impossible lads!” Before they can recover, she’s already sitting beside the old servant on the wall oven seat. They all spring to and want to repair the damage but it’s far too late. Dimpēns becomes so worked up that he waltzes the huge table over to the wall oven so that Ilze ends up sitting at it as the guest of honour. The others too, come crawling over with their stools so that they all return, more or less, to their former seating order. “Oh, my dear lass,” the old servant whispers in her ear. “Thanks to you I get to sit at table. Oh, this is the very moment that my old flesh should melt and disappear in the moor! I could die at this moment I’m so moved by it all.” And he takes her work-worn hand in both of his and caresses it with trembling fingers. Ilze nestles up to him, resting her head on his shoulder, and observes the young farmhands whose cheeks are on fire for various reasons. With exaggerated frivolity they try to quell their thirst with droughts of beer, only to set its flame higher. For a just brief moment Ilze spares a glance for the blacksmith, something she’s done very seldom so far. The blacksmith’s nonchalantly setting a match to his pipe, clouds 142

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of smoke start billowing and he’s enveloped in the fog. For some inexplicable reason, Ilze is suddenly longing to disappear in that fog with him, by God she is! The need is overwhelming and don’t you see, look … look… Abruptly she draws herself back up straight. Caught unawares, she’s been drawn towards him and leaning in his direction! “What’s wrong, Ilze?” “Oh, the devil take the blacksmith and his awful smoke! It’s choking me to death.” What? That’s beyond words! The blacksmith immediately puts out his clay pipe – but isn’t that going a bit too far? And in her turn, Ilze now claims she has to return to the kitchen. Who knows what’s suddenly hit her, but something sure has, yes, something sure has, and there’s no denying it. “No, we won’t let you go,” they all talk at once. “No way, you’re not going anywhere!” They have no idea what she is talking about! There’s still so much to do! But the young men block the way by raising their legs and fence her in. Ilze tries to escape but in her excitement and confusion stumbles, only saving herself from falling flat by latching onto the blacksmith’s neck. Tencis remains sitting there, his head dropped forward, exactly how Ilze has bent and bowed it. “She hasn’t broken your neck, has she?” “How could she? His wife did that long ago!” How carefree they all are, enjoying a good joke! Nonetheless, something strange has transformed the powerful giant. Could the servant maid’s secret have 143

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escaped through her finger tips and betrayed her? Are those simply neighing horses from the stables that one’s hearing from afar? The blacksmith starts talking about going home. Indeed, it is time to leave, twilight’s setting in. The landlord hurries off for another round of beer. And, when the blacksmith’s getting up to say his goodbyes, Ilze appears with homemade candles and a few snacks. What, he can’t be leaving already! “Ok, Ok, let the old fellows leave. We don’t want them underfoot!” she calls out as she more or less throws the dishes on the table. My God, if she thinks about it, how seldom she’s seen the blacksmith and been in his company even less often. She grabs up a beer mug and chugalugs it in one fell swoop. Once the blacksmith’s gone she returns to her old seat, slaps the floor with her feet and cries out: “What do you say lads, shall we have hullabaloo?” Her unexpected frivolity turns them all on. The surprised old servant gives her a worried glance before he climbs down off the wall oven seat and disappears. The Sestuls’ farmhand quickly takes his place. In the semidarkness that now fills the room, any untoward familiarity and boldness seem only half so bad. The farmhand’s arm steals around her back and someone else is resting his head on her knees. In the quick flare of the old servant’s match with which he’s igniting his pipe, Ilze suddenly sees, as if in a flash of lightning, Jukums with his head in his hands, sitting on the edge of a bed, and her boss, baring his teeth, sprawled at the other end of the table. 144

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Ilze trembles. My God, this is actually so revolting, truth to tell! She jumps to her feet but Dimpēns’ hand is holding out a glass of brandy and unavoidably approaching her lips. “Dear Ilze, have a drink!” “You’re all intent on getting me drunk, aren’t you!” The brandy-glassed hand is becoming insistent and aggressive in its attempt to reach her lips. “Back off you, bastard!” Ilze shouts, angrily hitting the hand away so that the bitter liquid splashes squarely across the young yokel’s chest. “Is that how you want it!” he exclaims in voice in which Ilze recognizes anger, injured pride and shame, even an indignant threat for his loss of face. Instinctively she realizes that there’s no way she wants to find herself caught between the foul-tempered creature’s paws. She tears herself out of the imprisoning situation, rushes towards the door and escapes into the yard. But even out there it seems to her that it’s not safe, that there’s someone hot on her heels, and Ilze takes off down the lane to the well, then on, past the threshing barn and the mounds of buried potatoes. Further and further down the lane she races, afraid to stop even for a moment to catch her breath, not until she’s reached the edge of the glade, down by the pasture. Here she finally looks around and realizes that no one has been chasing her after all. She listens hard but there’s absolute silence. However, she doesn’t regret running off like that. How crystal clear the air is here. What freshness, peace and serenity after the noise and smokepolluted room! 145

