1
The cobblestones are dry. The street breathes slowly and expands under the fog. The ground underfoot is uneven. As I walk, my boots resonate on the ground, stifling other sounds. Click clack, click clack. My phone slips from my hand into my pocket. I was just talking to my mother. My name is Agne. I’m her. I want to think of myself as someone else. And, in a way, that’s what I am. I’ve been split in two. At home, I’m myself; here, someone else. I’m her. My eyes discern outlines; they define the intrinsic nature of things. They differentiate between light and shadow even as things get lost in the fog. Expand under the fog.
The landscape and the weather are somewhat deceptive and make me think that this is home. I’ve seen the same kind of clouds in my own back garden, my head bent back so far that my throat becomes constricted, as though it were twisted. As if one shouldn’t tilt their head back so far and should only look straight ahead or down. The sky creates a tangle that is difficult to unravel. How to convince yourself that the world is so wide as to be boundless? Look down. Look all around. The fog is so blindingly white that I have to squint. At times I lift my gaze – just for a moment. I count the birds circling overhead. There aren’t many, and they’re rather quiet, unlike back home. I’m used to – rather, Agne is used to – noisy, fidgety birds squabbling in the sky. When the noise is somewhere else, then all is quiet inside. There’s peace. Better the squabbling birds than squabbling in my soul. And the smells? When I close my eyes, it smells the same here. It smells like rain that is yet to come even though the sky is a frizzled and crumbling grey. Soon the hazy veil of clouds will crack open and pour its contents down your neck. She doesn’t have an umbrella.
Agne closes the snap fasteners on her raincoat so they don’t click against each other as she walks. She thinks back to the conversation she’s just had. Mother was out in the yard wearing Wellington boots. You could hear a rustling sound as she moved about. Her foot sank into a puddle in the high grass. She swore – even in her own back garden she didn’t know where to step. Then she would laugh and say that at least she had enough sense to wear Wellington boots. It had rained yesterday.
Agne imagines the radiance of Mother’s red Wellington boots and looks down at her own. No doubt it will rain here, too. It’s possible that the same clouds are now drifting in Agne’s direction, defying national borders and forests that are being cut down. Eventually they will wring themselves out here just as they did last night in the fruit orchard back home.
She is comforted by this thought.
It would be odd if it didn’t rain. One would get the feeling that a hallmark of the season was missing. Besides, a light rain would drive people off the streets. She prefers it when the streets are empty. Scat!
‘The cat is fine,’ Mother had mentioned earlier. Agne was studying the walls along Literature Street, which were covered with small works of art. Plaques, displaying the names of Lithuanian writers, their dates of birth and dates of death. There is nothing like this in Estonia.
Before the phone call, Agne had taken a few photographs to show Mother later. She didn’t know where this habit came from, to take a picture of something that becomes meaningless as soon as you get home. What will she do with the birth date of some writer? Do these numbers have a greater significance? The enthusiasm will fade. All that remains is a photo mimicking the moment.
‘He craves affection and snuggles up with me in bed. That’s how we watch TV together,’ can be heard from the phone.
Agne’s bed here is cold. She didn’t bring anyone along. She hasn’t found anyone here to warm her bed.
She hasn’t watched the news.
There’s a TV in the hotel room, but all she would hear is a language she doesn’t understand.
‘He went outside, too. Scurried around a bit and got soaking wet. Then he scratched at the door like a good-for-nothing. He shook out his little paws one at a time.’ Agne listened and smiled. She stepped over a sweet wrapper, even though a voice in her head told her to pick it up. Then why didn’t she? A gust of wind blew the wrapper further away. A raven flew down from the top of a maple tree, looked askance at the colourful scrap and hopped closer. Agne looked away. ‘And how are you doing over there?’
A group of children ran by, followed by a teacher wearing a dark devil’s mask. Agne stepped aside. Such odd customs, chasing schoolchildren through the Old Town late in the morning. Were they playing tag? Or did this have something to do with All Souls’ Day, when someone plays the role of an evil spirit? But it’s only the beginning of October.
‘I’m OK,’ Agne replied. She added that she is enjoying being anonymous. ‘Nobody knows me. I’m just a face in the crowd.’ I am Agne. I am her. It’s as if I don’t exist.
‘But you must have met someone? You’re not entirely alone?’ Mother was concerned. That’s understandable. But still annoying. Had Agne given Mother any reason for concern? She has always been able to look after herself. She flew the nest a long time ago.
‘No, I’m not alone.’ Get-togethers, chats online and in cafés. But these conversations weren’t about forming lasting relationships. And honestly, she had no regrets about this. It was liberating to be anonymous, to move about independently, free to choose where to go or what to do. Soon she’d be home again, and, like it or not, she’ll be bound by someone, whether they be debtors or confidants.
