High Tide (20 page)

 

It's morning when Ieva goes into Aksels's room and says—Ready? Aksels replies—Ready.

An idea needs time to grow, like an oak needs time to grow from an acorn into a tree.

There's no reason to worry about being late. At 4
a.m.
an invisible caress on her shoulder and a whisper—now! And it begins. The road forward. Or the backtrack. Or something entirely different.

But first you need an idea.

 

It's the afternoon of January 14th. Ieva calls Andrejs.

She says:

“Hi, Andrejs.”

He answers:

“Hey, Ieva.”

Silence.

 

Ieva finally speaks:

“We've got a few more things to take care of here, and then we'll be on our way.”

Silence.

Then Andrejs answers:

“I love you, Ieva.”

Ieva shouts angrily:

“Cut it out, will you! Come pick us up at the crossroad tonight. Aksels can't walk.”

Ieva's ready to announce Aksels's name to the mailman, the police, Andrejs—to anyone, one hundred times and more in a row. Aksels's name is smooth as a sea pebble that she can turn over in her mouth and caress with her tongue.

“I'll be there.”

Andrejs hangs up.

 

Ieva has a brief vision of Andrejs hanging up the phone and looking out the kitchen window. She's seen it so many times before. Over the wood panel table covered with a white tablecloth; the kitchen is filled with the brilliant light reflected by the snow-covered pine trees, the blueness of the sky, and the glistening sun over the wintery fields. It's unbearably cold in the kitchen, the winter dust collects on every dark-stained surface and rough wooden shelves.

Even back then, Andrejs never kept the house warm enough when Ieva wasn't home.

She doesn't pack anything to take with and dresses for spring, even though outside is a bright January morning. Aksels says something about anticyclones. That they're mountains, invisible mountains, radiant and bursting with sun—with diamond surfaces.

Surfaces shift, golden ridges collapse and crumble into little ripples in the windshields of passing cars, in window blinds. Yellow sparks melt in the whites of both their eyes. Ieva asks:

“So what are cyclones?”

To Aksels cyclones are the depths of the sea, rolling streams, and fertile dampness.

They're sitting in the kitchen. Before, Aksels never ate much because he smoked weed. Now he's nauseated from the pills and drinks just a bit of coffee with milk. Ieva's nauseated from life. From everything that's happening. She stopped eating when Aksels stopped eating. Not on purpose, no. Just—it's the two of them. And in a way Ieva is Aksels. When he stopped eating, so did she. It's simple, really. Now they're like bony scarecrows with only a little straw left. Monta is plump and energetic, she knocks over her cup of milk and lets out a squeal.

Ieva says to Monta:

“Why does Monta knock her milk over every morning?”

“No! Mommy knocks milk over every morning!”

“Monta does!”

“Monta doesn't know!”

“Then Monta has a bad memory!”

“No! Mommy does!”

It's hopeless to argue with Monta, especially on the mornings she wakes up terribly happy.

Ieva dresses Monta. Monta grows suspicious.

She whines:

“No wool tights!”

Ieva says:

“Monta isn't going to daycare. Monta's going to Grandma's! Grandma has cold floors.”

“No Grandma's! Spiders!”

It's strange with Grandma. Sometimes Monta's happy to go to Grandma's, but other times she sees spiders when she's there. Today is a spider day. Monta protests and squirms, but Ieva finally gets her dressed.

Ieva's also dressed; she turns to Aksels and says:

“I'll take Monta to my mom's, and then we'll go.”

 

Her voice catches in her throat when she sees his face. How he's watching her and Monta. He's caught them being full of life.

In the moment she was dealing with Monta, Ieva forgot. Forgot everything else in the world, Aksels included. She lost herself in the action and became the action herself. The sun plays on the ridged icicles behind the window. Ieva holds Monta's scarf in her hand and can no longer find words. There'll be many more scenes just like this one after Aksels has died.