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The earth is steaming and the plowed fields are darker hued than the water-logged meadows. The fresh greenness of spring is fading along with the sunset. Unaware of the dampness in the air, Ilze starts hiking back but the cool freshness of the night air has yet to assuage the budding passions that are setting her bright cheeks aflame. A roaring bonfire within her not only feeds them but is beginning to consume and destroy the magic and glory of her youthful light-heartedness. The approaching footsteps that she suddenly hears frighten her into quickly swinging off the path in the direction of the small hay shed that’s thirty meters away, at one end of a meadow. To hide herself she hugs the open door jamb. She is so worked up that she’s trembling. Dear God, they’re going to kill her! Dimpēns is such a cruel devil. The sound of heavy footfall is coming from the threshing barn on the hill. Through the sparse alder grove Ilze spies a figure coming nearer that could be the blacksmith. He’s leading his horse by the bridle-rein and is only just now heading for home. Perplexity and bewilderment augment Ilze’s passion and excitement anew. Yes, yes, it really and truly is the blacksmith, it isn’t anyone else but him. Ilze waits, holding her breath. And, just as the blacksmith is even with the hay shed, she becomes totally bewildered, should she or should she not call out to him? No, no, never, she is not going to do that. But then something moves inside her, her lips open of their own accord and she hears her own voice saying: “Peter!” The blacksmith stops in his tracks. “Is there someone here? Who’s calling?” 146

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“Peter!” He turns and finally spots Ilze, enveloped in her white apron, standing in the doorway of the small hay shed. “Are you talking to me? How did you get here?” the surprised blacksmith asks and turns his horse off the lane towards the shed. What? Has she really called out to him? No, no, she couldn’t have done that, it didn’t happen. What’s he doing coming here, is he crazy! But, oh, good God in heaven, he is coming towards her, getting ever nearer, coming ever closer! And, as soon as the blacksmith’s powerful, mesmerizing physique is at hand, a hot and mighty wave engulfs Ilze, its powerful surge floods her being and sweeps away everything in its way, including her former resoluteness and determination to stand firm against temptation. Her crazy daydreams and fantasies, her innocent needs and aroused passions that have been plaguing and haunting her for months, even years, overwhelm her. She is haplessly and helplessly caught up in a maelstrom of confused feelings and longings that must express themselves. Ilze surrenders and throws her arms around the blacksmith in a powerful, all encompassing embrace. Her young body quickens into bloom and, like the earth at springtime, longs to bear fruit from the passions of the night… Late that night, long after all the plowing bee participants are gone, Ilze returns to the farmhouse. With a grand gesture she throws open the door and energetically steps over the threshold, with her head held high and a smile that seems filled with starlight. 147

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IV While outdoors the wind howls and the rain pelts down, inside Sīlis’ huge farmhouse, drops of water from clothes hung up to dry plink and plonk incessantly on the solid clay floor. A bitter and malicious Jukums is sitting at the table but the landlord keeps wandering up and down the room. Ilze isn’t there. Although they’re feeling tired and listless, even slightly melancholy on that dark autumn evening, the two men are conversing about this and that in the weak light of the lamp. Jukums has just informed the farmer, “If you’re planning to keep Ilze on for another year then I’m going.” The latter’s thoughts keep circling endlessly, trying to decide which one of these irreplaceable workers to sacrifice. In point of fact, Jukums’ announcement has come as a pleasant surprise but Sīlis has yet to reveal this and continues his pretence of being deep in thought as he marches up and down the room. He has long since made up his mind in favour of Ilze but hasn’t found the courage to do the more difficult task of informing Jukums of his decision. Say what you will, but he knows very well that he won’t ever find a replacement for the likes of Jukums. Under other circumstances the question of letting Jukums go would never arise, but this time around the whole bill has to be added up in quite a different fashion. In stead of brooding, Sīlis is reveling in a sudden sense of satisfaction. The realization has just struck home that during the past summer has Jukums not only succeeded in to148

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tally falling out of favour in Ilze’s eyes, but the idiot is now trying to take his revenge on the girl in the cheapest and most despicable fashion imaginable. Consequently, he happily notes that his own chances of success in this area are on the rise and that that’s more important than Jukums, the simpleton, could possibly imagine. So then, after some time, Sīlis stops his wandering about, puts on a sad face and drawls: “I’ve reached my decision. I’m very sorry that I have to tell you this, but you’re the one who’s going to have to leave.” That’s not at all what Jukums has been expecting to hear. His mouth draws together in a bitter grimace. “Oh, so that’s the way it is,” he in turn enunciates slowly, looking at the ceiling, as if he’s finally been able to come up with the right solution to some unresolved problem. What? What’s he talking to? Everything’s as clear as day, without any guesswork of any kind necessary and, if Jukums has had problems in recognizing and accepting the inevitable, then he must be as dumb as an ox or blind as a bat. Thank God Ilze has obviously come to the same conclusion and acted accordingly. “Yes, Jukums, that’s exactly how things stand, no doubt about it!” Sīlis emphatically announces and remains proudly standing with his head held high in the middle of the room. “Don’t be so bloody cocksure of yourself!” Jukums’ angry attack cuts him to the quick. “You’re certainly no gentleman, are you?” “What? What did you just say?” 149

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“I said exactly what I meant to say and you heard me the first time! A gentleman would not behave that way!” “Jukums, watch your tongue!” Sīlis cries out shrilly and takes a threatening step in his direction. “How dare you presume to teach me how to behave properly, you dirty little skunk, you! Just because Ilze can’t stand you and has kicked you out of her life, doesn’t mean I have to follow suite and do the same to her!” “As if you haven’t done that already.” Sīlis simply shrugs his shoulders. What in the world is Jukums talking about? He should kick her out? “Out with it, Jukums, just exactly what do you want me to do?” Sīlis screams at him at the top of his voice. “You think I should kick her out, is that it?” “No, that’s not what I mean,” Jukums is able to answer quite calmly now. “For all I care, do whatever you want, but…” “But what!” Sīlis starts screaming once more. “But what, tell me!” Sīlis’ strange reaction and challenge have totally confused Jukums and he’s beginning to feel unsure of himself. What if his guess is not the right answer after all? “Look here,” he continues in a very diplomatic fashion while watching Sīlis’ face closely the whole time. “I’m only saying that everything that got sown on this farm last spring has not been harvested yet. And there’s no way I want to be involved in bringing in the sheaves, none at all. I have no intention of even being close by when that happens.” “What are you blabbering about!” bellowed Sīlis. “I’ve brought in my harvest, lock, stock and barrel.” 150

