Ada was always the person closest to me, one way or another. Still is. We never talked much, but when we did, we immediately had a sense of what the other was thinking. At least, I think we did, since we never exactly made sure we did. Our intimacy came from a kind of quiet comfort – almost a sense of well-being.
I felt that way for the first time in childhood. Yes, she was older than me, but at that moment she happened to overhear a conversation.
‘You’re not allowed to look in there!’
‘It’s my sister’s bag!’
‘Exactly. Your sister’s bag.’
‘What did I say, then?’
‘Your sister’s, not yours.’
‘I want to know what she got.’
‘Then ask her.’
‘Maybe she doesn’t want to say.’
‘There you are.’
Looking back, it seems I was wiser at eight than I am now. Although what sort of wisdom is that, really? Ordinary, everyday politeness. Respect for another person. Ada had a way of noticing things like that, and afterwards she told me so in private. Just a few words, one-on-one, but I came away feeling like it mattered. Her approval mattered to me.
I was so awfully, terribly fond of her, as fond as a boy of around ten can be of a forty-year-old woman – that was our age difference. We never poured our hearts out to each other, but then she said the things I would have wanted to say. She wasn’t particularly talkative. Sometimes, overhearing some conversation, I’d feel a mounting restlessness and want to do something, or leave, or argue back, but then I’d notice Ada begin to fidget, smile or shake her head – in any case, even when she said nothing, she spoke, through her gestures, the same language as my own restlessness, and when she did speak, I would be thinking the same thing. My own ragged thoughts, scattered among the stones, arrived at the same places, but much more slowly. It could be that I simply agreed with her in the moment, adopting her views as I went along.
Thirty years passed, during which time we met perhaps three times a year, mostly as part of a large group. We had superficial conversations but barely even spoke to one another, and yet I believed she might well be the person closest to me. Or perhaps I only felt that. It struck me as somehow generous, that she was a precondition for my existence, for my way of thinking.
The years did their work. Or what the fuck kind of work is that, really? What work is it? Anyway, they had their way. Ada fell ill. Very ill. I knew it, but we weren’t officially connected in any way, we weren’t relatives or anything, we’d never been friends in a formal sense, but I couldn’t bear it any longer in the end, and I went to see her.
The lights were dimmed, and the room was filled with all kinds of clutter – bric-a-brac and towels and mugs and tubs and old clothes – and the whole set-up gave the impression that there ought to have been a copper teapot somewhere, only I don’t think there was. The ceiling felt threateningly low. It seemed almost as if once she’d become sick, her home had started to close in on her. Her relatives helped a bit. Right to the very end she could still go to the loo on her own and all that, but someone had to bring food, and at a certain point fetching fresh blankets from the cupboard became the caretakers’ job. In the end they had taken all her belongings out, set it all down on the floor and the sofa and the tables, and all these things lay scattered around Ada’s single room, turning it into a burrow with a couple of narrow paths running through it.
I didn’t know what to say.
‘I was thinking … been a while since I saw you.’
‘You won’t be seeing much of me any longer.’
She was still brutally direct, even though everyone remembers her as one of the politest and gentlest of people. She was terribly direct, she just didn’t lay out her thoughts very often, but when she did speak, she spoke straight – although, yes, still politely and gently.
‘Well, yes.’
‘So how are you, then?’
‘Ah, you know, the usual. I’m midway upon the journey of my life. Work and some relationship business and … a bit of a mess, to be honest. The present in retrospect, as it were.’
‘Within a forest dark. Yes, I know.’
I was terribly glad she caught the reference. Of course she did. I felt a tear pricking the corner of my eye. I cry easily – always have.
‘And what was it like?’ We were quiet for a bit. ‘Well, living.’
We were silent for a long time.
‘Well, surely you know,’ she said at last. She could only speak very softly. The wall clock went on ticking with complete lack of tact.
‘So that’s how it is?’
