DOOM 94 Page 10
But Tom, what will you do?
He wasn’t that interested in what everyone else was doing to try and set himself apart.
— I’ll sing.
And he turned back to the window, knowing that, for the time being, I didn’t have to say anything, that I was already enchanted, that I already knew it all anyway. I sat facing forwards, determined, not to watch for my stop — I was imagining an unexpected destiny, the one we’d been waiting for and the one we thought we deserved, the one we tend to be afraid of when we finally come face to face with it. But not me — I faced forwards, determined.
5
It was incredibly snowy and cold. My housemates and I were outside in the snow looking for the neighbour’s dog. It was an ancient spaniel; the dog had always been nice to me, and I liked to watch as he cautiously climbed the stairs back up to its flat each day. But now he was lost, out in the freezing night, and we went to help our neighbours look for him. I found him. He was trudging about in a snowdrift, his chin was white — I couldn’t tell if it was from the snow or from age. The dog raised its head and spoke to me in a low growl:
— Don’t worry. Stop tremble. It’s bugging me. Like you’re some kind of terrier bitch.
Then I woke up. Alone and freezing. Like I hadn’t slept well. Once I’d rubbed the sleep out of my eyes I remembered that I wasn’t at home. Right, I’d crashed at Zombie’s place last night. There’s the drawing of a man licking blood off a razor, and there’s the contorted face of a devil, posters for Deicide, Cannibal Corpse, Napalm Death. Very homey. I stood up.
In the morning I wake up and reach for my shoes.
But I look down and see I’m already wearing them.
My mom taught me that poem when I was little, and today it was true. Mom. Right. I was supposed to go with my mom to visit friends. That’s why I was here. I mean, no, my mom didn’t ship me off to watch horror films with metalheads, no. But that’s why I didn’t go with the rest of my friends to the Smilga dacha today. I was still bummed about it; it would have been a real metal-filled Saturday. Death had asked:
— Maybe you can still come?
While Zombie had snapped:
— What’s with you? Man up! I have other places I should be, too!
But I didn’t have the guts to ditch my mom. Which is why I was here now. What time was it? I walked through the apartment. It was empty. Not even Zombie’s mom was here. I called home. I won’t go into the details of the conversation, but when I hung up it was clear that I had to get home as soon as possible. I went back into the bedroom. I drank some water from a ceramic mug that had been set next to the bed, and looked for something to cheer me up. I spotted a collection of tapes, though pretty small compared to the mass amounts of VHS. There were a few good things here: Sepultura, Slayer, Pantera, but I’d already heard it all. Tristitia’s One in Darkness. That was exactly what I needed right now. Tin, tin, tin, tintirintin. I had to listen to the acoustic intro. One song can’t make you late for anything.
Why am I sitting here when I should be racing home? I went to the front door, but it was locked. Zombie’s door didn’t have one of those latchkeys, and you couldn’t open it from the inside. I remember him saying last night that I should just leave at the same time as his mom, if I was going to be a traitor. She usually left later in the day. But left she had, and without noticing me. The intro was over, and the song I’d been waiting for came on — metal always expressed whatever I was feeling at the moment. ‘Pray for forgiveness!’ Who was I going to pray to for forgiveness? I needed to get out of here, but I just sat and waited for the next song. I was ready to wait for ‘Hymn of Lunacy’, which is exactly halfway through the album, but I had to get back to Ozolnieki.
I was able to open the balcony door. Why was the world so bright? It was the first snow. I’d seen it in my dream, but my forgetfulness denied me that prophetic pride.
I looked down into the abyss. I was on the second storey. Two metres per storey, so four metres up. Or maybe it was three metres per storey? Then it was six, total. That was nothing. The ground was padded with soft snow and dog shit. If this were the fourth storey, like our apartment, then fine, it would be obvious that I couldn’t jump. But this was on the fence, and it was exactly the kind of fence I needed to get over. Would Zombie jump? He would, even if he had the key. They’d all jump, and then they’d ask me — why didn’t you jump, too?
This balcony was full of memories, of life. Pūpols had puked here, and the neighbour’s cat had eaten all the croquettes. Zombie’s fridge had stopped working, and the croquettes had been set out on the balcony. Zombie had blamed Death for the theft, his friends were always hungry when they came over, and Death went outside for a smoke more often than the rest of us. Death had been really offended, but we’d had a good laugh about it.