The city is waiting to be discovered. Home isn’t going to disappear.
The remaining time must be spent purposefully. The departure date is approaching. Be that as it may. She has spoken with Mother. Mother isn’t going to disappear.
Agne begins to walk towards Bernardine Garden, which she has yet to visit. She passes some souvenir shops and a couple of cafés. It’s hard to walk on the cobblestones. From time to time she catches them wrong, and that can be quite painful. She can already see the gates to the gardens. Soon she can sit.
Before she feels it, Agne sees the fine misty rain making lacy patterns on the cobblestones. She stops and tilts her head back to ascertain the mood of the sky. Her skin becomes damp. Deeply she breathes in the moist air, then exhales. Bernardine Garden is across the street; behind her is the Old Town. She feels like she’s home, and at the same time that she’s not. Somewhere in between.
She breathes in freedom and breathes out worries. Getting around Old Town in Vilnius is easier than in Tallinn. Wandering about aimlessly, you eventually end up back where you started. She doesn’t worry about getting lost. She only worries that the clouds are teasing but are not fulfilling their promise. She doesn’t notice that someone is watching her.
2
It isn’t always enough to wait.
It’s easy to string together comforting sentences, but they don’t make sense because their content is merely hypothetical.
It will happen. Yes you can.
Ominous clouds gather and hang low over the Old Town. Suddenly the skies open. Rain pours down the backs of pedestrians like a waterfall, their clothes cling to their bodies as if in a vacuum. In no time they are drenched to the skin, and some look around for shelter, but not Q. Instead, he is closely observing the woman in the red boots who appears confused as she looks both ways, then leaps over a puddle. Still she lands in water, which continues to pour from the sky. Unable to flow away fast enough, the rainwater is pooling into streams. The woman isn’t afraid of the rain.
Q steps closer.
The woman swears. Water has seeped into her boots even though they are new. Water always finds a weak spot and starts to chip away at it. Fortunately the October air is relatively warm, but still her hands are cold from the rain, her hair sticks to her forehead and water is streaming down her face. Cars driving by inadvertently splash the people on the pavement. The woman is quick to react and pulls back in time to avoid getting drenched. Q catches the woman’s attention. He cuts her off. ‘You have a very kind face.’ The woman hears him but doesn’t say anything at first. She furrows her brow. Q would be content just to hear her voice. To try to reconcile it with his imagination. When the woman steps aside, Q becomes distraught. He repeats, ‘A kind face. Very kind.’
The woman wets her lips hesitantly. What did she do to attract this man’s attention? She only tried to escape the rain. She would like to cross the street, but the signal is red, and besides, there is another puddle to jump over. She takes a faltering step back, and finally utters the words ‘Thank you’.
The crossing turns green. The woman rushes to the other side of the street. Cars stop. She nods to them in gratitude, adjusts the bag hanging from her shoulder and arranges her hood over her hair. She wipes away raindrops from her face. The world around is soaking wet but clear. She wanted to be an invisible outsider, but still someone noticed her and even approached her. Just like at home. Bernardine Garden is to the left, but she doesn’t dare go there. The crossing signal is flashing. She doesn’t look back. The rain muffles the sound of footfalls.
Q is enchanted by the woman’s red boots. They are particularly attractive in contrast with the grey cityscape. He stares after them awkwardly. Did he say something wrong? His only objective was to speak to the woman. They could have exchanged a few more words. Why didn’t it go that way?
He meant no harm, he tried to be polite.
Q pushes his hat higher up on his forehead to stop the rain from dripping into his eyes. He wipes his brow with the back of his hand and can’t shake the resemblance. No, that woman wasn’t Nora, but they had something in common. Not the boots. They belonged entirely to the woman who was now rushing to get away from him, but maybe it was the way she walked. Maybe it was the kindness in her face that disappeared as soon as Q spoke to her. She wasn’t Nora. That means that his search must continue. Q’s hope was that one fine day he would run into Nora and they could talk, tie up loose ends and then let everything go. So that nothing is left to cause pain. Right now Q feels like he’s being torn apart.
Mother had been opposed to this. She had suggested that he talk to somebody. ‘With somebody who knows how to help you.’ Q had not wanted to pour his heart out, especially to a stranger, but Mother kept on at him. She insisted that he get everything off his chest and not leave feelings inside to fester. ‘You will feel better.’
Q had shaken his head. The long-forgotten petulant child within answered, ‘I don’t want to.’
‘You must.’ Mother’s eyes softened as she sighed, ‘You must get better.’