‘I think so.’
We fell silent again.
‘There’s still something,’ she added. ‘I believe that you will understand. I sort of know what it is, but I haven’t the strength to put it into words any more.’
‘I should have come sooner.’
‘Even then I wouldn’t have cared to put it into words. I’d probably have known how to say it, though. I believe you know, too.’
‘Yes. Maybe. Well, there you have it.’ But I didn’t really know either. Or if I did, I didn’t know that I knew.
We were quiet. The clock ticked. I thought I might ask when Aino was coming to see her, or whether I could bring her anything, or or or, but I didn’t in the end. I decided that if there were any important practical matters, she would say so. Soon, none of them would matter, that was clear enough.
Ada sighed and closed her eyes. The sun sank lower. I was glad I had come after all.
‘You know,’ she said at last, ‘I’ve got you mixed up in all this.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you’ll have to help bury me. The way I prefer.’
‘Of course I’ll help.’
‘Actually, you don’t have to. You can refuse, even afterwards. Don’t promise anything now.’
‘Very mysterious.’
She was quiet for a moment. ‘You’ll get a small inheritance and instructions for my funeral.’
‘There’s really no need for that.’
‘Which?’
Er.
‘Listen, the inheritance will barely cover your expenses. Don’t fret. I’d gladly leave more, but I haven’t got it. This house – this shack, really – goes to my daughter, and it isn’t worth anything.’
‘That isn’t why.’
‘I can’t be bothered to be polite.’
‘To be honest, neither can I.’ I didn’t entirely understand why she said it, but never mind. I backed her up.
Ada stretched her hand out. A slight movement: her forearm remained where it was, but the hand rose from the wrist, fingers extended slightly. I slipped my hand under hers. Her hand was very small. Very dry and brittle.
We sat there. That is, she lay there.
Some time passed.
I squeezed her hand and said, ‘Listen, I hope you die soon.’
Ada smiled. Warmly and gratefully. She smiled the way she always smiled when she agreed with me. I mean, she smiled differently each time, but the emotional force was always right for me. A tear dripped from the corner of her eye. I knew exactly what kind of tear it was. It makes you cry, doesn’t it, when someone is unexpectedly good to you. That poem by Juhan Liiv, for instance – you come in from town, everything is relatively fucked, there is no vision, any perspective on the future dissolves into a shimmering patch of white shit, and then someone lets you into a cosy room, gives you something hot to eat and asks how you’re getting on. I would burst into tears immediately. Or maybe not immediately simply because of that, but when you feel that care, real care … especially if you hadn’t thought to expect it. That’s how Ada cried, because she was fucking tired. She was absolutely glad I was on her side. That probably didn’t surprise her, but still … You know what I mean. Ada would never have said ‘fucking tired’, but she was definitely thinking that in the moment. And she never held expressions like that against me. Our language, manner of expression, was different, but something was still very much the same. She was like a violin, and I was some bloody, I don’t know, zither-thing or oboe or, at best, an electric guitar, but we were playing the same tune in the same orchestra and everything worked.
‘I think we suited each other rather well,’ Ada confirmed. ‘I’m tired now.’
‘You are dear to me,’ I said, and squeezed her hand once more. She squeezed back, but only briefly, in that way that meant yes, yes, but do get going now, I’m worn out.
So I went. The next day Ada was dead.
That same day I received an official letter. And honestly, I did everything exactly as instructed.
There was quite a lot to figure out, of course. At first I started rushing around madly. For instance, I bought some bathroom scales to weigh her on. Overkill: I could have estimated her weight. I couldn’t think of any other way to do it and I didn’t have the money either. The inheritance was due to be transferred a little later. I lifted her into my arms and stepped on the scales. Then I weighed myself. Subtracted. Only fifty-two kilos. That was supposed to make my life easier; I wasn’t in terribly good shape any more.