Aksels is sitting in a chair with his bad leg stretched out in front of him and is intently watching Monta. His expression belongs to him and him alone, and God only knows if he's even aware of what lies behind it. It's some kind of great vibration, the nature of things, that pulls him in. He watches Monta run through the hallway and for a moment sees the turning of the world's gears. Like some incredibly old toy, a teddy bear handed down from child to child and loved to the point its worn, plushy seams suddenly burst, spilling dust and stuffing and sand—and you can see that the bear's voice box still worked, crackling as it forms the words: I love you, you love me, I'm alive, you're alive…

These words gather in the gap, the distance, the space between them. Aksels touched by death, and Monta touched by life.

And what Aksels has asked Ieva to do—wasn't it in actuality a childish thing to ask? Wasn't it something a monarch would ask? Death wanted to take him to that faraway pasture, but Aksels had Ieva, thank God, he had Ieva. He could count on that even in death. And now he will walk ahead like a lord, Ieva will follow behind him leading Death by the reigns, that greyish horse with the dark, ugly muzzle of a hyena, she'll lead it and saddle it, and Aksels will get up in the saddle instead of being tied up and dragged behind… Aksels will get up in the saddle. Yes, it really was free will.

Ieva calms down and wraps Monta in the scarf. She's realized that she constantly continues the dialogue in her subconscious—is it right, the thing Ieva's promised to do?

Like a clock—tick tock, tick tock.

They hadn't done anything yet. Everything could still change. And yet—nothing could change ever again.

 

Every few moments there had to be an affirmation, a contribution. And if a moment came and the affirmation wasn't there, it could only be undone by a hundred other moments that did have affirmations.

It was a massive military draft, and Ieva had been called up.

 

Ieva says to Monta:

“Give Ocela a kiss!”

Monta goes to Aksels and gives him a kiss. Ieva's scared—Monta will say something, something that will make him realize he's seeing her for the last time; today and tomorrow will be the last time for scenes and observations.

“Hurry up, Ocela, she'll overheat!”

Aksels throws her a surprised look—she's being pretty harsh! But he immediately understands that it wasn't out of place. Ieva is organizing his death, that harshness is clearly to be expected, so he says nothing. Ieva doesn't apologize, not even with a look. Better to be harsh than to break down.

Ieva and Monta head out the door.

 

That evening Ieva and Aksels go to the bus station. Ieva is ready to say to everyone they pass—hey, look at Aksels! This planet will disappear tomorrow! A star will fall! You can look at him and make a wish, and he'll make it all come true! Aksels looks at her disapprovingly, as if she's stupid. But there isn't even a hint of irony in Ieva as she buys two outgoing tickets knowing full well that she'll only be buying one for the trip back.

The bus is warm, narrow, and dark. A strip of tiny blue lights lines the sides of the aisle. Aksels isn't able to find an empty seat that would let him painlessly position his bad leg. He sits on the raised floor at the back of the bus; rather, he lies down on it and leans on his elbow. The other passengers stare at first, but quickly forget their surprise and doze off. Not a whole lot can be seen in the dark. Ieva crouches down next to him.

“Even the tiniest bumps are like earthquakes,” Aksels says.

Ieva touches her lips to his forehead, which is damp from the pain.

Another hundred and twenty-four kilometers.

 

When they get off at the stop for Zari, at the intersection of four roads, Andrejs is already waiting for them. The car is thumping with music, and when Ieva sees his face through the window she grows annoyed. Aksels stands with his body twisted sideways and breathes in the night air.

“Greetings, kids,” Andrejs says. “Hop in!”

There are two gypsy hitchhikers already in the car.

 

The kitchen at the Zari house is warm when they get there. The rest of the rooms are unkempt and cold. Andrejs and the gypsies drink champagne and talk about the forest. Where they can get wood, and how much money they could make sawing lumber.

Andrejs says:

“I want to go back. I'm sick of that city. Ieva, what d'you say we move back out here, to the countryside?”

Ieva sits next to the stove warming her hands, seething. She drinks a glass of champagne and waits for the gypsies to get out. Aksels sits at the end of the table and drinks nothing. Just answers if someone asks him a question.

