Just as alive as back then.
His hands would still be behind his back, even though it had been more than thirty seconds since the guard had removed the handcuffs and left the room. Andrejs grinned like an idiot every time—maybe Ieva didn’t notice, at least he liked to think so. Grinned like an idiot and rubbed his wrists.
Then—and then he’d rush to the bed and pull her into his lap like a cat, warmth all around and their scents mixed together. They’d sit for a long time, pressed into each other, filling each other’s contours, almost motionless. Breathing each other in.
And then they’d start to talk.
Finally Ieva would break free and they’d start to make dinner. Outside would be growing dark.
Like in that one song—just the two of them, alone in this world—what was that song? It doesn’t matter. There are so many songs like that and all the singers in the world sing about it.
But the feeling was so rare. It was like the world had just been created. And they were the first two people in it.
Two people protected by a barbed wire fence, dogs, and guns.
It had been so beautiful. As if Andrejs even understands anything about words, anything about the word “beauty,” for example, because no one ever really taught him the meaning of words. Everything he knows he knows from observation. Jesus!—who was going to teach words to a farm boy like him? “Get lost!” or “Take ’im, he’s in the way!”—behold, his lesson. Ieva added the word “beauty” to his vocabulary later, but she spoke differently; she was his Gospel. She would even read aloud to him at the Zari house. Books. At night! Before going to bed—like for a kid.
But that’s just how she was: she’d spend the day thinking and talking to herself, and at night she’d look for answers in books and even read aloud to him. And why not? It’s tough when you live out in the country, surrounded by black woods. Where the darkness quickly thickens in the snowless winters, and you can hear the constant rush of the ocean from the north. You could go crazy. But they had their little room and their large bed, and the yellow-painted light bulb hanging bare above them. And Ieva reading out loud to Andrejs. He’d warn her ahead of time that he’d fall asleep. That kind of reading reminded him of his mother’s lectures. Ieva was his Gospel, his mother—the Law. The only time his mother could hold him when he was little was at bedtime; the rest of the time she could neither control him, nor find him. Skis, a shotgun, a hunk of bacon, and his dog—that’s all he needed.
True, when Ieva read Knut Hamsun to him, he didn’t fall asleep so quickly. The woods, a dog, a girl. The dog shot dead in honor of the proud girl. Andrejs understood all of it, there was nothing to discuss.
There was also—who was it again—Trygve Gulbranssen, Beyond Sing the Woods. Another Norwegian writer. The woods, darkness, horses, and the proud Christina. And everything carried this sense of a larger, more respectable life. It was natural.
How beautiful, Ieva had said.
Beauty!
To her, the greatest beauty could be found in the thing Andrejs hated the most—some kind of statement or phrase. She’d read those phrases over and over again and almost tremble with joy.
Ridiculous.
Why spend so much time digging around words? Outside there was real life, the woods, a tractor, livestock, and most of all—a husband. Andrejs gave up so much for them to have a life together: his skis, his shotgun, and even the woods. Because they had to make ends meet, save money. But she just re-read sentences. What’s the big deal, he’d often ask, it’s a nice sentence, so move on! But it’s not something real. It was better to steer clear of fantasies, awful things that they were.
Like that novel The Idiot, which Ieva found particularly beautiful. Jesus Christ! The definition of boredom.
When she opened that book, he’d fall asleep without the tiniest hint of regret. Dostoevsky could mess with your mind, and let him, but you were responsible for paying attention and drawing that line when the time came. Andrejs remembers what the book looked like: a Soviet era publication with a bluish-grey canvas cover, with a really stupid-looking cherry red picture at one corner of a man and woman with tiny waists caught up in dance. Ieva was pregnant then. He remembers what she looked like just as well as he remembers the book. The soft skin of her round stomach, the silky, soft triangle at its base and her breasts, hard and protruding like the horns of a stag, and with large, dark tips. None of that tiny waist crap. At that time all Ieva would eat was sprats with rye bread. The effects of the pregnancy were like that—she’d make him run into town for sprats if there weren’t any in the fridge, even if it was the middle of the night. Downed them with rye bread like a madwoman. Lost a lot of weight. The doctors warned her, but nothing helped. She was stubborn.
They made love each night, and sometimes afterwards Ieva would read aloud.
It all happened in that one year—falling in love, a child, turning eighteen, a wedding, the collapse of the Soviet Union—boom! An entire lifetime over the course of twelve months. Ieva cried. The whole year. It’s no surprise Monta grew up so sensitive. If anything she’s neurotic, because Ieva spent the entire year crying. Pregnant women shouldn’t act like that, he’s convinced. Even if the empire collapses.
Monta was born while he was away. He’d driven out to the border to clear a forest in Nīkrace. He tore all the way back across Latvia to get back home to the Zari house once he heard the news. He wanted to bring his daughter home himself, in the tractor. Ieva wouldn’t let him, said she wanted to get home by taxi. Again with some kind of fantasy she’d gotten from a book.
When Andrejs met Ieva on the front steps of the hospital holding the baby, it seemed like several years had gone by instead of several days. Ieva looked disheveled and bright-eyed—unfamiliar. She had probably expected a flower from him, but he didn’t have one. She shouldn’t expect something from him that he wasn’t going to give.
He looked at his daughter—cute. He called for a taxi. So be it.
But he fell asleep in the cab. No surprise since he hadn’t slept much the last few nights. A cast-iron stove had smoked away in the loggers’ barracks, and all night there was nothing but charcoal and the howling of the village dogs. Now and then he’d light a cigarette and listen to the snoring of the other workers. The heavy night pressed the smoke down and constricted his chest. But maybe it had been from the excitement that he now had a daughter.
The taxi driver woke him when they were already back at the house:
“Wake up, Dad! You should’ve carried your newborn in yourself!”
The yard was empty. Ieva had already run inside with the baby to hide her tears.
He’d slept through it.
Ieva, of course, was silent for the next few days. His daughter obviously meant nothing to him if he could just fall asleep like that. Did he do it on purpose? Wasn’t he happy? He was happy; he just couldn’t show it on the outside like everyone else.
In his opinion, Ieva’s sadness was a huge cover for how spoiled she was. Both of her parents had worked and her mother had migraines, so they couldn’t keep both Ieva and her little brother. They had sent Ieva off to the countryside to live with her grandmother, but that’s where all hell had broken loose. She hadn’t had real life conditions there, the way he saw it. It was like living in a conservatory. Books. Laziness. The sea. Her Gran did everything for her. And the little princess just lay on the couch, reading—and from the age of four!
Andrejs hated know-it-alls. Smart people. Writers. Who needs them? Fine, everyone can come up with one great thought in their lifetime, a single, strong thought that’s their own. You can’t run on empty, so to speak. Something goes on up there, all the time.
Alright—two great thoughts in a lifetime, like Andrejs had.
Yes, he can count two great thoughts of his. The first is the one he’d love to remind Ieva