High Tide

The Temptation of the Fog

The sunset is totally insane, Ieva thinks.

And where are they all going…

Tonight the sunset is pure madness, this is what she thinks.

And what she thinks has no meaning. The word “insane” hasn’t meant anything special for some time now. People shout it in the streets when they want to make others think they still feel something. And she has no clue what madness or insanity really are. Just words.

So we need to get rid of them.

And that orange, flaming eye through the bluish veil of mist and the fragile claws of night reaching for the white, disheveled clouds… Something dramatic was happening there, something strange. Over the woods themselves.

How can you say it, what do you call it, how can you find the words?

She looks again a few moments later — there’s nothing there anymore. It’s extinguished.

That’s a good word — extinguished.

Extinguished.

She looks out a different window. A group of kids runs around the courtyard in the half-dusk and calls for a dog to follow them. It’s always like that — always following them. Her daughter did it, too, step by step. Going somewhere. But she had so wanted to protect them. The dog and her daughter. And everyone else.

There’s no way she can.

Fog settles over the yard.

Maybe she should call these kids inside? So they can smear their muddy fingers on the walls and steps, eat cookies in the dark of the room, at the foot of the bed. So they can squeal and dance among the pillows, secretly play with her lipstick and, one after the other, suddenly grow up.

Like corn kernels exploding high over the midday heat.

When kids grow up, they instantly distance themselves. They become continuous even though, frankly speaking, it seems like just five seconds ago they were nothing more than an orgasm.

There are a lot of little deaths in life. Though no one probably thinks of these fragmentations like that. So what are they called?

She doesn’t know.

Kids glide through their childhoods and continue being continuous.

It’s wrong. Like all the grownups who carry the many lives they’ve lived within themselves, continuing and continuing on.

She could call them in — like recruiting an army — pass out chocolate rations for survival and smile bitterly at them, rewarding them for their nerve to come inside with their muddy shoes. But the dog will probably drop ticks, fat like overripe grapes, and the kids will trample them and smear them over the floor. She doesn’t have time to wash the floor tonight; she has to protect her idea. A kind of basic task, egotistic. She has to be with herself. So trivial! And what’s more — what a sunset! The shouts of the kids in the courtyard. They live in an entirely different world, a world she knows nothing about. That world will blossom when hers wilts. Every moment, thousands of worlds simultaneously blossom and wilt. A moment of chaos in your head — God, when am I going to have time to wash THESE dishes?! What time did he leave? It seems like it’s been forever. But no, just a few hours. Maybe, if she were someone ELSE, she’d be able to take a nap in the middle of the day?…

Where are they calling that dog over to? Where will they wander off to, where will they go with their unkempt, tangled hair and frozen, red hands? Wherever it is, there’ll definitely be some kind of danger: a marsh, quicksand, a quagmire, a steep bank of sweetly flowering, poisonous Daphne bushes or something else equally alluring… Maybe she should protect her daughter, call her in, keep her under her wing? Once upon a time those kids had been her daughter.

At one time she still entertained the hope that she’d be able to protect all of them.

From everything.

But no. It’s not possible. She has to be with her own self tonight. In a completely grammatically incorrect sense. A small task, because the goal is small. She is nothing more to the history of the world than an ant is to Mont Blanc. That’s why it would be best to go, bless the dog and the kids, gather them up, and feed them or something. But her goal is minute, and her suffering will be great, because he who puts others before him is happy — only she still puts herself first more and isn’t even ashamed of it. She’s come to enjoy withdrawing further and deeper into herself. And someday she’ll have to pay for all of it.

This fog!

One time at the Central Market, a gypsy woman had told her fortune: “You’ll start from zero many times over, it’s a gift you have. But only to a certain extent.”

Marking boundaries. Building a wall? No use — she doesn’t have the skill. You can’t start anything by force. It’s just — I choose to believe. Again and again from the beginning. Ieva looks around carefully. If there had been anything left over, even a grain of sand, she could cultivate a pearl out of it.