She had thought the whole thing through quite a long time ago. The organ donor card was signed and all, but by now she was so old and worn out that there was nothing to take. In some ways that made it simpler.
I was surprised by how matter-of-factly and soberly I handled the whole thing. Actually, I wasn’t surprised. I had thought that once it was all over the emotional pressure or backlash or whatever would have to come around in its own time.
I rented a car, bought her a veil and decided my old sunglasses really wouldn’t do the job. It took me a while to choose new ones, but in the end I was satisfied. I went to several shops and to the market. I did think I’d simply get large, cheap ones, but I spent quite a while choosing. I found the hat in her wardrobe. A surprise, that, although not everything had yet been taken out of the cupboards. I rented the car and drove to a forest near Riga. Not very close by. Why Riga? Because that was what she wanted. Abroad, after all. I had picked out the exact spot on Google Maps beforehand. She had climbed into the armchair to die so that I could – as she said in the letter! – toss her into the boot with an easy conscience, but, of course, I put her on the seat beside me instead. (I had been lucky. The undertaker/corpse-primper only turned up at the very end of the working day; something had happened – I don’t know whether to do with work or in his personal life or what. He was plainly nervous and agitated, and he was furious when he found that Ada was sitting upright. Well, how else was I supposed to get her into the coffin? Anyway, I showed him the papers, assured him the coffin would not be opened – there was a corresponding note in the paperwork – and told him I could manage and would manage respectfully, so he needn’t worry. I rather suspect and hope the whole thing niggled him a little, but he left me the coffin and cleared off by the end of the day. And when he came the next morning, I was there and the coffin was ready, properly closed. The corpse-fixer took the coffin away, and I lifted Ada out of the wardrobe into the car, and we set off.)
To be honest, Sin City came to mind, and I wanted the whole enterprise to have a bit of style at least. So she sat beside me (I had had the sense to abandon the veil before getting her into the car), wearing sunglasses and a hat. No one passing took any notice. Perhaps my hypersensitivity on that score had started working in the opposite way from usual. Under normal circumstances I would have imagined that everyone would be staring. I myself didn’t so much as glance sideways at her. I tried talking to her, but that felt wrong. We drove in silence.
In short, I drove to a forest near Riga, went into the city by public transport, visited the zoo, made my plans, took a taxi, which dropped me at the crossroads five kilometres away, walked back to the car and had something to eat. I ate a lot. Slept a bit. Ate some more. Then I went, let’s not lie, to have a shit in the forest. I tried to tuck the heap under a tree root. I think I did well enough. Not very deep, but it was covered, and I didn’t think anyone would step there. A neat job, more or less.
My heart was pounding, of course. But all in all everything went smoothly. Naturally Rigor mortis did make carrying her somewhat more difficult. I had thought I’d be able to sling her over my shoulders – one leg hanging down in front of one shoulder and one arm over the other – but now I had to lug her, like a carrot – a bent carrot, since she was in a sitting position. Somehow I managed. But there were two tough moments. No, there were no alarms at the zoo back then, but bloody predators are enough of an alarm in themselves. Anyway, I absolutely should have taken the stepladder with me on the first trip and then Ada on the second. Fucking fool that I am, I did it the other way round, and those fucking animals roared so loudly I thought every law-enforcement officer in Latvia would soon be swarming all over the place. Truly an awful experience. I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone. There ought to be some legal provision for these events so that faithful friends wouldn’t have to bury someone like thieves under the cover of night.
Then there were psychological problems when it came to undressing Ada. But, of course, I couldn’t throw her over the fence with all her clothes on. I had underestimated the effects of rigor mortis. I simply couldn’t get her clothes off. In the end I had to tear some of them. It wasn’t easy. It was, in fact, horribly hard. I would very gladly have taken some time out to weep with rage, and I wanted to smash something to pieces, but I kept myself in check and did what needed to be done. Or rather, the urge to cry was buried under such a thick layer of determination that I barely noticed it. I had to concentrate, and so I concentrated. A fear throbbed in the back of my mind as to what it would feel like to be caught. Completely fucked. Some particularly sick necrophiliac. But I was carrying out the last wish of the person I loved.
