In the Beginning

God didn糖心传媒檛 create words.

In the beginning there was a dream.

And at the end there was again nothing but a dream.

God appeared to a woman in a dream that was like death.

God found the woman within the dream and said to her:

“If you agree to live your life in reverse, you糖心传媒檒l have the power to give life back to your lover, who died young. Just don糖心传媒檛 get your hopes up糖心传媒攜our meeting at that crossroads will last about twenty minutes, no more. Then he糖心传媒檒l continue on toward old age, but you, back to childhood.糖心传媒�

The woman agreed immediately.

God said:

糖心传媒淗ow strange. Do you really value your own life and experiences so little that you糖心传媒檙e willing to undo it all without a second thought?糖心传媒�

The woman said nothing.

She remembered this dream when she awoke.

Turns Out糖心传媒擶e糖心传媒檝e Lived

She doesn糖心传媒檛 need any more advice糖心传媒攑atterns, examples. Maybe it糖心传媒檚 just a whole new level, but right now she doesn糖心传媒檛 need it. She doesn糖心传媒檛 read books, newspapers or magazines, doesn糖心传媒檛 use the Internet or watch TV, doesn糖心传媒檛 go糖心传媒擥od forbid糖心传媒攖o the theater. It糖心传媒檚 like being wrapped in a blanket up to your chin: you see and hear everything, but can糖心传媒檛 move a muscle. Everything is right there around you, within arms糖心传媒� reach. She wanders the house and now and then picks up something, grabs onto something, touches on something. A sentence from a newspaper, a phrase from a Mexican soap opera, an idea from Proust. They糖心传媒檙e all always going to be right.

On her walks, Ieva goes around the forest in circles. Then on her birthday she asks herself a question糖心传媒攚hy do I walk in circles, like a dog chained to a post? Because of my fears? Only because of my harsh, bitter fears? I can walk in a straight line, she tells herself糖心传媒攁nd whenever I want. So when she does finally walk straight she only feels like she糖心传媒檚 actually getting anywhere. Her surroundings change, but the content doesn糖心传媒檛. Big cities are all essentially the same, and every country has farmers wearing plaid, made-in-China shirts. Any new place that she ends up, she eventually has a close group of friends a lot like the last. The group will always have a mentor, a lover, someone she糖心传媒檒l betray, someone who糖心传媒檒l betray her, an enemy, and friends she can talk to and find spiritual healing with, saving money on therapy.

Once in a while she breaks from the campaigns, the marathons, the expeditions, and returns to the doghouse and sits next to her chain. Sits absolutely still, like a Bedouin gazing into the distance, and then writes. Script writing is usually complicated, but all of her scripts are about the same thing. All very clich茅d, and when she tries to make excuses to the director he tells her: I need you precisely for the clich茅s. Because the ending needs to be something predictable.

Her scripts are about how nothing happens because nothing can ever happen. Not a single molecule is lost in the eternal cycle between the earth and the heavens. Only a pure soul can hope to break free from the carousel of life and death, into the cosmos through the tunnel of light and at a speed that makes everything down to the smallest particle feel simultaneously heavy and weightless. Everything shrinks until it disappears, until it糖心传媒檚 erased from the memory of the world along with its time. But to live your life until your soul is pure糖心传媒攄on糖心传媒檛 laugh, it糖心传媒檚 not that easy糖心传媒攜ou have to become a Buddha, a Christ or a Mohammed. You have to become light itself, a pure soul. Then you can be on your way. But it糖心传媒檚 a long way and you糖心传媒檒l be scrubbed, doused, and wrung clean until then. Those few mistakes that will haunt you, jolt you awake at night, and force you to keep going on, these mistakes that you carry with you your entire life糖心传媒攊n the end they糖心传媒檒l destroy you. But keep thinking about them, keep thinking. It糖心传媒檚 gratifying to keep picking away at them. It will heal you.