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Now Jukums is forced to admit that he’s totally wrong in his reasoning as to why the boss has decided to keep Ilze on and not himself. “Ilze is pregnant with child,” he finally states simply and clearly without any preamble. Mighty Sīlis’ head almost disappears between his shoulder blades. He’s always believed every word Jukums has ever uttered. He’s the kind of man who never lies. Nevertheless, this once, all of Sīlis’ body language and facial expression convey a confusion of surprise, shock and disbelief. “That can’t possibly be true!” “That’s the way it is! Are you blind? Don’t you have any eyes in your head?” Verily, what is he, hapless Sīlis, supposed to know or understand about things like that? So far at least his eye hasn’t caught any changes in her appearance. Ilze has been the same as ever. Maybe even a bit more mischievous and foolhardy. The entire summer and fall. No, it can’t be true! At least it can’t be true about Ilze! Anybody else maybe, but…. No, no, Jukums is badly mistaken here or he’s making a rotten joke. However, what about… Sīlis is feeling totally pole-axed. He stares at Jukums in bewilderment and suddenly they are both completely dumbfounded. Hell and damnation, that means that neither of them, decent and honourable farmers’ sons, are responsible for her predicament. Not the one, nor the other. Who then, who then? And since it has happened, it can only mean that it has occurred without their knowledge, that it has taken place right under their noses, that they’ve been cuckolded thrice over in the 151

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most despicable way! This unwelcome realization turns the two former rivals almost into blood brothers and, instead of spending the rest of the evening talking about oats and horses, as they were wont to do the in the past, they can’t stop discussing Ilze’s duplicity and craftiness. And, when they get to the stage of pointing at the villain, then no one comes to mind, they can’t even lift a finger in the right direction. The only logical conclusion therefore is that folks will undoubtedly first of all point their fingers at them, and no one else. Yes, yes, inevitably their names now are mud. Only last Sunday Jukums’ mother has taken him to task – a woman recognizes the signs for what they are, no way around it, she sure does. She did not beat about the bush but confronted him with the cold facts of the matter! Look at us now, hell and damnation!!! And for the first time both master and servant, who up until now have held each other for naïve simpletons, are forced to admit to themselves that that’s exactly what they are. Ilze’s secret, which they cannot unravel although they’ve joined forces and attempted to see the face beneath the veil, lies beyond their powers of deduction. For a short moment, she turns once more into a sweet and inexplicable mystery in Jukums’ eyes but, unfortunately, Sīlis’ injured ego and damaged pride start boiling over into fuming rage and self-righteousness. His voice betrays a droning thundercloud. “Ilze goes,” he decrees but his words fail to impress Jukums the way they might have half an hour ago. Their conversation dies down and both are left to face their confused and hateful thoughts all on their 152

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own. Jukums finds it impossible to make head or tail of anything. To be honest, this state of affairs leads him to feel even a certain degree of respect for Ilze even though he’d like to believe that he has left her far behind and is totally uninvolved. By now, Sīlis has sat down at the same table opposite Jukums but all he can do is growl ‘what do you say?’ now and then. A most devastating sense of loneliness overcomes them that even forces them to be shamelessly honest about it. They stare relentlessly at the single source of light in the room – the pale light of the lamp. It seems to be growing paler with the passing of time and the room darker and dimmer. It is still raining outdoors. The birch tree in the farmyard sighs sorrowfully, as if the autumn winds are keening through small hoarse panpipes set in the tip of each bough. The dog barks suddenly and, having caught a few drops of rain on his tongue, closes his mouth lazily. “No, no, no, I simply refuse to believe it,” Mighty Sīlis renews his litany. “It’s impossible.” Jukums doesn’t bother to answer. After all, it really and truly is none of his business. Then the door creaks open and an old crone wrapped in lots of scarves and shawls steps over the threshold of the entrance. One could assume she’s one of those forlorn and lost old biddies who periodically shows up late at night to ask good folks for the way to somewhere or other. But neither the farmer nor Jukums turns his head in her direction nor doesn’t she say a word to either. As she gradually peels off her sopping wet outer garments she reveals more and more of the 153

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graceful physique of a young woman. At the end of the whole long procedure, it seems as if a bright and lighthearted butterfly has escaped out of its dark and drab chrysalis – Ilze. And the very light in the room appears to intensify. “What are you two mumbling about to yourselves?” she asks. “Like two sinners at their rosaries.” Mighty Sīlis stiffly and deliberately looks her up and down. Jukums keeps his lips tightly pressed together and scratches at the lamp’s wick. “I thought you’d have long gone to bed and be snoring away,” Ilze continues as she shakes out one of the huge, wet shawls. A single drop of water flies in Jukums’ direction and accidentally hit his ear so that he calls out: “Be careful!” That sounds ugly and Ilze is taken aback. She meekly turns away to the central wall oven, hangs up her shawl to dry and returns to her corner of the room for the rest of her wet clothes. Mighty Sīlis has been watching her carefully and following her movements closely. Like a hunting dog who has finally found the mole hill at the edge of the glade and expectantly waits there to see the first sign of life, Sīlis has kept his eyes glued to her waist. Suddenly, his fist thunders against the tabletop almost extinguishing the lamp. He rises and starts walking towards his end of the house. “Wait a minute, my dear landlord, please, don’t leave quite yet,” Ilze calls out. “I’ve brought you some news.” “Really? Out with it! I don’t have any time to waste.” A laugh escapes through Ilze’s lips. 154