It was still terribly hard to throw her. But I had thought it all out beforehand. I couldn’t lower her down with rope; that wouldn’t be any more dignified. I hardened my heart, made it as hard as the surface she hit with a loud thud.
Of course, I didn’t stay to watch.
No, I can’t say I didn’t feel sick. I did. And I couldn’t run straight. I staggered away somehow. When I really put my mind to it I could manage twenty steps or so pretty well. But I couldn’t hold myself together for long; pretty soon I was reeling again. And although I had told myself a hundred times that I had to obey every traffic regulation while driving, festina fucking lente, I knocked over a rubbish bin. Fortunately it didn’t do any damage to the car. I didn’t bother to set the bin upright again; I tore off, tyres squealing, and two blocks later I managed to bring my speed back within the limit. It was terribly hard to slow down, since I had just been racing, and once you’ve been racing, it already feels as though you’re being chased. I only checked there were no dents the following day.
But the worst was still to come.
That whole recycling project I was able to carry out in secret, of course. True, the question arose as to what the point of doing it all in secret was; people ought to hear about it. But I decided Ada must have wanted it done that way simply for the joy of doing it. For the hell of it. Or because she considered it right, and a right act is right in any case – whether or not anyone hears about it or understands it. And she did make it into the horror stories in the tabloids, albeit without a name and, regrettably, without a face. And the newspaper’s messaging was not quite what Ada herself had in mind. But that was her own decision.
Anyway, to come back to my own trials and tribulations. At the funeral I had to recite a poem. The relatives were reluctant for me to do so, but I was already beginning to gain some recognition as a poet, and that helped me get, so to speak, on to the stage, helped me force the matter through. Besides, Ada had mentioned to her relatives that she wanted me to speak at the funeral.
There is no doubt: it was the hardest performance of my life to date. Just imagine having to read in front of all those people – most of whom are genuinely broken-hearted over the deceased, although quite a few have that broken heart draped in the heavy coverlet of propriety – a poem in memory of the dear departed. Moustachioed old men – with suit jackets buttoned only once because funerals come around so rarely, and somehow the old suit still does the job, no point buying a new one, let alone losing weight – stare at you in profound incomprehension. Ladies squeeze the handles of their handbags and press their lips into a line, try to destroy you with their eyes, but without full conviction as to whether they ought to destroy you – because they know Ada liked me. Perhaps the moment really calls for being moved? She invited me to her funeral herself. How often have you been to a funeral to which the deceased had invited the guests personally, eh? A few fidgety young people who, to be honest, are partly indifferent and partly afraid of the solemnity and the mourning, afraid it might be catching, that it might rub off on them. Everything is so serious and weighty that the young are afraid to consider their own mortality and become all the more distant and superior.
Somehow in self-defence. But that worry, that alien unease, can find a way past their defences and start to burrow, make a nest and put down roots that can’t be dug out. Maybe not as the grief for this particular person – you get over that, after all – but a more general unease. A nameless anguish. A certain heaviness. You don’t want that kind of thing bypassing your defences. Of course you don’t. Imagine all those other funeral-goers you have undoubtedly seen, and think what it would be like to read them a poem. You can’t start laughing. You mustn’t start crying. You can’t run away. You can’t be ridiculous. It mustn’t seem in any way half-hearted – ah well, get it over with. You can’t overdo it. Did you notice that in talking to you about it I started addressing you – or myself – formally? Or not? Well, anyway, it’s complicated.
And the poem contained the lines:
Oh how ghastly, oh how drear –
our Ada just ain’t here.
That’s right, ‘ain’t’. I would never write a poem like that, you understand.
On our shoulders there has settled
the weight of empty endlessness.
