Inga Abele - High Tide

She buys a pregnancy test in a 24-hour pharmacy and races across the wet sidewalks to Fanija’s apartment. The city smells like it never has before.

Thank God she’s at least able to be alone tonight!

Ieva goes quietly into her room, closes the door, and opens the window. The coolness of the mud in the courtyard rises up between the buildings to meet the night sky. It’s so rare she gets to be alone. She melts with the dimly glinting creases in the curtain.

Morning. She has to wait until morning.

She sighs heavily and undresses, puts on a soft cotton t-shirt, and falls asleep clutching Monta’s big stuffed bear.

A yellow-green and bright sun shines through the maple tree and draws a shifting, trembling design on the staircase. Fanija opens the bathroom door on the landing. Ieva stands and studies the pregnancy test, which slowly reveals a single line.

Fanija speaks:

“Ieva, I already told you to make sure to put the key back. I couldn’t get into my bathroom all day yesterday!”

Ieva answers:

“I’m sorry.”

Fanija asks:

“What’s that?”

Ieva:

“A test. I’m not pregnant.”

Fanija tries to understand the situation, then dismisses it with a wave of her hand and says:

“So no miracle, then.”

Ieva asks:

“Miracle?”

Fanija answers:

“Sure. It would’ve been a little angel sent to the rescue. But no.”

She continues:

“You know, it’s been two years since my son disappeared — I told you once already — he went out one morning for milk and just never came back… yes, Ieva, let’s go… and you know, after that a large bird landed on my windowsill and tapped on the window a few times, clearly, slowly, with a pause between each one! And then I understood! I understood everything!”

Ieva offers Fanija her arm, and they slowly head back up the well-worn stairs. Fanija continues:

“Thank you, thank you! That bird, you know, it tapped maybe three times. And, quite frankly, I understood. I’ve already waited two years. I have to wait one more, Ieva. My son’ll return in a year. A miracle, right? But I understood.”

Ieva asks:

“How old are you now, Fanija?”

Fanija answers, a bit short of breath:

“Eighty-four, Ieva. I’m bored of waiting and paying a pretty sum for this apartment, but what can I do? Think about it! But I’m doing well. I found a fifty-santim coin on the stairs today. How d’you like that?”

As they go up, Ieva listens to Fanija’s words, understands what she says, and asks questions. But at the same time she feels with every cell in her body how much she misses Monta’s smell and face, the dog’s energy, her mother’s unsolicited advice, the playground and store, shopping and trains, and the sky — wide open one morning and closed the next.

And she manages to see Andrejs — it’s a tenth of a second, a scene from her memory of one spring morning at the Zari house — maybe it’s the flicker of the sunspots underfoot that triggered it? Ieva remembers a similar morning with sun, she sees Andrejs, how he looks as he stands in the apple orchard next to the stone rubble of the barn, where all the trees are blossoming. There’s a chainsaw at his feet and, as he looks at the twisted sweet cherry tree in front of him, he says to it:

“Your turn.”

The tree looks back at him.

He picks up the chainsaw and checks the gas level.

He glances at the neighboring tree, a maple sapling.

“Don’t look so smug. You’re next.”

At that moment Ieva calls to him:

“Leave me the maple.”

Andrejs looks intently at Ieva, who is kneeling in the shade under a silver yew-tree, and reminds him of a large, talking bird.

“What do you need it for? It’s not even a fruit tree.”

“Leave it. Please.”

Her voice sounds so strange.

And that tree is still in the yard today. You can touch it if you want.

Ieva sees this scene and immediately forgets it because her phone rings; it’s her boss calling to tell her that they ended up finding another intern to take her place, she causes too many problems — her kid is sick, she’s got to go who knows where to see her husband. Got it, thanks. Ieva manages to think it’s the hand of fate. She has to find a school, she wants to study something. Before she gets completely lost in the fray. And she has to finally go see a doctor. How much longer can she lose weight and walk around feeling sick to her stomach if she’s not pregnant? And at least she paid this month’s rent in advance; she’s got an entire month — she’s rich with time!

Then a thought rips through her mind like a bullet: that it hasn’t been made official in any church, that anything could happen, and that this book called her life is still without an ending — it’s not good and it’s not bad, and yet — it’s her life, this uninsured, death-bound expedition, this unrepeatable morning full of pigeons and the shadows of trees, the sun, and Fanija’s stories. Full of future get-togethers and laughter. This book — the privilege of reading it is hers, and hers alone.

There’snothing good about a 200-plus-pound black guy emerging suddenly from the shadows and jumping you. Ieva’s happy for anyone who hasn’t had to experience that.

At first Ieva doesn’t understand what he wants, he just comes at them. In the moment his heavy hand comes to rest on Ieva’s shoulder, when she catches a whiff of his hot breath, acrid from eating Latvian garlic toast, and when she understands the true consequence of trouble — this is the moment he first sees Aksels. Aksels stands next to her in the biting December wind, and the white light by the entrance of Polārs Bar sways, pulling his face from the framework of the night. The black guy immediately shoves Ieva to the side and lunges for Aksels.

Ieva lets them fight. She senses that something awful could happen right then, but god dammit, she can’t do anything about it. Ieva screams out something, but her voice drowns among the sounds of the slush-covered street.

The black guy throws Aksels down onto the ice. The puddles on the sidewalk are frozen over, dark as onyx. Shit, Ieva says to Ningela, the gypsy or Indian woman who materializes in the Polārs doorway. Shit, Ieva says, see what the Āgenskalns neighborhood has become! Blacks and Indians! But Ningela doesn’t understand. Ieva’s speaking Latvian, but Ningela only knows a few words of the language.

Ningela pushes back a few nosy people who flicker like shadows in the bar’s entrance, and then slams the door. Enough, Ningela shouts out at them in Russian, enough! — but the black guy doesn’t hear her. Tell him to stop, tell him that’s enough, Ningela screams, hoping Ieva will put an end to it. The black guy’s boot flashes in the light of the weak lamp. Aksels is there, in the dark, on the ground, on the ice, or who knows where. Ieva grabs a board leaning against the wall and hits the black guy across the back. It stops him for a second, and Aksels manages to get away. It’s what Ieva has been hoping for this entire time, that Aksels would run if anything ever happened. Ieva doesn’t know why he didn’t run when he had the chance that night. Maybe his pride was at fault. Ieva had underestimated him — Aksels, it turns out, isn’t someone who runs.

It’s only when Ieva slams the board into the black guy’s back that Aksels clambers awkwardly across the ice and into the darkness. Right then his fate was already sealed, he just didn’t know it yet. Ieva takes off after him.

Then she yells at Ningela for a while longer from the darkness at a safe distance, while Ningela stands on the steps of the bar, her white slippers reflecting a weak glow in the never-ending curtain of snow. Ieva understands enough of what Ningela is saying to know people think Ieva and Aksels snitched to the cops. That the cops busted them for 30 grams of marijuana. That Ningela’s daughter was arrested and that they now blame Ieva and Aksels. Ieva doesn’t know who told them that bullshit. While Ieva and Ningela are shouting at each other, Aksels stands behind Ieva, she feels him against her back — his mute presence, his support. The black guy leans against the front of the bar, short of breath and seething, spitting dark drops of blood from his split lip onto the white snow. He pulls a joint out of his shirt pocket. A third of it has already been smoked, and he slowly and calmly lights it up again. He’s even blacker against the falling snow and the cold glare from the bar. Ieva can smell the heavy scent of weed, even through the mush of snow and rain. Son of a bitch! Where did he come from! Fuck! Ieva and Aksels leave. Empty-handed.