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“I’ve just got myself a new job and new landlord for the coming year.” Silence fills the room. It’s like the one that fills the forest at the moment a giant tree has been felled. The lumberjacks are still standing with their axes raised but the huge tree trunk has disappeared before their eyes. There’s nothing there for their axes to strike. “What do you say to that? Go ahead and weep! Or do you want to shout for joy?” Mighty Sīlis, grinding his teeth, marches to his door. He throws it open and then bangs it shut. This thunderous cue makes Ilze aware that something is wrong. As she’s turning back in Jukums’ direction, she catches his ominous stare at her slightly bulging stomach. So now they know, too, do they? Now she knows what’s going on. That’s the way the cookie crumbles. Ha, ha, ha! But Jukums can’t move from his seat to save his life. He sits there as if he were nailed to the bench and is afraid to even raise his head. Since hearing Ilze’s announcement, bitter gall has filled his mouth and foreign surliness overpowers him as if he were a Philistine who’s just been destroyed by a slingshot. It’s impossible for him to think clearly but two sentences chase each other round and round in his poor brain ‘So that’s the way it is!’ and ‘Take it or leave it!’ Soon all he hears is the rain dripping from Ilze’s wet shawl. Eventually it seems to him that the drops are falling from the ceiling overhead and outdoors a terrible storm is shaking the world. Nevertheless, if he really puts his mind to it, if he listened carefully, he senses 155

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quiet laughter emanating from Ilze’s corner of the room, it almost dies out but then always renews itself. That’s Ilze laughing about him, a giant of a man and a good, clever farmhand, who’s sitting here at the table, doing nothing, growing smaller and weaker by the minute, who can’t come up with any other clever comment than his earlier one: ‘Be careful!’ See, he’s hearing the laughter again, it’s as if tiny, sharp little needles are rushing into his ears, piercing his eardrums, boring ever deeper – God All Mighty!!! “Why don’t you stop and leave me alone!” He shouts, trembling from head to foot. What is he trying to fight off? What’s it any of his business? As if other people can’t do whatever they like? But nevertheless, nevertheless, there again, he must admit there’s a limit to a man’s patience and understanding. No way is he going to let her make a complete fool of him, mock him whenever she feels like it. No, he’s not. He’ll make double sure of that! He’ll nail those lewd red lips shut in one fell swoop. “You slut!” Jukums shrieks, jumping up from the table. “How dare you laugh! You can’t possibly believe that you have any right to mock and laugh at honest and good folk.” There, the degrading word he’s used has done its job. But Jukums too is filled with shame for letting it cross his lips. “I never expected to hear that from you.” “Leave me alone.” “I’ve never ever touched you.” “Oh, really? But you’re the one … you’re…” 156

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“What? What? Go ahead, go ahead and say it! You’re such a clever fellow! Not at all like the others, are you?” Now it’s Jukums’ turn to laugh mockingly. “The others? The others? Do tell, where are they all, the others, now that you have to find a den for yourself to bear your cub?” A huge gob of spittle smacks down in front of Jukums. That is Ilze’s answer. With trembling fingers Jukums gathers up the lamp and heads for his berth. For no discernable reason he suddenly decides to extinguish it and has to find the rest of his way to his pallet in pitch darkness. As he throws himself down, his elbow crushes the poor kitten’s paw on the edge of the bed and the shrieking black beast takes off. Up to now, Ilze’s pet has usually enjoyed great favour here and doesn’t know where to find shelter under these unexpected circumstances. Everything is dripping wet around the wall oven and it is not at all the right place for him and his shiny black coat tonight. And Ilze is friendly only when Jukums is not around. To be entirely truthful, she doesn’t even want to acknowledge him as her cat and occasionally deliberately calls him Jukums’ tomcat. That’s the way it probably is as he hasn’t a single good word to say about her in the one and a half years that he’s spent here. The tomcat decides to try his luck in the landlord’s room. He licks his aching paw by the door and then slowly crosses the doorstep through the narrow crack that’s open. As he reaches the farmer’s bed he hears unmistakable, suppressed sobs coming from under the blanket. He doesn’t like that one bit and quickly returns to the other room. ‘Where to 157

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now?’ He wonders. Turning his head in the young servant maid’s direction he sees that she hasn’t budged either, she’s still sitting there on the edge of her bed, her hands in her lap. There’s such peace and serenity surrounding her that he can’t imagine disturbing it with his purring. He can’t survive the depths of the night without purring, that he knows for sure. The cat mews twice loudly, which means as much as to hell with it, and crawls under Jukums’ bed. There he quickly makes himself comfortable and lets loose. But somehow, he gets no satisfaction, and so, placing his injured paw by his nose, he gives up. There’s nothing to purr about tonight. V The window looks out onto the maple tree against whose knotty branches the fields take on their glowing haze, then the meadows, the groves and at last the same old horizon that completes almost every landscape. No matter how ordinary this has all come to seem, nevertheless, at times it’s quite disconcerting to look at it all through the foggy farmhouse windows. In their frame, purple clouds already begin to cut across the middle of the window pane. They are fluffy clouds that block a simple man’s attempt to study and understand infinity. For you see, most of the people who love to spend time looking through their windows never see more than the horizon where really all measure of distance ends. But, oddly enough, that’s exactly where their contemplation of it begins and where 158

