Rein Raud - The Death of the Perfect Sentence

Maarja was waiting for him on the third floor of the Pegasus café. That was their special place, and neither of them would ever go there with anyone else. She was sitting at a table by the window, her large odd-looking bag on the chair opposite her.

“Greetings,” said Raim, taking a seat and glancing absent-mindedly at her drawing.

It was a picture of a boat and a lake, with stars in the sky. And slightly to one side were four letters: ALEX.

“Who’s this Alex then?” Raim asked in surprise. Maarja quickly crumpled up the picture.

“Oh, he’s just a friend,” she said. But she was actually glad to have someone to talk to. And so she told him about Alex, although not everything. About how they first met. And then the next time, before they properly got to know each other. How they went to Pirita. How Alex even came to visit her from Leningrad one time.

“Are you crazy?” Raim asked in amazement. “A Russian?” Of course he saw Li differently; her nationality wasn’t relevant.

“What about it, I’ve got several Russian friends.” Maarja said defensively. “There’s Tonya at art school, for example.”

“And he works in some joint venture?” Raim shook his head. “Are you sure that he’s not a spook from some agency? They don’t take any old person to work in those kinds of organisations you know.”

“What do you mean agency?”

“You know very well yourself what we’re up to, don’t you?” Raim snapped. “And you’re seriously trying to tell me that it was pure chance that this guy ended up being at Kadriorg at exactly the same time? Honestly, you’re just like a little girl. He’s obviously going there to watch that Finnish guy who comes to collect your packages. Why else would he always be there at exactly the same time?”

“But maybe he never goes into Kadriorg Palace? And those packages always reach their destination, don’t they?”

“Yes, they do,” Raim conceded. “Maybe he just hasn’t got his hands on them yet. Or maybe they’re just keeping the process under checks for now, how do I know?” But he’d suddenly become completely convinced that Alex couldn’t mean anything good.

“I don’t think so,” Maarja said, turning bright red.

Maarja could feel the walls closing in on her oppressively, the ceiling getting lower and the floor growing cold; Raim carried on talking but it was as if he were speaking a foreign language. Her head was spinning, and it took all her strength just to keep her thoughts focused. Alex. Alex. Alex. But then what else can another person ever be to you besides a string of disparate memories, even if some of them have been imprinted on your skin, your version of those moments when you were together, plus the light and shade which your conscious mind – or maybe your senses – has added. These memories sometimes seemed to be explanations written by a third party, mixed with all kinds of questions about the real meaning hidden in his words and gestures. And what can you ever be to anyone else? As you know very well yourself, there are many layers, many nascent half-thoughts warring between themselves within you, but they are separated by a deep furrow from the outside world, and only some of them eventually make it out, over the bridge and out through the gate. Wasn’t it reasonable to assume that other people experienced things the same way? Maarja was sure that this wasn’t a question of lying, not necessarily. And it wasn’t insincerity either. It was just part of being human: inside every person there is space for more than can ever be put into words or gestures, even if things do sometimes unwittingly slip out into the big world outside. And we’re only talking about the things we notice, after all. I am not a tower constructed from iron girders, standing somewhere on a mountain top from where all is visible, but a hollow ship, which creaks as it veers this way and that, only imagining that it knows where it is headed.

So how can I long for clarity, demand to really understand another person? Because that is truly what I want. I seem to be able to recall his physical form and the words he said, but maybe I don’t, maybe I can only remember his voice saying certain things, sentences uttered in moments of greater certainty which I now remember so well – those moments are my medicine, my salvation, my fix. But even more than that I remember the line which joins those moments together within me. Can it be broken? It seems it can. It seems that these cold metal words can be inserted into me, like an endoscope. Words which I cannot digest, and which cannot sound in harmony with the orchestra of my being. The violins are awkwardly silent, the drums no longer thunder, the conductor has thrown his baton into the corner and is holding his head in his hands and yelling, but he can’t be heard because those instruments were his voice. Now then. I have to pull myself together. I am an adult. What do I know? Only what I can remember. It’s not a lot, but it is beautiful. Can there be another explanation for it? The honest answer is yes, there can. Does it change anything? Yes, it does. Does it change everything? Yes, it does.

They went their separate ways outside Pegasus. Maarja looked ill. Towards the end of their conversation Raim had to repeat nearly ever sentence several times, and even then he wasn’t sure if Maarja had fully understood. Damn, she could end up under a tram or something if she wasn’t careful. With the films in her handbag. But he definitely couldn’t go with her. Instead he waved to her as she left, as if that would somehow protect her. But Maarja didn’t look back once.

Whenever Raim was up to something which was even moderately risky he was sure to check whether he was being tailed. He’d done exactly that on his way to Pegasus. But not right now. That is why he did not notice how over on the other side of Harju Street, just slightly towards the Victory Square end, a woman came to a sudden standstill. An attractive woman who was hurrying back towards Pagari Street after her lunch break, a woman who used to be a Russian teacher… I probably don’t need to continue.

No, I can’t believe it, I just can’t. That someone can look at me that way when he really has no other aim than to follow the tracks like a bloodhound, to find the hidden treasure. I just can’t, and that’s that.

“So, today is your last time here,” the woman on the till said with a smile when Maarja greeted her.

“How do you know?” Maarja said in alarm.

“Next week they’re going to start renovating the palace,” the woman explained. “I’ve got no idea how long it is going to take.”

Maarja had no appetite for teacake today. None whatsoever. She walked out the gates of Kadriorg Palace and down the park path until she found a sufficiently large tree from behind which the museum entrance was visible. This can’t be right. The next time we meet we’ll laugh about it all. About how silly the world is, how silly people are. Or even better, we’ll meet today. Maybe he is already in the café, coffee and meringue on the table in front of him, waiting and wondering where I have got to.

She barely managed to wait ten minutes when a taxi arrived from the direction of town and came to a halt, and then her very worst fears were confirmed. It was Alex who jumped out of the taxi and ran into the museum. A few minutes passed, and then he was out again. Off down the other path towards the café.

Now let’s not fool ourselves. That could only mean one thing.

No rustle of trees to be heard, no crunch of gravel under the feet of the family walking past.

So that’s that then.