She could keep it together.

Everything is scattered. Live half your life and realize that everything is scattered.

But at night she can feel there’s a river. Not a single time in her life, not a single territory through which this river flows, isn’t a part of the river itself. The heart of the river is somewhere in the distance — there, from where the river flows, or there, to where it flows.

While she washes dishes she suddenly grabs a pencil and writes on a paper towel — Oh, this fog! How she’ll wind up paying for this sentence! Half of her unhappiness is her imagination and curiosity. She’ll withdraw from life with each letter, paddle away from existence, until she’ll no longer be able to pave a path back to the simple scene beyond the window. Farther and farther away — like a stream down a mountain. Like the Earth from the sun. She’ll continue. She’ll be far. And wide. She won’t tell her daughter how much she misses her, because she won’t know how to find the right words. She’ll spend days hammering out the same passages, struggling to formulate love in short sentences on paper until others will simply accept it. She’ll spend her entire life studying, but never learn how to write the word “sunset.”

It’s insane — where did it all go! It was just there, she thinks, looking out at the grey sky. And the courtyard is empty. They’re all gone.

Monta

She gets in late. Nobody visits this late — it’s unacceptably late. Extremely late. It’s already that time when early evening is being ushered out by the night. The twilight pulls your thoughts under — and once twilight sets in you can’t start anything. Tendrils of darkness snake into your mind. It’s too late to talk. Everything seems to have already settled into itself, so why waste words?

It’s a good time to drink tea and sit quietly. That may be exactly why she chose to come over so late, so she wouldn’t have to talk. So she could spend the night and take off in the morning. Visit mom — just a date circled on the calendar.

Ieva opens the door.

“Hi!”

“Hey.”

A quick kiss on the cheek and then a step back. Maintain some distance. The air around Monta carries a lingering haze. She probably stopped for a quick smoke before heading up.

Ieva makes tea. Monta wanders around the apartment.

“Can I use the internet?”

“Of course.”

She sits at the computer. Her hair is in dreads — tight braids, thick and prickly like a bristle brush and the color of darkness. Her angular shoulders hunched, her slender neck tense. It’s like her daughter is surrounded by invisible spears, cactus needles. A teenager; not to be touched.

“Do you want tea?”

“Bring it here.”

Ieva sighs. The hope that they could at least have tea at the table across from each other — even if in silence — bursts like a bubble. Ieva puts the teacup on the desk.

“Thanks.”

The screen flickers in the half-light. The lives of others. Her daughter’s messages — concerns, losses, gains — Ieva has no clue about any of them. A silver stud through Monta’s eyebrow. Small hoops and a few safety pins line her ears, spiked leather bracelets hang around her thin wrists, and her eyes are outlined in black. She’s checking her friends’ profile updates on Draugiem.lv. She’s inaccessible to her mother — simply offline.

“How are you?”

“Fine.”

Monta shoots her a look that clearly says “leave me alone.” Ieva goes back to the kitchen. After a while she calls out:

“Want to go to the theater next week? I have tickets.”

“No.”

A few minutes later:

“Do you want to come see me at work sometime? We’re putting together a new movie — it’s really interesting.”

“No time.”

“How’s school?”

“Fine.”

“Where do you work?”

“Sky City.”

“What do you do there?”

“Work with snowboards.”

“Do you snowboard?”

“You see any snow around here?”

“We could go to Switzerland.”

“Thanks, but I’ve got stuff to do.”

“What was your boyfriend’s name — Tomass?”

“Yeah.”

“How’s he?”

“Fine. C’mon, Mom, not right now.”

Ieva sighs.

“Hungry?”

“No, thanks.”

Ieva turns on the television. Something she hasn’t done in ages. But she has to pass the time somehow while Monta’s online. While she’s visiting.

For a long time, one sits in front of the computer, the other in front of the television. Ieva washes up and gets ready for bed. Suddenly, she gets an idea:

“I’ll draw you a bath!”

