Rein Raud - The Death of the Perfect Sentence

On this occasion Tapani called Alex himself, which didn’t happen very often, even though he knew the schedule for the Helsinki visits very well by now. Alex had only just got from the port to the hotel. He was still holding the room keys in his fingers and had just put his briefcase down when the phone started clanging. It was strange, almost as if Tapani had been waiting for him. Which made him uneasy. Especially since he didn’t have anything to give him this time. Had he forgotten that?

But this time Tapani wasn’t interested in any films.

“You will have to go back to Tallinn briefly tomorrow,” he said.

“But what about the consultations?”

“You’ll think of something. There’s someone who needs to be brought over from there right away. She’s got the paperwork to show that she’s a designer in the joint venture; she’s coming to Finland on a work assignment, let’s say.”

“Who is it?”

“I don’t know exactly, a young woman. Just some person like you.” Tapani seemed quite worked up. “When you get to Estonia someone will meet you and tell you where to find her, then you will whisk her straight on to the boat and back here. She’s got all the necessary documents, but she doesn’t know anything about the nature of the company’s activities. So it’s best that you accompany her, for safety’s sake. I’ll collect her from you tomorrow evening here in Helsinki.”

“Actually I’ve got something I need to take care of myself in Tallinn as well,” said Alex.

“Are you joking? There’s no time.”

“So this time it is going to be dangerous then,” Alex concluded.

“Well, yes, I wouldn’t say it’s completely risk-free,” Tapani admitted. “But if you get caught, you just play the fool, say that the Finns put you up to it, that you know nothing. She’s the one who’s got the most to be afraid of.”

Back then everyone knew what it meant when they started broadcasting Swan Lake on the television non-stop – somewhere, something had gone seriously wrong, and even the Kremlin wasn’t sure what would happen next. Like the day after Brezhnev’s death, when no one knew who would succeed him. But this time the music sounded even more ominous, more unsettling than usual. Raim’s father hadn’t switched the television off once, and there on the screen Odette was gasping her final gasps for the nth time. They had long stopped actually watching it, but it was still on, just in case there was suddenly some new information. But the Kremlin had already said enough that morning. That’s it. All over. A state of emergency had been declared. The military and security services were taking hold of the reins. While the little swans danced, the tanks were already rumbling down the motorway and could arrive any moment. Now there was definitely not going to be any hope of going abroad without official permission; in fact you’d be lucky if you ever managed to get out again. The best-case scenario might be a return to something like the Brezhnev era, Raim’s father contemplated, but you couldn’t rule out a new wave of deportations to Siberia and hell knows what else. Only time would tell. But at first there was no information at all. They tuned into Finnish TV now and again, but the only thing on was analysts making their assessments, trying to read the tea leaves but succeeding only in being annoying. Raim’s father was standing in front of the drinks cabinet. To mark the sad occasion he’d decided to open the new bottle of Johnnie Walker, a gift from Jorma and Outi on their last visit from Karkkila that was supposed to remain untouched a few more months, until his sixtieth birthday. So be it, today was a special day. Raim was sitting on the sofa, feeling depressed, mother was in the kitchen, and there was ice in the fridge. Raim’s father had known all too well that things would end up like this, and who was to blame? He’d always said that they shouldn’t overplay their hand, and now look, they had this mess to deal with. But today he’d decided not to repeat this point. There was no sense rubbing salt in the wounds. His son knew the truth. And somehow they would find a way, they always had done. We Estonians have lived on this territory for six thousand years, and despite everything we are still here. Life wasn’t just going to come to an end over this. Tomorrow is a new day, remember that. He’d even thought up something to say. A fine phrase for the moment when the whisky had been poured, mother came back from the kitchen with the ice, and the three of them were sitting on the sofa, raising their glasses, worried about what was to come and mourning what would be no more. Then he would say it: “To yesterday’s dreams.”

Maarja is standing in front of the mirror, looking at her reflection. She has almost learned the English text off by heart now: Hello. My name is Maarja Pilv. I am an activist of the anti-Soviet underground. I need political asylum. The main thing was not to start laughing, even if it did sound so silly.

By boat to Finland, on from there to Sweden – they don’t check the passports on the boats in Helsinki. And then her new life would begin. It was high time now.

It’s all a little like a dream. And it’s best that way, since as soon as the real world impinges then the panic will return, the fear which extinguishes all will to live, which abides no other feelings. How else could she have expected to leave this place? But look, now you really can. It’s simply that one life has come to an end, the life which promised all those things, all those things which nearly came.

So everything which is happening is for the best.

She messes up her words several times, but at least she can laugh at herself, more so today than ever before. Now she is allowed to. Who ever doubted that laughter can make the world a better place?

Hello. My name is Maarja Pilv. I am a simple girl. I believe in love. Whatever happens. I need nothing. No stupid Alex. Hello. My name is Maarja Pilv. I need nothing. Except love. Except life. A new life. Nothing political. Hello. My name is Maarja Pilv. Hello. Maarja Pilv needs a new life.

The sound of the news in Finnish is coming from the television in the other room.

“Mr Prime Minister,” the journalist starts to ask, “you know the new president, Mr Yanaev, very well from your previous contacts. What kind of person would you say he is?”

“Given the current situation I would prefer not to comment on that,” the prime minister says in response.

Out on the street there is silence too.

As a child Fyodor Kuzmich had never dreamed of becoming an astronaut, because no such thing had existed back then, but later in life he was presented with a real chance of becoming one. Once at the polytechnic institute he and two of his course mates were invited to a discussion on that very subject. By then Gagarin had already completed his mission, and conquering the cosmos had become the first thing since the taking of Berlin which the great Soviet homeland could take pride in. All those glory-seeking young men found it hard to think of much else.

But unlike his two course mates, one of whom did eventually get to orbit the earth, Fyodor Kuzmich was faced with a tough choice: space or mushrooms. Or to be more precise, the mushroom pies which Valentina made. In every other respect she was just like any other girl, but she was the only one in his world who knew how to make those mushroom pies which once tasted left you no way back. Especially if you happened to be someone like Fyodor Kuzmich, who had a special relationship with mushrooms. Back then he could sometimes disappear into the autumn forest for days on end, to return with bucketloads of beauties. He had no equal in hunting out the spawning grounds of the common-place boletus mushroom, but he also knew how to find rarer specimens – the kinds which you would find no mention of in the handbooks yet Fyodor Kuzmich’s grandmother would certainly have been familiar with. These mushrooms would then be duly transformed into incredible delicacies in Valentina’s frying pan. This special relationship with mushrooms had survived to this day. He always took his holidays in autumn and spent them at his cottage in Laitse. His Ukrainian neighbour, a retired two-star captain who despite his advanced years still boasted a strong head of curly black hair, simply couldn’t understand why Fyodor Kuzmich was constantly sloping off to the forest instead of enjoying the barbecues, vodka and good company at his place.