I stepped over the railing, clung onto it and slid down as far as I could. It couldn’t be that much farther to the ground. The music playing was still very appropriate for the moment. I jumped.
It happened fast. Once on the ground I tried to figure out if my plan had worked. Now I was lying facedown in snow or dog shit. I stood up, but fell back over, and my leg really hurt. And it didn’t just hurt; it wouldn’t listen to me. I rolled myself over carefully and lay on my back in the snow. And here we are.
I could hear ‘Hymn of Lunacy’ playing from inside the apartment. Finally. This here was true metal. Lying broken in the snow. I rolled onto my side — god, it hurt — I wanted to get a cigarette out of my pocket. Even though my lips were trembling, I wanted to put a cigarette between them, to keep up appearances in this monumental life-event. But I’d left my cigarettes upstairs. I’m not going to make it, mom, forgive me, I’m here all alone, my friends are gone, and I’m gone, forgive me, mom, come save me and I won’t hurt anymore.
Footsteps. Someone was coming. I tried to look inconspicuous, casual. It worked; the footsteps went past and faded away without indicating any real interest, though maybe picking up speed as they passed.
Upstairs, ‘Dance of the Selenites’ started. The last song:
Etheral, natural
Leave me your wings
Of dust, of muck, of moon and dirt!
Etheral, natural, I’ve never really understood what that really means, leave me your wings, now that’s what I’m talking about! It would be amazing to come back home with dirty moon-wings. But nothing happened, and it was only years later that I understood why. I’d misheard the lyrics a bit. What they were actually singing was:
Etherial noctua
Leening your wings
Of dust, of much, of mundane!
I heard more people coming. This time I sat up halfway. A group of thirty-somethings walked by, looking at me with forced smiles.
Then the last song ended. But I stayed where I was. I wished someone I knew would walk by. I wouldn’t want my friends to see me in a moment of weakness, but I wished they were here. Even Kārlis’ dad. Or Pūpols’ brother. They lived nearby. But the only people walking by was an unfamiliar, middleaged couple. They looked nice, and I said:
— Excuse me...
I was going to say something else, to explain somehow — but I didn’t get the chance because they walked right by me.
I forgot to add it was cold. The first snow was making a point of it. My poor body had melted it quickly, but it just froze again, and was covering me in a new layer. I didn’t want to lie there any more. When the next people came by, I spoke more directly:
— Excuse me, could you please...
And again, I didn’t need to finish my sentence because they walked on by, too. Students, old women, intellectuals. I had no shame left, and I announced:
— Help me, please... I broke my leg.
Those more sensitive turned their heads away, and I understood that I’d become an invisible and mute ghost. Even my leg felt more corporeal and real than ever before, rooted to the ground, reverberating with every footstep of every person who walked by.
— Pl
ease, can someone call my house, the number is...
Oh, girls! They weren’t bad-looking, either... It was an old fantasy of mine — to be injured in the company of girls. They’d think it was manly, they’d fawn over me like a wounded soldier. And offer themselves up to me, or whatever it is they do. They were almost close, lifting their feet like the Clydesdales.
— Hello, ladies! Could you please give me a hand, I broke my leg...
— Gah!
One of them screeched and took an elegant leap away from me. Her knees had an interesting shape to them. I promised myself that I’d remember those knees forever.
— Don’t be scared, it’s just me, I broke my leg, could you please...
They laughed, either about their friend’s reaction, or about me, I don’t know. I watched their backs as they walked away, and, almost like in my previous life, the one up there on Zombie’s balcony, it seemed I was seeing a bottomless pit taking shape, and though her bottom was still right there, and it was still interesting, it drew further and further away, swaying gently, and now I really was in a pit, bottom-less.