Eventually she doesn糖心传媒檛 even write the scripts herself anymore, just touches up those written by others and sends them in. She takes the finished product and objectively embellishes them. She糖心传媒檚 done work like that before糖心传媒攁dding details to bulletin posters in her school days, a pioneer in the last generation of an aggressive Soviet empire. Her homeroom teacher called it 糖心传媒済iving life糖心传媒� to something. 糖心传媒淭ake it to Ieva,糖心传媒� the teacher often said, 糖心传媒渟he糖心传媒檒l give it some life.糖心传媒� And Ieva would take her black marker and give the dull pencil sketches some life, be it Lenin or the Easter Bunny. A wavering shadow in the distance, a gleam in Lenin糖心传媒檚 eye, and the tense muscles in his jaw, something she糖心传媒檇 seen in her father糖心传媒檚 face when he shaved in the morning. And Lenin would come to life. The Easter Bunny would, too.

Everything is proof of it糖心传媒攖his forced gift of existence糖心传媒攅ven the tired face of a small-town bus driver in the early morning; it speaks of longing, the endless patience you have when scrutinizing good fortune that has unexpectedly dropped into your lap. And what does life offer in return糖心传媒he quiet hum inside the bus where you can warm up, a change from the frozen and bleak winter landscape糖心传媒� What does it offer in return? A kiss goodbye from your wife before you head out, and the mildly bitter taste of coffee with cream? The early morning fog and a dead moose on the side of a road? Like an Indian who gets glass beads in return for gold, you trade the suffering of existence in return for the smell of baking bread. The feel of a dog糖心传媒檚 wet nose against your hand. The look in your children糖心传媒檚 eyes. A bird feeder. May it all bring you joy, says this opposing, unwanted, huge opportunity糖心传媒擫ife. Truth everywhere, like rows and rows of weeds that need only a bit of rain to grow: a handful of TV shows, a handful of philosophical essays, a handful of tight-lipped snobs, a handful of bartering vendors.

Her mother糖心传媒檚 mother, Gran, used to say: you糖心传媒檒l never know where you糖心传媒檒l lose something or where you糖心传媒檒l find it, and, if you knew where you糖心传媒檇 fall, you糖心传媒檇 put a pillow down first. In many ways Gran hadn糖心传媒檛 outgrown childhood, had never experienced passion, never been disillusioned. She remained an innocent; that was her destiny. Her cheerful daily greetings were proof she had never discovered herself, her own anger, or her deeply hidden doubts. Doing so would mean being sent into freedom, out of the Garden of Eden. She had stayed in Eden, playing in rows of sun ripened, wild strawberries. And among the bustle were all life糖心传媒檚 sentences糖心传媒攈er parents糖心传媒� deaths, her husband and children, the people she loved. But she never said 糖心传媒渓ove糖心传媒� because she didn糖心传媒檛 know the word, hadn糖心传媒檛 evolved to words. Gran had been her parents糖心传媒� pride and joy, a helper at the dairy farm with her white apron and silky ash-blonde hair, someone who never grew to know hatred. More precisely, she was oblivious to any daggers of hatred aimed at her. Instead, they went through her like she was nothing because she didn糖心传媒檛 believe in bad people糖心传媒攋ust people. Her only sins were her pride and self-reliance. She always had tickets for sugar and bread, but also always had more for extra things. A kind word and a helping hand, the sense to put others before herself; she believed it was her choice and responsibility. She didn糖心传媒檛 need anything from the Lord God, just some nice Lutheran Christmas songs and spiritual peace. She hadn糖心传媒檛 unlocked that little door in her heart that led to spite. She stayed in her bud; her entire life spent in it and as a child. God and humanity attack these kinds of people more than anyone else because there糖心传媒檚 something obnoxious about them. But neither God, nor humanity can use their endless recipes for disaster on these people because these people lack any trace of hate糖心传媒攁nd God can take a vacation since there糖心传媒檚 no one to peddle vices to. Having fulfilled her duty to everyone she loved, Gran quickly retreated to her inner child, back into that bud. A small, polite girl who always walked on the sunny side of the street. And that糖心传媒檚 how she ended her journey. She was stuck in her bud, in her helpless innocence, and then all the world糖心传媒檚 charges were piled on top of her. Stay helpless as a baby, an animal, a prisoner, a fool, an alcoholic, a one-legged bum in a tunnel糖心传媒攁nd the world will quickly chafe you until you bleed, and you糖心传媒檒l understand why you糖心传媒檝e always needed God. You put Heaven on a pedestal while you still have the strength. And when you grow weak you see the devil. Not the one with horns and a tail, but the devil in the hurried compassion of the fast-paced world, the one that will kill you with kindness. [. . .]

