Mari Saat - The Saviour of Lasnamäe

She ran and ran without stopping as far as the building where she lived and up the stairs. It never entered her head that she could wait for the lift; she searched for her keys in her pocket mid-run, rattled them in the door to open it and once in the hall sank on to the chair in the corner.

Mum came into the hall wearing a surprised expression. Mum looked ready for a party, she was wearing her silk blouse – the one with the pale red and gold spots that she never wore at home. Mum was beautiful – bedecked in the palest of pale blue summer skies and reddening flowers and golden sunshine… Her loveliness and festiveness made Sofia burst into tears, sobbing and shaking.

“What’s the matter?” asked Mum, really frightened.

“I don’t know. Something dreadful’s happened!”

“Who with?”

“Those boys.”

“What boys?”

“Them. Venya and Tolik. I gave them money.”

“They took money from you?”

“No, I gave them it, they needed it… They really needed it right away.”

“What happened after that?”

“I don’t know, something dreadful…”

Mum helped her up and led her to a chair at the kitchen table; she poured some hot water from a flask into a cup and stirred several spoonfuls of sugar into it. The good sweet warmth flowed across her whole body. It was incompatible with the fear thrashing within her, supplanting it a little too forcefully, through the back of her head, and out… Yet it didn’t work as well as usual because an anguish bubbled up into her throat from somewhere deep inside her chest and made her sob. Mum took some of her own more powerful herbs from the cupboard as well – valerian – and soaked a sugar lump thoroughly in it. This and the hot water helped. Or the warmth in the room and time itself helped. Sofia yawned. She remembered the way the rat had yawned: hurriedly but otherwise exactly as a human would. The rat didn’t make her cry any more, instead she thought, a little sadly, that people were not much bigger than rats… She felt that she knew what it would be like to be a rat…

Mum got Sofia’s bed ready for her.

“You get into bed now, and off to sleep,” said Mum, “but no more crying. Everything’s OK now. And there’ll be more money – now that I’m back at work…”

Mum had always said that children must not be left to cry themselves to sleep because if they woke up they might start with a stutter and never lose it again… Sofia didn’t argue with her, didn’t remonstrate that she was no longer a child – suddenly she felt so tired that she wanted to climb straight into bed and not move at all… She sank on to the bed, sitting on it.

“Make sure you get yourself undressed and put your nightie on,” said Mum.

“I will…”

“Good,” said Mum, “I’ll close the door so you can nod off more easily…”

Sofia stood up, undressed, put her nightie on, her clothes on the back of the chair, lifted the quilt to climb in and only now noticed the book on the bed, the book that Tolik had given her… Had Tolik given it to her in exchange for the five-hundred-kroon note or had she bought it from Tolik for the five hundred kroons or had she just given him the five-hundred note and Tolik given her the book? She would have liked to get it straight, but she was too tired to think it through thoroughly. In any case she laid the book on the bed and couldn’t fathom how neither she nor Mum had managed not to notice it. She was aware that while she’d been running home the book had been like a millstone round her neck and she remembered having it as she unlocked the door, but after that she couldn’t recall anything about it – how she’d managed to take her coat off, go into the kitchen with the book and from there to her bedroom, and how Mum hadn’t noticed the great thick tome at all.

The book was really thick and heavy; the blue-grey bindings with fine, grooved linings were well worn and foxed but inside there were many colourful pictures, in pastel colours – delicate hues of pink, green, aqua and pale yellow… The writing was in old-fashioned, crooked letters. Sofia thought she’d be able to read them although with great difficulty… In one picture there was an eye – a beautiful, serene eye, and around it were rays, like the sun’s rays – and around the eye there were seven stars, four stars at the top, over the eye, and three below. Each star had seven points. Letter by letter Sofia laboriously spelled out the inscription underneath the picture: “The eye of eternity manifests itself in Sophia’s mirror… The eye with which He sees me is the same eye with which I see Him; my eye is His eye. It is one eye, one seeing, one adoration…”

The text wasn’t difficult to read, but it was difficult to understand: why was her name here? And why were “He” and “His” written with initial capitals but “me” and “my” were not? She realised of course that the “Sophia” written in the book, leaving aside the “ph”, wasn’t her, wasn’t the name her mum had given her for whatever reason, the one written with an “f”. Yet it didn’t seem to her to be mere chance. Everything seemed somehow linked, planned in advance, the fact that she should happen to be there in the field today and that those boys had needed money and that they’d had to give her this book and that she’d opened the thick book at this very page… She remembered the eye that had looked inside her up there in Zhanna’s flat, the eye that she had looked into, and it had been her eye… She was not afraid. Not now that she’d read those three pairs of words – one eye, one seeing, one adoration…

It was awe that she felt. Not fear but awe. This book was like a strange elderly gentleman with a long grey beard who was in no way cruel or angry, but who had to be treated with great respect… In any case Sofia placed it under her pillow. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad that she’d lost her money but received a book like this? Now she was fully calm… and just drifting into sleep… But wasn’t it selfish? Now she was in a warm bed and no longer remotely worried about the boys? No, it wasn’t right!

She hurried to find Mum. Mum was sat on the sofa in the living room, watching a film on the TV. She was still wearing the silk blouse and only now did Sofia notice that she even had her velvety indoor heels on that she wore only if there was a party – for New Year or a birthday – and guests had been invited. But she didn’t give the impression of someone who was flourishing and festive; instead she looked somehow despondent, as if the flowers on her blouse were wilting.

“Oh, have I got it on too loud? I’ll turn it down a bit,” said Mum, seeing Sofia.

“No, no, it’s not that. I was just thinking… I wanted to ask – is it OK to light a candle for living people? Like when someone dies, someone you know, and you go to church and light a candle for them – you lit one for Kiira’s dad, but can you light one for people who are still alive?”

“Of course,” said Mum, “especially if you know who their patron saint is… But why do you want to light a candle?”

“I’m not sure… I was just thinking – perhaps I could light a candle for those boys? Perhaps it might help them?”

Sofia hugged Mum, “I love you so much!”

“Get away with you!” scolded Mum. “Off to bed now. I’ll turn the telly down. And I’ll be turning in myself soon too…”

No sooner had Sofia climbed into bed and closed her eyes than sleep deserted her again. And she started worrying: what did it mean that Mum was wearing a silk blouse and those shoes at home on a workday? She hadn’t said she was expecting anyone, had she, when they were sitting in the kitchen? Who could it be? She wouldn’t have dressed up like that for Kiira or Lyuda, would she? Perhaps whoever it was had never arrived? Mum was sitting on the sofa by herself as if she was watching a film… Somehow inappropriately alone… I wonder why she called me Sofia ? She would have liked to run back to ask, but didn’t want to bother her again… For some reason Mum wanted some privacy…