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they take their measure of infinity. Surely that’s the height of conceit and folly as it can only turn one into a daydreaming fool. For in all honesty, my dear friends, has anyone ever succeeded in getting closer to infinity than we can reach by throwing a stone in its direction? Oh, the earth only loves those who are shortsighted and is truly as passionately jealous as a bride on her wedding night. She doesn’t forgive a single glance upwards, or sideways, or into the infinite, unless it’s needed to review the weather or spy the hawk that’s threatening the farmyard from up high. So, follow Ilze Stāmeriene’s good example and be as smart as she was if you wish your life to be glorious and full of good fortune, even if it is only from one dawn to the following dusk. You see, for three months she does not see a bird or the sky nor does she even glance at her rag-stuffed window that frames the maple trees, the field and the light, white clouds. She loves her shortsightedness. In her field of vision there is only and exclusively her baby who’s lying miraculously there in her lap. She’s perfectly content in the narrow little space that she’s got as a home since leaving Mighty Sīlis’ farmhouse with its huge, cracked clay floor. Her new boss’s father offers to cut her a cradlepole so that she can hang the baby’s bed next to her own. Ilze happily points to her two lithe and strong arms and says that they are all the cradle poles her baby needs and they don’t even need to be cut down and prepared for the task! Mikus’ dad does agree with her, doesn’t he? 159

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“Well, perhaps…” he replies. “It’s quite clear that you’re his cradle then. Oh, oh my lass … Ilze, I meant to say.” “I love either name,” she says with a laugh. “Well, now you have so many names that one hardly knows which one to use.” “You’re quite right there, Mikus’ dad, mother, maid, woman … lots of words apply but can one fulfill the roles? I haven’t found mine yet.” “Look at that, you sure have a way with words. But don’t think a name, a word doesn’t happen. It does, lass, it does. One can collect plenty of names but be careful, I say, take care. Take a look after a while and the original, true person behind it doesn’t exist anymore.” “How true! It happens all the time.” And Ilze smiles at her baby, raises her head and smiles at Mikus’ dad. To his great surprise, the old man must acknowledge that there’s not a single hint or trace of bitterness in her eyes after his attempt to clue her in. Shaking his head in wonderment, he leaves. What more can he possibly add after such a conversation. But Ilze is deeply touched by his thoughtfulness. For the first time in her life she feels wondrously free. Everyone is leaving her alone. And if someone thinks that that’s a great pity, then they’re very much mistaken. Oh, truly, very much mistaken! Look, for this miracle, for this beautiful baby who seeks nourishment at his mother’s breast, she’d be willing to face a ten-fold number of bloodsucking monsters without blinking an eye! Ilze bends over the child and they stare at each other enraptured in bright delight. 160

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“Well, my sweet little honey pot, what do you say to that?” she whispers in his ear, nuzzling his face with her own. “Should I give you up for some whiskered village fool? Give me an answer, do! Ho, my naughty little mischief maker, not at all, and never. Never ever. Look, you … you … you’re such a glorious little munchkin, and nobody else loves you. So it’s up to me to love you even more, my love has to grow stronger … and stronger … and stroong-errr!” And Ilze presses him to her chest, her whole body swaying as she lovingly rocks her light burden. The room is warm. She puts her little man down on the bed and gazes at him long and hard, from head to foot. Surely no one can deny that her boy is a magnificent child! Look at the little rascal, he’s already throwing his feet in the air! Oh, my, he’s neither this nor that! She sees some of herself in him but then again, traces of the blacksmith shine through occasionally, as well. Oh my good Heavens! That blacksmith, that blacksmith! And he doesn’t know a thing. Who gives a damn, why should he find out. Let’s leave him in the dark. All in all, what good would his knowing do? Oh my sweet little honey bunch, do you understand, it’s going to be alright! You do understand, don’t you? No, never mind, never mind. But you’re a big strong boy, you really should understand, you know, you really should. Your christening is next week. Mikus’ mum, your own young mum, the young farmer – we’ll all be there for you and you’ll get baptized, looking just like a little white puffball! And then, and then, it will soon be summer again after that, and we’ll both have to go out to work in the 161

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fields. Oh, and what a life we’ll have then, what a wonderful life! Voices from the farmyard break off Ilze’s conversation with her son. And in comes the old grandma with an armload of maple branches that she throws down by the kitchen hearth to let them dry off. “You love your child something awful, don’t you?” she comments in her toothless mumble. “Why does that surprise you?” “It does and it doesn’t. Most girls would be tearing their hair out by the bushel in your stead.” “But some girls do comb theirs!” Ilze interrupts with a laugh. “I’m proud of you, Ilze! I’m delighted you’ve come to live here but there’s just one thing I don’t get.” “And what’s that?” “Folks are saying all kinds of things. Tell me for once and for all – who’s child is it really?” “But grandma, you know! It’s mine.” “Oh dear, oh dear! You sure are one great gal!” and crossing her arms across her stomach she approaches Ilze. “Listen closely now, Ilze, I’ll not say it twice. You are a terribly proud young woman but should you really deliver that shameless man from his due punishment? Kick him so hard that he lands before a judge!” “I don’t understand what you are getting at,” Ilze laughs once more. “Look, child, I’m an old woman, and I understand far more than you do, at this point in you life. If nothing else, I advise you to get the five hundred that are lawfully yours.” 162

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“Who from?” “Who from? God Almighty! From the man who did you wrong.” “But no one has done me wrong!” an annoyed Ilze cries out. This makes grandma abruptly cut off her own flow of words on the subject. “Oh, before I forget, Mighty Sīlis has just sent over a load of rye.” She finishes off. “Sent over? Has it just arrived?” “The shepherd boy on a wagon load was just rolling through the gate as I came in.” “Right, the shepherd boy.” And her voice almost betrays her disappointment about who has delivered her salary. Of course, who else can they spare for a job like that! “Fine, fine,” she says, “I’ll be right out immediately.” “There’s no hurry. The boss has already had it emptied into the granary.” “I have to have a word with the boy.” The old farmer’s wife rolls up the sleeves of her shirt in order to start kneading bread dough and disappears in her end of the house. Meanwhile, someone is hesitantly opening the front door and then, turning his head from side to side as he carefully looks around, Miķelītis enters the room. Just on the other side of the door jamb he puts down what he’s carrying. “Look at that! How you’ve grown! Do come in!” Ilze happily receives her little friend and seats him on the wall oven seat opposite her bed. 163