“What d’you mean, bath? I have a shower at home.”

But Ieva continues:

“A shower’s a shower, and a bath’s a bath. I’ll draw you one right now. I’ve got this new bath oil. It’ll be the best bath you’ve ever had.”

And she gives the tap a hard turn, so the water gushes out. So she won’t hear Monta’s objections.

Soon the bath is ready. Ieva sprinkles some jasmine blossoms into the bubbles and lights the candles at the foot of the tub. She puts a white cotton shirt on the chair.

“It’s ready, go ahead!”

Monta doesn’t answer. Ieva changes into pajamas, gets into bed and intently watches the hallway through the open door.

The teenager sits at the computer for several more minutes, then gets up with a sigh and goes to the kitchen to wash her teacup. The splash of water, the clinking of dishes. She comes to the doorway, looks at her mother as if she’s about to say something, then turns and goes into the adjacent room, where a bed has been made up for her. Ieva starts to think Monta will just go to sleep fully dressed.

But she doesn’t. She goes to the bathroom, then comes back into the hallway. She looks at the computer, then at her mother. Then she goes back into the bathroom and shuts the door with a bang.

The sound of belts and snaps hitting the stone tile can be heard through the closed door; the ringing of metal and sound of leather. Then silence.

It seems like Monta is in the bathtub for at least an hour. Finally the bathroom door opens again and a figure dressed in a white shirt tiptoes into Ieva’s room.

“You asleep? Thanks for the bath. G’night.”

“Maybe you can sleep in here tonight!” Ieva calls out sharply — too quickly. Monta starts and turns to leave.

“No way!”

“Then at least come sit with me for a bit!” Ieva begs.

“No!”

Monta goes into the hallway, but doesn’t turn the light out right away. She moves around the apartment like a cat, inspecting photographs and paintings, flipping through magazines. It’s already long past midnight.

“Please, come here, sweetheart! Can’t you just sit with me for a minute?” Ieva begs again.

“No!”

But after a few more minutes, Monta does come in. She takes a book from the shelf and puts it back, looks at the flowers on the windowsill, then finally drags herself over and sinks down onto the bed.

At first Ieva is afraid to move, as if some rare bird has just landed in the room. Then she frees a hand from under the blanket and reaches toward Monta. She can easily sense her daughter’s warmth in the dark, her pale face and long shadows under her eyelashes, her smooth and youthful skin. Ieva puts her hand on Monta’s shoulder. So thin, so fragile. She caresses the shoulder once. And then a second time. Monta says nothing, but her breathing is anxious and her heart thuds in her chest — the beating is easy to hear through the blanket. Ieva keeps caressing her daughter’s shoulder. She keeps telling herself the caresses are both strong enough and calm enough, the type of touch used to tame timid horses. Wild horses are tamed with a different type of touch. Monta is incredibly timid, not at all wild. She stays still. Ieva puts into these caresses everything she can’t say with words. They’re together again, sharing the same warmth; as if Monta were still only the hint of a person inside Ieva, as if she were still that earlier version — the three-year-old daughter Ieva could take into her lap. The harshness has fallen away, like the snaps and spikes in the bathroom. The imposing black leather and studs are gone. The makeup is washed off, all the foreign, abrasive scents scrubbed away. Monta smells like a child. Ieva’s child. Even the acrid smell of cigarettes is gone. She’s all freshness and warmth.

Her child.

This moment starts, lingers, and passes. Monta knows when it needs to end — she moves away.

“G’night, Mom.”

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Ieva replies gratefully.

The next morning they dress quickly and drink their tea in a hurry. They steal glances at one another.

Each day is completely different from the last, each day is a lifetime. And the night is something entirely different from the morning or afternoon. They represent numerous and varied thoughts.

Today is very matter-of-fact, and the morning is full of promises. Ieva puts some money on the table.

“For the apartment and for school.”

“Thanks, Mom… Mom?”

Ieva listens — something important is coming. Monta’s voice has changed.