I’d want to add straight after, ‘with fists clenched tight in our pockets, / good whisky sloshing in our flasks’, and even though that completely ignores palatalization and is pretty lame and faulty, that kind of fault would be mine, not like that ‘ain’t’. I am absolutely certain Ada knew that.
How could anyone ever thus
set out upon the road beyond.
What the fuck, Ada? What the fuck? In short, that poem was sheer torture, but I did recite it. People didn’t know what to say or do about it. They probably would have known if I had allowed the sincere expression I had carefully arranged across my face to slip. But I held out. And when I came to the last lines –
Now she has left us
what now, what now?
– I burst into tears and felt how awfully, terribly, intensely I loved Ada. In the present tense, love her still – where would that go? And because the poem was over and it simply happened, I was allowed to do this. To cry.
Everyone knew the coffin wasn’t to be opened. I don’t know how she had made that clear to her relatives, but she had. Otherwise people would have been taking photographs by the open casket, as if on a lion hunt. I’d packed the rubble in, all right, but one younger man, some brisk little entrepreneur with round cheeks, stumbled somehow while lowering the coffin into the grave, and the stones shifted and started to roll inside. Quite a distinctive clatter. The coffin like a soundbox. The grave like an amplifier.
‘What … ?’ asked one of the people lowering the coffin.
Everything froze for a moment. Then everyone. Or what do I know? Time for me froze, in any case. I believe it did for others, too.
I blushed. Dear God, how on earth had I managed to make such a gigantic mess out of such a tiny thing. The finish line was so close, I had almost escaped, and now this. Packing rocks into place isn’t difficult. Why hadn’t I done it properly? Well, I had not yet got into the right operating mode when I was filling the coffin. At first I thought I’d use some of Ada’s blankets as padding, but then I began to fear the relatives might have a mental inventory of them and would start demanding to know where they were. Perhaps I should have used wood instead of rocks? Of course I should have. Now those stones will stay where they are, and one day, I hope after my death, someone will ask what the hell they’re doing there.
‘Hey!’ I said imperiously, my voice a little hoarse. My flaming-red face and honest tears left no room for doubt. The coffin was lowered into the grave. Soil was thrown on top of the lid – at first as though a pinch of herbs were being scattered over a simmering pilaf, then more quickly, as if hay were being pitched into a collective-farm byre for the cows. There – have your soil, then. But the soil did not get Ada. The hyenas did.
So that was that. Ada was a strange woman. Much stranger than the woman I had until then thought I’d known.
Oh yes – tossing the funeral wreath went somewhat awry. I hadn’t drunk much, two shots, but all that emotion flared up in me, and I was still in quite a state. I shouted that whoever got hit by the wreath would be next, and made ready to throw it. People started screaming and ran for it – anyway, I did manage to liven up the otherwise rather dull ritual a little. I hadn’t expected such a quick reaction. I adjusted my grip to hurl the wreath after them like a discus thrower. They were now huddled at the far end of the old school canteen, trying to hide behind one another’s backs. I threw it so badly that the wreath bounced off a pillar, one of those square factory-style columns, and ricocheted back to me. I’m next.
Hadn’t it always been that way? Fuck it.
A few men now started marching towards me, or rather, creeping. They wouldn’t have started a fight anyway, it being a funeral. Maybe they’d have thrown me out and given my backside a kick. I showed them the part of Ada’s letter – I had made a copy just in case – where she demanded the funeral-wreath game. The wreath itself was small and light, made especially for the purpose.
I didn’t stay long after that. And I’ve had nothing to do with her relatives since. They probably got a proper wake going after I left.
Translated by Ian Gwin
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jüri Kolk (b. 1972) is a poet, prose writer and translator. His prose often brings tenderness into contact with dark comic absurdity. He has received the Juhan Liiv Poetry Award, the Gustav Suits Poetry Prize and the Friedebert Tuglas Short Story Award.