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“And you’re still at Mighty Sīlis’ homestead? Don’t you want to try your luck with a different farmer somewhere else? Come on, do tell!” Ilze makes a fuss over Miķelītis so that he immediately feels braver and more at ease. After he’s answered her most urgent questions he rushes across the room to his bundle at the door. “And here I’ve brought you, Ilze, I’ve brought you that … that…” As he’s unwrapping his basket, a black tomcat escapes and, protesting angrily, lands on the clay floor. Ilze claps her hands in shocked surprise. “Well, you did forget him and I thought…” The tomcat looks bleakly around the whole room, trying to find a comfortable nook for himself. He has gone through some mighty changes and, of course, he’s now much bigger, fully mature, the wickedest of all tomcats. Ilze is quietly appraising him. “How did you get this holly terror into your basket?” “I couldn’t, but Jukums threw him in like a huge potato.” “Jukums?’ “Grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and threw him in like a huge potato!” “You shouldn’t have brought him here, you know. We’ve got plenty toms here ourselves and now we’ll have horrific catfights.” Ilze believes her own arguments, more or less. With a worried frown across her forehead, she watches the beast as he jumps up on the wall oven. Then she determinately turns her back and ignores him in order to get 164

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all the news she’s eager to hear. She questions Miķelītis about the shepherding he’s been doing, about the lambs, if they’re alright and not limping and lame, and even about the giant, ferocious bull. She asks about the apple orchard, whether the trees bloomed abundantly so that there would be a good crop of apples for him to choose from to give to the maids. ‘Would you believe it?’ Miķelītis thinks to himself. ‘That’s Ilze all over again. She hasn’t changed a bit. And what claptrap Jukums has been blathering. What an idiot, that farmhand! Only … only … where’s she hidden her baby frog? Sīlis keeps saying she’s got a baby frog all her own.’ And he uneasily darts glances into all the corners of the room trying to discover where it’s been hidden away. “What’s wrong? What are you looking for? Oh, you want to have a peek at my tiny friend, do you? Come on, come on, I’ll show him to you!” At first this peeking is quite a scary ordeal. But, once Miķelītis sees a small white forehead, a tiny nose, hair all hidden in the folds of a huge shawl, he is so relieved he can’t keep it to himself anymore. It all breaks out of him of its own free will. “How about that! He’s a normal little human being like everybody else!” “Why shouldn’t he be?” “Exactly! And I thought…” “What did you think, really?” “I … I thought the same thing as Jukums and Sīlis.” Tears rush into Ilze’s eyes. She knows too well, no one better, exactly what those pompous mothers’ dar165

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lings are thinking. But let them. Let them. What does it matter to her anymore? “Well, then, Miķelītis, take a good look now!! Have a really good look! Make sure you see everything you need to see and then you’ll change your mind and not be of one mind with Jukums.” “Jukums is not a good man and our boss is not a good man either…” Here his sentence breaks off and he grows ashamed but, once he’s looked into her eyes, he immediately continues: “But you are a good person and he…” he gently touches the child, “he’s good too.” Two years after the first, Ilze gives the twelve-year old little boy the second kiss of his life. Then she starts rummaging at the foot of the bed and pulls out woolen socks that she gives the child as a present for bringing her load of rye over. As the baby is fast asleep she goes out in the yard to see the boy off. In the woodshed her boss is chopping wood for the huge wall oven. After she’s seen the boy off, Ilze passes by and takes the whole pile of wood with her in her kitchen apron. “Are you crazy? You’ll damage your health with a load like that!” “A log for every loaf, that’s an old baking rule!” Ilze laughs, gathers up her load, pushes the door open with a knee and carries nine logs back into the house. As the day moves toward evening, flames crack and the wood burns in the oven. The front door is open and a pale yellow light is falling into the twilight. 166

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The heavy smell of enticing, freshly baked barley cakes mixes with the intoxicating pungency of burning maple greenness and fills the evening air. All the inhabitants on the farm gather around the dining table and for some time they reach and grab, break off and bite into, at first with great energy and urgency, but then slowly and quietly. The exchange of a few words, the sound of footfall, heavy and sure, and then a return to a wonderful sense of peace. Ilze lights a homemade candle, carries in a small bathtub, pours in the bathwater to wash the child with. Everyone has turned in so there won’t be any opening and closing of the front door that could cause a draft. The time and circumstances for the task at hand are just right. Ilze sits down on a stool behind the wall oven and lets the big, naked, baby boy stretch and kick full length on her lap. For a moment she puts it on the bed and goes over to the hearth. She doesn’t waste any time there, just hangs the baby’s clothes out to warm and grabs a rag to wash him with. Returns and … and… God no, that can’t be true… The black tomcat is sitting on the c h i l d ’ s b a r e c h e s t , h i s h e a d e r e c t. In a headlong rush Ilze arrives at the bed, grabs the child and only then does she feel the prickling needles of fear that are racing up and down her arms, her entire body. She wraps up the child tightly and presses him closely to her breast while horror and terrified panic fill her eyes. But the tomcat’s gone. She looks under the benches, under the bed, behind the wall oven – he’s gone. 167