“I might leave school. Tomass says it would be good to work abroad somewhere.”

She hurriedly pulls on her dark jacket and yanks the hood over her head, maybe so she won’t hear the answer, even though her own voice sounds unsure.

“Location isn’t important. If you want to do the right thing, you can do that anywhere. If you want to screw up your life, you can do that anywhere, too.”

Monta gets defensive.

“Who says I want to screw up my life?”

“So finish school and then go do whatever you want. You’ve only got a year left.”

As she rushes out behind Monta, Ieva feels like she’s tracking a fleeing animal. The thud of army boots as her daughter disappears around the next flight of stairs, and then again around the next one — Ieva feels she won’t catch up to her, like she’ll never catch up to her.

And yet there’s the next turn and then the door, and then the kiss goodbye. Life gives you time to catch up.

“You know I love you,” Ieva tells Monta.

Monta’s answer is unexpected:

“I’m not sure if I believe you because you’ve never had time for me.”

“You think? Things were different way back then, it’s not who I really am. Here, take this and read it later. I found it last night.”

Ieva has given her daughter a page from her sixth-grade Latvian language workbook. The text is marked up and corrected, barely legible. Clearly a rough draft.

“Assignment #96:

Happiness! Sweet, dear happiness! Where are you? Why do you visit so rarely? I want you to visit me more often. Come visit when I’m sad, come when I’m having a hard day. Come straight away, dear happiness! Happiness! I want you to visit the orphans and the children who have nothing to eat! They also need happiness. If you, happiness, would go visit these children, then their faces would be all joy and smiles. Go, dear friend, go to those people who don’t have money, so they aren’t sad. Put smiles on their faces and love in their hearts. Do you know, dear friend, that each person and living thing needs happiness — if only a little bit?”

Coffee and Cigarettes

Monta sits with a friend at a café. Sunlight washes uselessly over the mud-spattered windows. It’s a cheap place right on the corner of the street, and whenever a tram rolls by it feels like its wide metal body scrapes against the café door.

Monta cries, smokes, and speaks:

