Rein Raud - The Death of the Perfect Sentence

She could remember his eyes.

Let’s make it clear from the start, this wasn’t any ordinary young man.

“Of course, please do,” Maarja said.

“Sorry to disturb you, it’s just that it seems like it’s not the first time I’ve seen you here, so I thought…”

“Yes,” said Maarja.

“I have to go now,” said Alex, “but I hope that this won’t be the last time.”

“Yes,” said Maarja.

“Let’s meet again, either here or somewhere else.”

“Yes,” said Maarja.

Karl could still remember that strange feeling of emancipation which overcame him the first time he consciously did something in a way his mother wouldn’t have wanted. He didn’t love her any less, but needed to assert his right to make his own mistakes. And to take responsibility for the consequences, even if that was the less enjoyable part of it. He had old-fashioned values, and no desire to go with the times. He couldn’t understand people who had no problem doing so; he’d never been able to resign himself to the idea that this is how things are and this is how they have to be. He would’ve liked to have been a character in a Chekhov play, to be able to suffer a wasted life with dignity and nobility. But unfortunately he’d been born in a time and place where there was nothing dignified or noble about a wasted life – although that wasn’t in any way his fault of course.

He’d been horrified to read about how the Soviet authorities had driven the chemist Jüri Kukk to take his life in a hunger strike, and others who’d been martyred for the cause of Estonian independence. So he’d joined the opposition forces to try and stop things like that ever happening again. Not so that they would happen to him too. He knew that the situation could not last much longer as it was: in all probability he would be sent to Seewald psychiatric hospital and pumped full of drugs until the world around him turned into amorphous semolina. Until he no longer cared. But however things turned out, he would never get his own life back now. Just like after a car crash, when you wake up in a wheelchair, or like a blaze that destroys your home. Some things remain, some things persist, but nothing can be as it was before. He’d heard about someone being taken all the way to Moscow, for “examinations”, as they put it. There, you didn’t even dare to eat the food: you could hide tablets under your tongue and spit them out later in the toilet, but you couldn’t protect yourself from what they put in your porridge.

Of course, there was one other option: dropping out of the game altogether. Sorry guys, I honestly thought I was stronger. But my nerves won’t take it any more. They’re watching me all the time, at least it feels that way. It makes no difference. When we get our free Estonia back we will remember these times and we’ll laugh about it all. But right now I just can’t go on. I played along for as long as I could, but now I’ve had enough. The security services probably already realised that themselves, otherwise they wouldn’t have let me out.

And don’t think about telling me any more.

Well, that goes without saying.

I reckon that the other guys have already guessed it themselves. I’m not in good shape. I can’t take it any more. I’m not up to the work; I never was. I just thought that if I didn’t do it, then who else would? And yes, it was more honourable to bang my head against a brick wall than pretend that it wasn’t there. That’s just who I am. That’s me. The days were still almost bearable, but at night it got worse. But I don’t need to tell them anything. They can see for themselves. That officer, that damned stamp collector, Särg, he can already see it (I can’t help thinking it’s a strange coincidence that he has the same surname as Anton, even if he seems like a completely different kind of person). But it’s a good thing I was resolute right from the start: don’t know… never happened… no idea what you’re talking about. Of course it’s all clear in their heads, but that’s not going to hold up in a court of law. It’s just some tough guy talking, nothing more. If they had witnesses, then it would be a different story. Of course they could find that wino. But why bother with that? They had no problems inventing witnesses. Like, for example, some random mum at the playground who saw from a distance… although we obviously won’t reveal that she is our agent, will we. But they won’t go to court. That much is clear. The days when you could cover up that kind of thing are behind us. The press would smell a rat. They’d pick up on the story. Eesti Ekspress, not Voice of the People of course. No one reads that one any more anyway. The lads would take care of things, they’ve got the contacts. And the KGB knows that all too well. That’s why they’re still keeping me here. But for how much longer?

I can’t take it any more.

I’ve got to think up some ruse. Let’s suppose – and I’m not saying I’m going to do this – let’s suppose that I agree to what they want, then I’ll get out and I’ll tell the lads right away. Although that won’t be enough for Särg of course. He’ll insist that I tell them everything I know. But I’ll just tell them that I don’t know anything. Who did I get that envelope from? Someone gave it to me at an agreed spot by the picket; I’d never seen the guy in my life before. How did he know who I was? I made a prearranged sign. How did I know where to take it? A card came in the post, that’s the God’s truth. Who talked me into it?

Someone who is already locked up. Or has left for the West, then they can’t check up. Madisson, that’s who.

That won’t work, it happened too long ago, I’d have to work out how to explain what I’ve been doing in the meantime.

There must be something I can do. There always has been before.

Could it be seen as a form of rape – in the metaphorical sense? When finally, having been asked many times, Raimond’s father hung up his son’s school graduation photo on the wall – so what if it wasn’t exactly where his wife thought it should be – and then interrupted her as she watched her favourite TV series to plant a lip-smacking kiss on her cheek. Or perhaps it wasn’t. In any case, mother didn’t think so, she just let it happen, just like nearly everything else which she let happen to her. Without really noticing, and certainly without objecting, just like on those rare occasions when she let Raimond’s father put his hand up her nightie and spent a few minutes on top of her and inside her, breathing heavily. After all, marriage consists first and foremost of obligations, so when one half fulfils their side the other half must do so too. A decade or so later people started to say no, it doesn’t have to be like that if you don’t want it to be. But she didn’t know what she wanted. And neither in fact did Raimond’s father. They could both entertain the idea that things could be different, but those thoughts came from the shade, not the light. Of course if someone had asked either of them why they tolerated it, then neither of them would have been able to answer, since neither of them would have understood the question. Tolerate what? It’s just life, isn’t it? It’s just what it is. Rape? Come off it.

So is it any wonder that when people asked the same question about something which was far more profound, far more serious, they only managed to scrape the surface.

Outside, the weather was untypically chilly, the sky was clouded over, and the wind was blowing. It looked like rain.

How can I explain that they should only be afraid of things which are seriously scary? Maarja thought. She had one fear of her own which was as unfounded as they often are, but all the more pernicious for that: it’s evening, she’s in bed, having managed to get into the ideal position for falling asleep, lying completely motionless, so that her conscious self starts to extinguish itself from her body, and she is no longer joined to her arms, legs, back, since they are resting so gently against the quilt that they have no reason to make her aware of them. And then suddenly fear impinges on her consciousness: what if she will never be able to move again, not ever; what if she ends up lying like that for good? Her consciousness and her body are now independent of each other, living their own lives, but what kind of life can this be if it doesn’t move, her body that is? But I can, Maarja tells herself, I can move right away if I want to, it’s just that I don’t want to, I’m in the very best position right now. Eventually she does move, just to dispel the fear, even if she has known right from the very start that nothing is holding her fast, that she won’t find such a good position again. Of course she’d heard about the illnesses which suddenly paralyse the whole body, leaving you locked in, so that you have to go through the rest of your life with nothing more than your memories. You never know what the future holds.