Rein Raud - The Death of the Perfect Sentence

There is no need to explain how different life would be in Estonia if we hadn’t lived under the Soviet yoke for fifty years. Without the night-time knock-knock at the door. Tens of thousands of early deaths would have been avoided, countless homes would still exist, the Estonian nation would not have been scattered far and wide across the planet. But still, there are some things which would have been the same, or almost the same. True, in place of Soviet Sajaanid lemonade, we would have had Sprite. All of that time would not have been wasted in queues, money would have actually been worth something. And yet our parents and grandparents would still have yearned for light-coloured furniture in the 1960s and dark furniture in the 1970s, and miniskirts would still have come into fashion when they did. Equally I don’t think it’s right that our urban spaces are covered with garish advertising hoardings, just as our once virtually bare town centres would feel like some kind of aberration.

But our everyday life was different in some fundamental way back then.

What was different was a certain feeling. How we felt inside. Even those of us who were born decades after those night-time knocks on the door.

It’s hard to explain if you weren’t there.

“Now then, Comrade Captain, I’ve got one piece of good news and one piece of bad news,” Vinkel said to Särg with a sneer. “And I’m guessing you want to hear the bad news first as usual.”

“So you’ve found out where to get hold of bison shit then,” Särg said gruffly.

“Right.”

The two of them were standing by the window in the spot where the younger members of staff took their cigarette breaks, at the end of a corridor which was painted the repulsive shade typical of Soviet state institutions, although the paint was already flaking off. There was a glass jar full of cigarette butts on the windowsill, bits of white paper label still stuck to it where the glue had proved particularly stubborn.

Särg was waiting.

“I’ve got something on your son,” Vinkel said hesitantly, almost reluctantly. “You really should keep a closer eye on him, to be honest.”

Just in case you haven’t heard this anecdote

The American Indian chief Winnetou was a character in the novels of Karl May (1842-1912), a popular German writer and a notorious trickster. A series of films based on these novels was shot in 1960s West Germany, with the lead role played by the French actor Pierre Brice, and the films proved extremely popular in the Soviet Union.

Anyway, the anecdote goes like this:

Winnetou gathers his tribe and says: “I’ve got one piece of good news and one piece of bad news. Which would you like to hear first?”

“The bad news, oh Winnetou.”

“The bad news is that we’ve used up all our food, so we have to start eating bison shit.”

The tribe grows despondent and starts to wail, then one of them asks what the good news is.

“The good news is that I know a place where we can get hold of bison shit.”

Believe it or not, people found that joke pretty funny back in those days.

You may not believe it, but the news came as a complete surprise to Särg. After all, he’d never had any reason to worry about Anton. He always got good marks at school. He’d finally started doing sport. He hadn’t tried smoking, he didn’t drink. He even declined champagne at New Year. It was true that he didn’t particularly like talking about what he was up to, but he would always come home at the agreed time, and then just sit and read in his room.

“Really? Are you sure it might not be some mistake?”

Vinkel nodded.

“And what exactly is it related to?”

“It’s that same case we’ve been dealing with.” Vinkel tried to avoid sounding condescending, but the expression on Särg’s face was so foolish. “Your Anton is consorting with our young insurrectionists.”

“I find that very hard to believe!”

“So you think I’m lying then, do you? Eh?”

“No, that’s not what I mean. It could just be a mistake, human error; maybe it’s just someone with the same name?”

“We’ve got photographs,” said Vinkel with a shrug. “I’m amazed that someone could be so blind to the truth.”

As we know, Särg was actually pretty sharp-witted.

“I reckon I can guess the good news myself,” he said.

“Right,” said Vinkel with a smile.

“It goes without saying that I will do everything within my powers, Comrade Major,” Särg assured him. First he just needed some time to think.

Alex met Tapani the following day. Tapani had called in the evening, as soon as Alex had arrived at the hotel from the port, when he had still been pretty worked up. What do I actually know about this man? Who exactly is he? On top of that a colleague had treated him to a toffee in the bar on the boat, which had caused a filling to come out of one of his upper teeth with a sudden crunch. That evening everything had been fine, but at night when he was asleep the tooth had suddenly started hurting so badly that it became unbearable. He had some tablets with him, which he always took with him because he knew that when toothache strikes you have to nip it in the bud. It wasn’t like a headache, when you could just wait, hoping it might go away on its own. Fortunately he’d taken the tablets out of his bag and put them on his bedside table the previous evening. He got out of bed and took two tablets, but in his sleepy state it took him a while to find the bathroom door, and by then he was fully awake. He got back into bed, but he couldn’t get back to sleep. The sounds of night-time Helsinki coming through the window certainly didn’t help. What was going to happen? What if someone found out? I’m only twenty-six, damn it.

The following day Alex was free until two, and his toothache gave him a good excuse not to go trawling the shops at the Itäkeskus with the rest of the delegation. Tapani had invited him to a pizza place at one o’clock, and he had to eat something since all he’d managed to force down for breakfast was coffee and frankfurters; the scrambled eggs weren’t nearly as nice at this hotel as the previous one, in fact they were downright disgusting.

His Finnish friend was already waiting for him at the restaurant, leafing through the menu with a jug of water and two glasses on the table in front of him.

“The Capricciosas are pretty good here,” he said once Alex had sat down. “I ordered one for each of us, I hope that’s OK.”

Alex didn’t care about that. He took the package containing the film from his pocket and pushed it across the table towards Tapani.

“Thanks,” said Tapani, hurriedly shoving it into his pocket. “I hope it wasn’t too much trouble.”

Alex took a long look at him. Last night he’d spent some time working out how best to phrase the question which he now planned to ask. Such as, “Listen, are you messing me around?” Or, “Sorry, but I would appreciate knowing.” Or, “We’ve known each other for a while now, perhaps you could explain who on earth you are.”

But none of them turned out to be necessary.

“I can see that you’re in need of a bit of clarity,” Tapani said affably. “It’s written on your face.”

He took off his glasses and wiped them with a serviette.

“Look, I could of course tell you. But that would put you in a pretty tricky position. Because then you would need to choose. You could tell your superiors the whole story, but they would be surprised that you didn’t come and tell them right away, even if you didn’t tell them all the details. Or we could continue our friendship, although it would be a little bit different now. In that eventuality I would ask you to do what you have done for me just a couple more times.”