But just now, when from his window Q saw Nora walking by, he forgot Mother’s admonitions. Q ran straight out into the street where he couldn’t believe his eyes, and rightly so, because it wasn’t Nora. But despite this small misperception, there was something about the woman that compelled him to follow her. Stealthily he crept closer. He watched as she meandered along side streets, spoke to someone on her phone, was taken aback by the rush of noisy schoolchildren. She wasn’t Nora, but he was spellbound by the likenesses that flashed enticingly before his eyes. Maybe this woman knew Nora, had seen her, had spoken to her. Maybe she could direct Q to Nora.
Oblivious to what he is doing, Q crosses the street. Ahead flash the woman’s red boots, at once cautioning and alluring.
Q stops. No, this isn’t right. He knows that this isn’t Nora. That it’s someone who doesn’t know anything about Q. Continuing to follow her would only serve to frighten her.
I’m not that person, he thinks to himself.
I am self-possessed and good.
I mean no harm to anyone.
When did he last see Nora? It was several months ago – still not long enough for time to heal the wounds. No, the wounds are still raw and smarting. As if salt has been rubbed into them.
Q remembers his sister’s words, ‘Don’t see ghosts where there are no ghosts. Let her go.’
With one hand he grasps the lapels of his coat just under his throat and squeezes. He squeezes in such a way that his knuckles press into his windpipe. This isn’t right. Q is angry that he has been left alone; on the other hand he feels ashamed of his behaviour, which has pushed him to the limit. He is lost between the extremes. He swims, but seemingly against the current.
Why is it so hard to change yourself?
Wistfully Q tilts his head back, lets go of his lapels and catches his breath. Rain falls into his eyes. His field of vision is blurred. He continues to watch as the unknown woman walks away. Bernardine Garden is right here, but she doesn’t appear to be heading there after all. Q feels that he is to blame. His ears are ringing. His heart is racing. Then he watches as the woman grabs a rowan tree growing in the green space next to the street, and with a simple motion pulls it out of the ground with one hand, roots and all.
Q blinks his eyes in bewilderment. His vision is still blurry. Is it true what he sees? His mouth drops open in astonishment. Just in case, he looks around to see if anyone else has seen what he just saw. To confirm that it’s true. He wants to cry out and shout. He is left gasping for air from the shock.
The woman lifts the rowan above her head and carries it like an umbrella, the roots dangling and dragging behind her.
The ringing in his ears is replaced by rustling. Q pinches his arm. He looks around blindly for something to lean against, to catch his breath.
It’s not possible.
He blinks his eyes so fast that it’s almost painful.
Q rips off the scarf from around his neck and unzips his jacket. Who would carry a rowan as an umbrella? The rain would go right through it.
Maybe he’s mistaken. It’s a regular umbrella. It’s … But there’s a hole in the ground, the soil is spread out like someone has been digging.
Red. All he sees is red.
Maybe it was Nora after all? Should he run after her? Nora’s red umbrella. Nora’s red boots. Nora’s kind face.
He had good reason to follow her. It’s not possible that he was so mistaken by what he saw from the window.
Or did he see? Maybe he wasn’t paying attention, didn’t make certain whether or not it could be Nora.
The woman is walking away.
At their last meeting, Nora walked away from him the same way.
Q takes a step closer, then stops and shakes his head. Illusion. It must be an illusion. Mother said that Nora messed up his head and that recovery will take time. Baby steps. A slow pace. Restraint.
Q presses his fingers on to his temples and tries to focus on what’s real.
Asphalt under his feet. Wind. Rain. His jacket. I am real. Cars. A distant scream. He pinches himself. I am real. He opens his eyes and stares at the end of the street. Red boots shimmering like will-o’-the-wisps. But no, they might just be the headlights of an oncoming car. Cars are real. The rain is real. The way back.
Q spins around on his heel. Time to get back to work. They will be wondering where he’d disappeared to. He can lie and say he went out for a cigarette. In a downpour? He found a doorway where he could smoke. But he doesn’t reek of smoke. Maybe he should buy a packet of cigarettes as proof, but he’s not a smoker. Borrow from someone? Press a burning butt against his jacket. Proof. Find a butt on the ground, to hold, to show. But the ground is wet. It’s still raining. There. There! He can’t see her face, but maybe this time it’s her.
‘Nora,’ Q mumbles.
The woman walks past him.
Q looks after her.
Something is knocking on his conscience. Knocking insistently, but it’s not a good idea to open doors to strangers.
Maybe this time he wasn’t mistaken.
Maybe this time he was right.
Translated by Tiina Otema
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Aliis Aalmann (b. 1995) is a poet and prose writer. Her debut collection Verihaljas (Blood-Green, 2021) received the Betti Alver Literary Prize, while Väe võim (The Power of Force, 2023) won the Gustav Suits Poetry Prize. She has also received the Friedebert Tuglas Short Story Award. This English translation is the first time this piece has been published anywhere in any language.