Andrus Kivirähk - The Man Who Spoke Snakish

“But your father has been in there,” I said. “I think — to see the Pope and …”

“Father’s an exception. That’s why everyone respects him; he’s the most honored man in our village. He knows how to talk to the foreigners in their own language and he’s taught me that too. You know what I long for most of all? For a knight to invite me into his castle! I’d like so much to see how they live. They’re so handsome and splendid and dignified! Those suits of mail they have! Their feathered helmets! Sometimes they invite peasant girls into their castles, quite rarely, and not all of them. But I hope I’ll be taken in there. I must be taken! I won’t stand it if I’m not!”

From behind the walls of the monastery, protracted singing began to be heard. Magdaleena snuggled against a wall and closed her eyes.

“Isn’t it divine?” she whispered. “How well they sing! I’m crazy about this music!”

I couldn’t form any opinion about the monks’ singing. It sounded like someone moaning and groaning with a stomachache, and moreover I soon discovered that the monks’ singing makes you sleepy. I was overcome with enervation; the singing curled around my ears and wafted into my head like a cap made of moss. With the scent of Magdaleena beside me, I would have liked to rest my head on her shoulder and fall happily asleep. But I didn’t dare to do that and forced my eyes open. The singing dragged on and echoed like someone groaning deep in a cave. I yawned, and a fly flew into my mouth. I spat it out again and the sleepiness subsided a bit. I gazed at Magdaleena.

The girl was humming along with the monks, resting her head on her knees, with her long skirt tucked under her legs. She looked so sweet and pretty that for me the monks’ singing faded somewhere into the background. I concentrated on Magdaleena and started subtly inching myself toward her. My neck became hot and my heart beat with excitement, but I reached my goal and was finally sitting right beside Magdaleena. I slipped my hand onto the girl’s bare leg and lightly touched her ankle. At this the blood rushed to my head with such force that it all went misty before my eyes. I stroked Magdaleena’s leg again. But then voices could be heard, and around the corner of the monastery came some village boys. Among them was my old friend Pärtel, who I had not seen for years.

here were three boys: apart from Pärtel two little men who were shorter than him (and me), but with the same astonishingly broad shoulders, so that they looked almost square. Later I got to know that their powerful shoulder muscles came from the dull tilling of the fields and walking behind an ox supporting a plow. Their stunted growth was the consequence of poor diet; of course you don’t grow close to the heavens by munching plenty of bread and porridge. Tallness is not desirable for the villagers anyway: to cut grain with a scythe you have to be stooping all the time anyway, and if your backbone is too long, it gets hurt terribly. Life is altogether easier for those who have remained stunted and unnaturally stocky. Those are the bastards who are suitable for village life.

Pärtel towered over these toadstool-shaped men, while being no worse than his companions in the breadth of his shoulders. He had become a real strong man, and there was not much left of the boy I used to know, the boy who had accompanied me to spy on the whisking women, the boy who had been my best friend. And yet I recognized him immediately. And he recognized me. He stared straight at me and said, “It’s really you. Have you finally come to live in the village? I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“I haven’t come anywhere,” I retorted. “Magdaleena simply invited me here to listen to some music. Hello, Pärtel.”

Pärtel screwed up his face.

“I’ve completely forgotten that name, but you still remember it. I told you that last time we met. My name is now …”

“Peetrus, yes, I remember.”

“That’s it!” said Pärtel-Peetrus. “And these are my friends, Jaakop and Andreas. This is Leemet. He’s from the forest.”

Jaakop and Andreas gazed at me and stretched out their hands. This was another village habit that I didn’t understand. Why did they have to keep on touching each other? I understand it if you want to touch a girl you love; that’s a different matter. Sister Salme has told me how nice it is to rumple a bear’s soft fur; I’ve never done it, but I do really think that a bear’s thick fur feels warm to the touch and tickles your palm. An adder’s skin is silky too, and it’s pleasant to stroke it. But the village boys’ hands are rough, filthy, and clammy, full of breadcrumbs under the fingernails. After a touch like that you want to soak your hand for a few hours in cold stream water. Yet I didn’t show my feelings, but pressed both the young men’s hands out of respect for their local custom; they were unpleasantly big and coarse, like the Primates’ feet.

“We thought there weren’t any people left in the forest,” said Andreas. “What was wrong with you that you didn’t come earlier? Were you sick, or what?”

I wanted to say that I had been sick only once in my life — after eating the disgusting rye bread — but it isn’t my habit to be cheeky and start quarrels with people. I simply shrugged my shoulders and mumbled something.

“Never mind,” said Jaakop paternally. “Better late than never. You’ve already looked around this place, for some land to clear and start your own field?”

“No, I haven’t,” I said, my honest answer for once not being insulting.

Jaakop started immediately to give recommendations, but fortunately Magdaleena interrupted this useless chitchat.

“Boys, be quiet,” she begged. “The monks are singing now! Let’s listen!”

Pärtel and his mates sat down and were silent.

After a little while, Pärtel said, “It’s wonderful. I don’t suppose you’ve heard them before, Leemet?”

“The monks don’t go singing to the forest, do they?” scoffed Andreas. “We were lucky that they decided to build their monastery near our village. You’d have to go overseas otherwise, to listen to a proper hymn.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Hymn,” repeated Andreas. “The name of this music is ‘hymn.’ It’s highly respected all over the world these days. You like it too, eh?”

“Yes,” I replied cautiously, since agreement seemed safest, while saying no would quite clearly have ended in an argument. “But I don’t understand a single word.”

“Well, it’s Latin you see,” said Pärtel. “Hymns are sung in Latin; they do that everywhere. It’s the music of the world!”

“Boys, you can’t keep quiet at all!” snapped Magdaleena angrily, getting up and walking away from us. Then she sat down again, pressed her ear to the monastery wall, and even closed her eyes, to concentrate better.

“We’ve been thinking about learning to sing hymns too,” said Andreas in a whisper. “The girls go mad for it. The monks have swarms of women, and they always start singing when the ladies give them the eye.”

“Yes, we’ve even been practicing,” said Pärtel. “It’s gone pretty well, too, but we have the problem that we don’t have any castrati in our choir.”

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“Castrati are the most famous singers,” explained Jaakop. “There’s one of them here in the monastery; he sings with a high voice like a lark. Because he’s had his balls cut off.”

“But that would be so painful!” I said. I had never heard anything so obscene.

Andreas snorted contemptuously.