Mother

Mother tries to remember where she糖心传媒檚 seen it before.

Faces peering at her from a glaring brightness.

Big eyes. Lips that are saying something, smiling, cooing, scolding. Faces that pull her from the comforting darkness and into the light.

An avenue.

For a moment she sees her father; he points out the leaves overhead. She is a child in her stroller, a child absorbing every single detail. She sees the leaves and becomes them, submerges herself in them and their silky movement.

The faces in this narrow room are like the leaves. They form a canopy high overhead, full of rustling movement and a teasing wind. The faces look at her as she lies there like a dried-up worm, wedged between the body pillow and the wall. A pair of hands throw open the curtains糖心传媒攁 window fills with light.

糖心传媒淕ood morning! Time to get up,糖心传媒� a light voice says.

The face leans in very close糖心传媒攊t糖心传媒檚 a woman糖心传媒檚 face.

Mother opens an eye. The other is crusted over with pus. She looks at the faces and her toothless mouth whispers a few syllables in greeting. Mother is afraid of the daytime, afraid of the daily routine. She糖心传媒檒l be rolled over, picked up, moved, washed糖心传媒攊t hurts and it makes her uneasy. Mother wants to tell them she doesn糖心传媒檛 understand why she needs to get up anymore. She糖心传媒檚 tired, but they won糖心传媒檛 leave her alone.

糖心传媒淎nd the worst is she somehow gets in there with her left hand. She grabs and tears at the diaper and then smears shit all over the place. She糖心传媒檚 out of her mind. I糖心传媒檝e got to change the bedding twice a day糖心传媒攁ll of it.糖心传媒�

Mother closes the one eye and pretends this talk isn糖心传媒檛 about her. For several years now her good eye has been covered by a film, a rapidly swirling fog with tiny black spots.

糖心传媒淵ou have to figure something out. I糖心传媒檓 sure you can do something like tie a shirt over her chest,糖心传媒� says a second voice that糖心传媒檚 lower, infused with darkness.

Mother likes that voice better.

糖心传媒淪he doesn糖心传媒檛 get in from the top, but from the bottom along her thigh. The entire bed is flooded by morning. She pees so, so much. And if there糖心传媒檚 shit I can糖心传媒檛 even come in here without gagging. You wouldn糖心传媒檛 believe the smell,糖心传媒� the first voice complains, white and clear as a ray of light.

You can糖心传媒檛 hide from that voice, so Mother just shuts her eye tighter.

糖心传媒淢aybe like something for a baby. A onesie that buttons up the sides.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淲on糖心传媒檛 work. Since the last treatment she糖心传媒檚 completely lost it. Look at how small she is糖心传媒攂ut she糖心传媒檚 heavy, as heavy as a rock. She糖心传媒檚 dead weight, ten times heavier than me. I make her stand up so her legs won糖心传媒檛 totally atrophy. A few minutes a day. When I come home from work I have her sit up. You can糖心传媒檛 believe how hard it is. I糖心传媒檝e sprained my back糖心传媒攊t hurts. No, no, no. No onesies, no pants. She can糖心传媒檛 even lift her legs. It would just mean extra clothes for me to wash. No, no, no. I had an idea yesterday糖心传媒擨糖心传媒檒l secure the diaper with electrical tape. Or a wide strip of duct tape. What do you think?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou can糖心传媒檛 do that, Mom. Her skin will get infected.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou think so? Well, then I don糖心传媒檛 know.糖心传媒�

Mother pretends she is dead. Pretends this stupid conversation isn糖心传媒檛 about her. People only talk like that about children who misbehave. She糖心传媒檚 not a bad child, never has been. No, no, no. [. . .]

Andrejs’s Religion

Andrejs very carefully took two fragile champagne flutes in his calloused hands and handed them to the woman. Then he took the card leaning against the wall behind the glasses and sat on a stool next to the small table. He studied the yellowed paper as intensely as a war refugee who糖心传媒檚 been pulled from the water and given a passport, and who can糖心传媒檛 believe this thing could save his life.

The card was drawn with lead pencil on regular notebook paper and then glued to cardboard. Its edges were decorated with barbed wire, which connected at the top in a knot around a red rose. The lettering For Ludmila糖心传媒擱uslans was separated by a date, in which the number two looked like a swan with a proudly curving neck. The drawing also had the North Star and the aurora borealis. Small lettering at the bottom read: She dreamt that in the Caucasus steppe糖心传媒�

So she wasn糖心传媒檛 an accountant! So that糖心传媒檚 where he糖心传媒檇 seen that handwriting and date before! How could he forget?