 

“You're alright, guy, just kinda quiet!” one of the gypsies says and claps Aksels on the shoulder. Aksels breaks into a sweat from the pain.

“What's that face for—you disrespecting me?”

Aksels shouts back:

“You shit!”

They both jump to their feet and stand face to face, each with an arm raised back and ready to strike. Andrejs gets up and pushes them apart.

He says:

“Enough! There'll be no fights in this house!”

 

After midnight, after the gypsies have left and Aksels is asleep on the mattress set up on the floor by the big window, Andrejs and Ieva sit and talk quietly by the last of the dying embers in the open mouth of the stove.

Ieva pleads:

“Give me your gun and teach me how to shoot it.”

Andrejs gets his gun and while Ieva's inspecting it, asks:

“What're you guys up to?”

“He's dying.”

“He looks fine to me.”

“He only looks it. We have to call tomorrow for the test results.”

Aksels's voice comes from the direction of the big window:

“We don't have to call anyone. I know what the results are.”

 

A thousand giant stars shimmer in the window when Ieva finally takes off her top layer of clothes and curls up next to Aksels.

Aksels whispers into her ear:

“Why'd you bring him into this? He'll turn you in.”

“Him?”

Ieva even laughs:

“He'd never.”

The full moon is shining on the other side of the house. But it can't be seen from the kitchen. Andrejs sleeps on a cot next to the stove.

 

The morning of January 15th arrives.

A brilliant sunny morning. The blue of the sky, the green of the fir trees, the snow, and the coastal sand join to form a braid. Aksels has been listening to the tendrils of wind knocking against the windowpanes since midnight. It's a new day second by second.

Ieva and Andrejs wake up. Andrejs lights the stove and makes tea. Ieva gives Aksels a shot of diazepam so he can get up. She also gives him painkillers and a glass of water, but talks with Andrejs over her shoulder:

“Give me the gun and then leave us alone.”

Once Aksels has gotten dressed and had some tea, Andrejs gives Ieva the gun and walks out of the house.

Aksels asks:

“Where'd he go?”

Ieva says:

“Don't know. Away.”

There's an awkward silence. The forgotten teakettle whistles on the stovetop, a sharp line of steam shooting toward the ceiling. Aksels looks helplessly at the teakettle.

“Well then—be good!”

“I'll try.”

Again, silence.

“Don't cut your hair short—it looks bad on you.”

Then he starts to tease her:

“You're totally going to get fat once you turn thirty.”

Ieva scoffs:

“No I won't!”

“Let's bet on it!”

“Forget it, I'll never get fat!”

“Let's bet a fur coat. A great, big, shiny fur coat you can hide in. I'll send you that coat from the other side when you're a big fatty.”

With that his energy is spent. Silence.

“It's hot in here,” he complains, once again sweating from the pain. “Let's go.”

 

They find the birch trees at the far end of the pasture. The blinding ice crystals of snow are melting under the sun. Aksels limps over to the thickest birch and puts his hands on it. Looks up at its slender branches. Then looks at the ground.

He stands under the birch. Looks to Ieva, his eyes squinted.

“Well,” he says. “I'm ready!”

Ieva says:

“I'm not. Haven't kissed you yet.”

She goes up to him and looks him right in the eyes, searching for his like a falcon hunts a swallow.

She asks:

“You really want me to do it?”

And then in an instant she's embarrassed because she sees that her doubt cuts him deeply. She kisses him quickly on the lips and steps back from the tree, fifteen paces.

 

Andrejs comes out from the cover of the pines.

“Don't drag the barrel on the ground!”

“Ignore him,” Aksels warns.

Andrejs says:

“Think about what he's making you do! It's ridiculous!”

“Ignore him, shoot!” Aksels shouts.

Ieva lifts the shotgun to her shoulder to take aim and keeps backing up.

“Wait for me! Wait for me there!” she shouts and can't shoot. Aksels stands with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat and watches her. She looks at Aksels down there at the tip of the barrel, he's no bigger than a bird. Ieva stumbles as she keeps backing up and backing up, Aksels waits, watches her intently, starts to panic. Ieva can't shoot.