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Indeed, why is she so upset? What’s she getting into a panic about? The tomcat was there and now he’s gone – that’s all, nothing else. He was here, sitting there – all right, all right, it did look awful, just horrible, but remember, it’s an awful and evil tomcat. Ilze does her best to calm herself but, nevertheless, her hands won’t stop trembling. After some time she finally sits down once more on the stool to finally give her little pagan babe his bath. But, just as she’s unwrapping the child, she feels a chill along her leg and the tomcat appears directly in front of her. It seems to be playfully attempting to catch the baby’s kicking leg. Drawing back, she grabs the washrag and strikes at the monster with all her might. Howling horribly, the black tomcat heads for the corner of the wall oven where he starts scratching and climbing up the long-handled, wooden baking shovel used for placing the loaves of bread into the deep mouth of the oven. It is leaning against the corner of the wall oven. The shovel starts sliding, slipping, falling, seems to freeze in mid-air for a moment, only to come crashing down, extinguishing the candle along the way. The flat wide wooden end of it lands flat in Ilze’s lap. The index finger of the mother’s left hand gets driven directly into the child’s forehead. VI Ilze’s corner of the room is filled with many and sundry objects – a bed, a wardrobe, coat hangers but, when questioned, they are totally silent. They remain as cool 168

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and indifferent as all witnesses of life’s eternal mysteries. They see no necessity to speak up about everyday occurrences. But, for some inexplicable reason Ilze joins them and refuses to open her mouth to answer a single question. Early the following morning the household is confronted with the sight of her doubled over her baby’s body. In the sheer chaos of the first moments she manages to disappear with the child, leaving behind a few drops of blood on the clay floor. In due course they are taken care of by the tomcat. By evening he has licked them all up. This strange and unfathomable turn of events of course sets gossiping tongues in motion and they have incredible stories to tell. But, once all the searching and questioning comes to naught, the old, grey-haired men have their say. That’s what happens, that’s what happens, they say. It’s not the first time, you know. What turmoil and toil she went through to have the child and now, instead of a christening, we’re facing two funerals. Oh, Ilze, Ilze! She truly was like a whirlwind! Many an unsuspecting young man has to suffer being pointed at or talked about, even the inexperienced ones whose only contact with the opposite sex so far has been a quick peek at some beauty through a crack in the door. And to be perfectly honest, most of the young men under twenty-five do wander about looking guilty and ashamed of themselves. Someone has only to point and their guilty conscience does them in. Once two weeks have passed, the rivers and streams, lakes and ponds in the district get a thorough going over. 169

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These watery depths keep on undulating serenely within their green banks. Any sounding of the deep would have produced some water-logged ancient stocks. On the reflecting surfaces of the deep, the budding flowers of various water grasses continue floating. With that, the search for Ilze comes to an end. On that particular day Mikus’ dad is clearing the farmyard of the plows that have been left standing about. The yard has to be empty and free of all this farming equipment in the summer. Midsummer Night or St John’s as well as St Peter’s are just around the corner and the wagons will need space to turn around. And anyway, it leads to no good if this and that, like shovels and harrows, are left lying about under foot. He’s just rolled the mangle into the shed and is returning to the main house when … by God! Believe it or not! Of course it’s Ilze, who else! There she is, by the well, slightly bent over, staring down over the wall curve of the well into its depths. Of course it’s Ilze! So unexpected and sudden is her appearance here, but from where? Mikus’ dad is quite surprised and takes a few quick steps in her direction… But no, if he’s honest, in his eyes that’s no longer Ilze. In her stead a dried out cadaver covered with dead grey skin is leaning over to see itself mirrored in the well water. Her clothes are in rags, one shoulder is quite bare, as if she’s been fighting off robbers who’ve had an easy task of tearing up her light clothes. The old man is afraid he may upset her and so approaches her indirectly, more from one side. Ilze calmly lifts her head. She asks him, as if they’re continuing a long-standing conversation: 170

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“You do agree that I’m a good-looking lass, don’t you?” Old Mikus is totally confused. He still is not certain of anything. Could it not be some evil and dangerous refugee that should be caught with the help of the others on the farm that he must call to his aid? Or is it the hapless and loving young lass who deserves an answer even before she’s asked a question? “Mikus, Mikus, come and have a look!” she exclaims, pointing into the well. “What’s in there?” “At the moment, heaven! Heaven in a well! And a tiny little angel – his tiny little wings are sticking out … do come and have a look!” “No lass, that’s a cloud with wings. Look up above you!” And Ilze raises her head and looks up into the heavens. Just as suddenly she drops it. “Well, yes! It’s gone…” And while they’re carrying on this conversation the farmer’s wife and grandma come over. Ilze gives a hoarse laugh but her smile doesn’t produce a single new wrinkle on her face. “Dear Ilze, let’s go in the house,” the women urge, once they’ve come up close. “Yes, let’s do.” But, at the moment they’re crossing the threshold Ilze’s eyes open unnaturally wide in horror and all atremble she pulls away. Then, like a flash of black lightning, the tomcat slithers between her legs into the yard and a screaming Ilze collapses in a dead faint by the 171