Andrejs asked:

糖心传媒淟耻诲尘颈濒补?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒渊别蝉.糖心传媒�

She sat on the opposite stool at the table and twirled a strand of hair around her finger. Like she was flustered, clueless. When she lifted her eyes to meet his, they were bright with tears.

糖心传媒淭hat糖心传媒檚 the last card my husband sent me.糖心传媒�

She wanted to tell him more, but he silenced her with an impatient gesture. He still couldn糖心传媒檛 decide if he should go home right away or later. If he started to talk now, it would mean he wouldn糖心传媒檛 go home until later.

But he started to talk. He hadn糖心传媒檛 become a heartless monster yet.

糖心传媒淵ou don糖心传媒檛 need to tell me. I drew this.糖心传媒�

The expressions on the woman糖心传媒檚 face changed as quick as the wind, chasing after one another like the shadows of falling leaves糖心传媒攚hile she sat very stiff and straight, her eyes searching his face to figure out what his words could mean.

糖心传媒淩uslans and I met at the Central Prison Hospital. He was already admitted when I was brought in. We were together for a week, or less, I don糖心传媒檛 remember. In any case no more than a week. I was there when he died.糖心传媒�

The woman let out a weak scream, and the tears finally overflowed. She wiped the wetness across her cheeks with the back of her hand. Andrejs handed her a towel, which she immediately bundled up into a kind of squirrel糖心传媒檚 nest and hid her face in it. He waited patiently for her to look up again.

糖心传媒淵ou could say I was the prison artist. I framed photographs by sewing plastic wires around the edges, drew on materials using safety pins and colored thread, etched wood, sketched. Ruslans found out and showed me your handwriting. Asked me to draw a card and write the words like you did. He really liked your handwriting. I recognized it right away, but thought that you worked at the prison as an accountant.糖心传媒�

The woman nodded feebly. She rummaged in a drawer without looking away from him and placed a candle on the table. She burned her fingers with the first match.

糖心传媒淭ell me how he died,糖心传媒� she said, her voice somber.

糖心传媒淗e died at night. I was writing a letter to my wife, he was lying down. I thought he糖心传媒檇 fallen sleep. Then he suddenly started coughing, ran to the door and banged on it like crazy. All at once, about a bucket of blood spewed from his mouth. And then he fell over. I lifted him a bit and held him, but he had already started with the death shakes. The guards came and took him away.糖心传媒�

There was a moment of silence.

糖心传媒淒on糖心传媒檛 worry, it happened quickly. He didn糖心传媒檛 suffer. It was over the second he ran to the door. Later the nurses said one of his pulmonary veins had burst.糖心传媒�

More silence.

糖心传媒淏ut he managed to send the card out. When糖心传媒檚 your birthday? Sometime in May, right?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淢ay second.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淎nd what糖心传媒檚 this about the Caucasus, if it糖心传媒檚 not a secret?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淗e was a really good person,糖心传媒� she finally said.

糖心传媒淚 know. So what about the Caucasus?糖心传媒�

The woman thought for a bit.

糖心传媒淪he dreamt that in the Caucasus steppe糖心传媒�
He lay still, a bullet in his breast . . .
And yet, I am Ruslan糖心传媒檚 now,
And will be faithful to my vow.糖心传媒�

Andrejs propped the card against the windowpane so its edges were surrounded by the reflection of the candlelight.

The woman said:

糖心传媒淲e liked poetry, like Pushkin糖心传媒檚 糖心传媒楻uslan and Ludmila.糖心传媒� I糖心传媒檇 read it to him when our kids were still little. Before he got mixed up in that damn gang and robbed that gas station糖心传媒� He was so surprised that there was a poem like that糖心传媒攁bout us, he said糖心传媒攋ust imagine! About us!糖心传媒�

The woman stood and opened the refrigerator. She pushed the champagne toward Andrejs, having suddenly grown very calm. He opened the bottle just as calmly and poured the chilled liquid into the glasses. In the reflection of the flame, the bubbles dancing in the sparkling wine seemed like lonely planets.