“Jesus do I feel bad for him. You can’t even imagine. I was four when he showed up in the apartment — Aksels must’ve found him on the street, still a puppy. I remember they put him in some kind of box under the kitchen table, but I’d always sneak in and take him out, then we’d race through all the rooms. He was so cute and smart. I’ve never seen another dog like that… And then Dad shot Aksels — Aksels was Mom’s boyfriend and Dad basically shot him out of jealousy or something, I don’t know, it’s a long story. And right after that we moved in with this old woman, Faniija, over on Ģertrūdes Street. I don’t know why, but Mom took us out walking all the time — you wouldn’t believe how much we walked — the dog and I were always starving, and I remember Mom was having trouble keeping jobs, so she couldn’t even afford to send me to kindergarten. I was only five or six, and all we did was walk, all three of us. And I was so hungry. Along train tracks, bridges. It was crazy — all over Riga. We’d take a tram to some suburb or just wander through the city on foot. And you get so hungry walking around like that. Mom would stop to buy a small chunk of cheese for the dog and a bread roll for me, and we’d be on our way again. Five minutes later it’s like the bread never happened… She was restless or something back then. I remember she’d carry me on her back when I got tired — I’d fall asleep, get some rest, and she’d just keep carrying me. Then she left for school in Moscow and said she didn’t take us with her because that city was pure stress, but I wouldn’t have gone with her anyway. I had a babysitter and my grandma Lūcija — Jesus, it’s horrible to say, but if Mom died I wouldn’t cry like if my grandma died. I swear to God. I was around ten when I first understood people die, and the first thing I realized was that my grandma would die someday, too — and I just burst into tears. I could cry again now just thinking about it. My grandma has been amazing, she’s done everything she can for me. Mom visited often, but I just couldn’t bring myself to really talk to her. I’ve never been able to and know for a fact I never will. There was this one time she yelled at me, I don’t remember what for, probably something stupid, but later I went to her room and asked ‘Are you mad at me? Do you think I’m worthless?’ Because that’s how I felt about myself then. And I hoped that she’d get up, hug me, and say ‘No, I’m not mad at you, sweetheart, and that’s God’s honest truth.’ And I never thought she’d reject me. But all she said was, ‘No — how many times do I have to say it?’ I got stubborn all of a sudden and stayed put, just stood in the doorway and kept repeating ‘Why are you mad at me?’ And finally she said, ‘Just leave me alone for half an hour.’ You can’t imagine how I felt. We were all we had in the world, and that’s how she reacts! I don’t know, maybe I’d just pissed her off. That wasn’t the first time it had happened, but after that there was definitely a sense of finality. I thought, ‘Fuck, I could go forever without talking to you if I needed.’ I didn’t want to trust her anymore, I couldn’t laugh with her or anything. I felt like at any second I’d be told to just shut up. After that time I went to sleep on the mattress next to the dog. She came over later and kissed me on the head, but then left me alone. Maybe she was tired of fighting with me. Maybe because she’d been telling me since I was little, ‘Live your own life, I won’t force anything on you. If you want to sleep next to the dog, that’s your choice.’ But she didn’t consider that I might be lying there crying. Alright, fine, if she left me alone it was to leave me alone. Fine. After she got back from Moscow she acted like she was in heat. Always going out at night. She’d say, ‘Go to bed! I’ll be back in the morning.’ But I couldn’t sleep, just sort of doze until she’d get back around 4 a.m. — happy and smelling sweet. It seemed like she went through guys like she was flipping through the pages of a magazine. And all the massive amounts of drinking with friends — directors and actors — at the time I thought she was out of control, but I guess it also kind of made sense, and at least there was always someone around. And she’s quiet by nature. She can go days without saying a word, just thinking about something. Then the next day she’ll laugh like crazy and go wild, running barefoot through puddles downtown. And what always pissed me off the most is that she only ever talked to me about serious things in public when there were the most people around. We’d be in the mall or theater and she’d suddenly think of something and start lecturing me. Discussing aspects of my life. And at the top of her voice, like it was just the two of us. I distanced myself from her. Later I dropped out of high school. That set things in motion. I went to night school so I could get a job. Then I got my first boyfriend and we rented an apartment together. Of course I took the dog with me. Then last year the boyfriend left me. I took it really badly, it just destroyed me. It was right during spring finals week — I wanted to kill myself. And of course I can’t eat anything when I’m depressed. In one month I lost sixteen kilograms. Can you imagine? Sixteen! Coffee and cigarettes in the morning, alcohol and sleeping pills at night. Just the two of us, me and the dog. Mom didn’t know my boyfriend had left me, I just told her she couldn’t come visit. There was no reason to. I could go see her if need be. She doesn’t have any time anyway. Then Tomass came along — last summer. That’s how it goes with guys. Tomass is great, I can’t complain. But your first love is your first love, right? I feel like the trouble always starts with the second guy — after that things just get out of hand. There’s the third guy, then the fourth. My grandma once said, ‘Life can give you one, or many.’ Whatever, it’ll be fine. But I’ll never forgive Mom for what happened with Dad. He’s sitting in prison, and she won’t go anywhere near him. I think they’re even still legally married. My mom says it’s her life. She doesn’t talk about it with anyone. Yeah, it’s her life, but he’s my dad. She won’t let me go visit him. Someday I will. Right now I’m still kind of freaked out by the idea. Not of prison, but of my dad. Can you imagine? He’s basically a stranger. And what would we talk about? He’s seen so little in his lifetime, if you think about it — he grew up, got married, shot Aksels. And that’s it. Locked away in prison for years and years. That’s not a life. So what would we talk about? But the dog, he got older and died. The vet came over this morning and had to put him down. Then Tomass and I buried the dog down by the lake. That dog lived for fourteen years, easy. That’s pretty much my whole life.”