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front door. With the help of Mikus’ dad they succeed in bringing her in and seating her on the bench by the wall. “Dear Ilze, what’s going on?” the farmer’s wife whispers. “Are you completely worn out and too weak to move?” Ilze doesn’t reply. “And where have you been all this time?” Ilze simply sits stiffly there and doesn’t seem to hear a single question. The horrific change in her is as incredible as everything that has been happening. God Almighty, she’s shaking and trembling as if in a fever, she must be terribly ill. But even so, she could make the effort to say a word or two. “And the baby? What did you do with the baby?” grandma wants to know. Ilze opens her eyes wide once more and throws her head from side to side. “I buried him!” she suddenly calls out. “Where? Where?” The farmer’s wife hurries on, hoping that she’ll get another word out of her in all the excitement. “In the forest!” The folks at the homestead gather around her to listen to the strange tale that breaks out of her in stumbling words and stuttering language that they only half understand. Her words leave her lips like small chunks of sawdust from a trunk when an axe attacks a tree. She talks about a grove on the Joču homestead, about a hole that ten men dug in two nights, about pine cones, roots and stonecrop, about a terrible wind from the sea that tore out trees by the roots, destroyed her clothes and 172

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drove all the creatures of the forest into the bog. She explains about four camels that neighed loudly and drank from the river at the funeral only to run off into the sky afterwards. Her story takes on such chaotic and incredible dimensions that the only thing everyone clearly understands is that she’s been in the forest the whole time, dug her child’s grave with her bare hands and buried him there. “Calm down, calm down. But do tell us. What really happened to you that night? And what happened to the baby?” “I killed it.” “You?” “Look, I did it with this finger. I did it with this very finger,” and she lifts her left hand up high to show them her index finger. No one has paid any attention to it so far nor noticed that the finger is huge and swollen. The festering finger has turned a purplish-blue and has no nail anymore. To their horror, she suddenly attacks it with her teeth so that blood spurts and, out of sheer, horrific agony, she curls into a ball. “Ilze, Ilze.” They cry out. The realization suddenly strikes home that there is something dreadfully wrong with Ilze. The farmer’s wife rushes off for a cloth to bandage the finger with and Ilze repeats her assertion. “Don’t be silly!” Mikus’ dad reprimands her. “You can’t kill a child with a forefinger.” “How do you know? It happened. It happened. As the tree was falling … a huge tree and a black tiger was 173

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sitting at the top … as it fell it drove my finger into the baby’s forehead … deep!” What! What tree? What drivel is she coming up with now? “No, no, the tree didn’t touch the child. I caught its fall, but my finger, my finger … deep!” Grandma starts crying. “See, didn’t I tell you, gramps, isn’t that what I said? I knew she didn’t kill the child of her own free will.” “Stop blubbering!” growls Mikus’ dad. But grandma in her turn embraces Ilze and whispers to her in almost as inexplicable phrases as Ilze’s own. “You do see, my dear Ilze, don’t you that you shouldn’t have loved it so dearly. You loved that child far too much … those children die young. I loved my little Mačs just as much and he up and died … yes, he up and died…” “Stop it, leave him in peace!” Mikus’ dad calls out once more, but has to turn and wipe something away with his fist. They wash her hands, bandage the infected finger and put her to bed. She regains consciousness from the cool water but not a word crosses her lips. In the evening they offer her a drink of milk. Ilze shakes her head. VII After six months, Ilze Stameriena was let out of prison. The doctors were firmly convinced that she was mentally ill and the judge, who had to pass judgment on her, 174

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knew that he’d understood not a word more than anyone else. Compared to the first days after her reappearance, little Ilze (after her release from prison no one ever called her simply Ilze anymore) regained some sense of inner peace and balance. She was finally able to explain quite logically and rationally how the unfortunate accident had occurred and if she hadn’t insisted on constantly giving a too huge a role to some stupid animal, then it all would have sounded quite believable. But there was one question that she obstinately refused to answer, and that was the whereabouts of the child’s grave. “You want to get your hands on him and take him away from me even though he’s dead! No, I’ll never tell!” But she was equally vehement in her refusal to name the child’s father. That was dismissed and excused as being a part of her absent-mindedness. As soon as she got out of prison, little Ilze went the rounds to her former bosses to collect her full salary that had long fallen into arrears. That’s all she cared about and during this time she was given the pet name of Moneyed little Ilze. Not everyone paid what they owed her but at least she fortunately collected enough to be able to pay the bricklayer from the neighbouring parish to build her a bricked gravesite in the local cemetery. In her simplemindedness, she’d succeeded in arranging and doing all this so quietly that no one came up with the idea to question her sanity and right to deal freely with her own money. At least not before she had passed it into the bricklayer’s safe keeping. It’s quite possible that this same 175

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good man helped out in another, much more complicated and delicate matter, for soon afterwards little Ilze stopped hiding where she’d buried her child. He now lay in sanctified ground, in a bricked-in grave where, and this little Ilze firmly believed, he would not be disturbed by either covetous hands or the scratching claws of some beast, he’d rest in peace until the Lord’s mighty trumpets would wake him on judgment day. When she’d finally arranged everything to her liking, little Ilze started looking around where she could give a helping hand and be of use. At the beginning she had great difficulty in getting back into the swing of things, working hard did not come easily anymore and success on the job seemed to shy away from her like a frightened fawn. But tame it she did and then it wanted to live in her lap constantly. But more than work, she loved children, starting with her cherished child in the cemetery to all the children running about in farmyards and glades. Twenty years later, when the blacksmith at the Joču homestead moved to his son-in-law’s in Kurland and the smithy was changed into a bathhouse, little Ilze went to live in one end of it – the one overlooking the Joču grove that is full of scarlet strawberries in summer. Here, in her tiny room, beside the door is a wooden peg that the blacksmith drove into the wall to hang his clothes on. These days half-wilted, green, and colourful wreaths full of flowers always hang there and fill the air with their unique, intoxicating fragrance. On occasion, having returned home, little Ilze presses her forehead against it and finds rest and peace there. 176

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So her life and sojourn on this earth in its relation to the Joču bathhouse has come full circle. Her last few days can be truly looked upon as a gradual fading of light and sound quite outside it.

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