My lips were still trembling from the cold. My entire body was shaking, as were my thoughts. What was I going to do with just one leg? If I ever made it out of here. I remembered the first time I’d ever gone to the Square[ 1 ]. One of the first of the thousands of amazing things I saw there was a guy in a wheelchair. He had long hair and a leather jacket, and a beer in one hand. People were racing him around, taking sharp turns, some of them jumping on the back to ride along with him, and he looked happy. I watched him and remembered this kid, Andrītis, from back in kindergarten. I’d found him once in the playground behind the cypress trees, pressed up against the wall and crying. Andrītis had a lame leg, it hurt, and he couldn’t run around with the rest of us. Nothing on me hurt back then, but I didn’t want to run around, either. So he and I sat behind the trees and smashed rocks together. We were trying to make fire. I can clearly remember that Andrītis smashed his rocks, and they sparked.
But here and now, a car suddenly pulled up, very close, where cars weren’t supposed to pull up. The door opened and the music of Mikhail Krug filled the air. Two men got out of the car and approached me. They were both wearing patent leather shoes. This spoke volumes.
— What’re you doing down there?
I turned my head to them and tried to talk, but my teeth wouldn’t stop chattering.
— Why’re you on the ground, Rapunzel?
I managed to explain something to them. A hand grabbed me by the collar and pulled me to my feet. I tried to stand, but couldn’t. The hand, convinced I couldn’t stand on my own, let go, and I fell back into the snow. They men talked something over. A cigarette butt landed by my nose.
Someone grabbed me by the collar again, I lost contact with thehorizontal surface and rose into the air. The ground-level viewpoint I’d become accustomed to disappeared and was replaced by a face. Ho-ho, the face said. It was the kind of face I’d usually avert my eyes and cross the street to get away from. I’d never been this close to one of them, but I was literally in his hands.
I had no idea where he was taking me, dangling above the whole world like that. I managed to think — if only my friends came back just now, I’d say hello to them from the clutches of this massive, random thug. He brought me over to the car — it was a black BMW — and put me in the back seat. The other guy, short and stout, pulled me by the collar from the other door and sat me upright. Then they both got in up front, and we drove off. A few lucky charms dangled from the rear-view mirror: an icon, a rosary, a miniature skull and a naked doll. I could also see both of their leather-clad shoulders and their shaved heads. They both seemed to be older than me.
Mikhail Krug stopped singing. The tape had died. The short, stout one cried out in dismay:
— Hey, it stopped! It stopped!
And he started to pound the entire radio panel with his fist. The tall guy told him he’d tear his guts out, explained that the stereo wasn’t the problem, and told him to put in a different tape. Then he braked suddenly, stuck his head out the window and shouted:
— Oho, yeah, shake that ass!
I didn’t even try to look, though it would have probably been worth it. It was enough to observe the two of them, and now and then I just wanted to close my eyes and my ears. They both smoked non-stop and were always in motion. The short one was swearing about the four-tape collection, unable to pick one. The tall one was talking about some mysterious character who was a ‘little cunt, shit, getting in-fucking-volved with the cops, fuck’. It was all so fascinating, that I didn’t even want to ask where we were going. I stared at the ceiling of the car and listened to the music they had finally decided on:
An enemy is an enemy forever,
Don’t break bread with him, don’t invite him into your home,
Even if the air smells of peace,
Even if he is meek, he is still the enemy.
If he, like you, has not squandered his honour,
Once an enemy, always an enemy.
Be true in your aim, and stay your hand,
You will be the one to die if you spare your enemy.
The song wasn’t terrible, though there was no double-bass drum kit, no electric guitar. But it had bit of an ache to it. Sometimes I’d secretly listen to something totally un-metal. But even Grishnackh admitted to sometimes listening to whatever else was on, especially in the car. We made a turn and seemed to slow down. Someone shouted into the window:
— You can’t pull in here!
A few turns later we came to a stop. They opened the door and pulled me out. We were at the New Hospital. But why? It was a good joke — now they were going to beat me up. It would’ve been even better had they taken me to the morgue first.
The thugs held me up under the arms and carried me into the hospital — to registration, to the X-ray room (nothing was broken, just a few torn ligaments), and to get bandaged up. While my leg was being wrapped in a cast, they stood in the hallway under a palm tree and smoked, and convinced the orderly on-duty to be their third in a game of zole. Once the cast was finished, they carried me back to the car, drove me home, and helped me up to the fourth storey. My mother’s fury, which was why I’d been in such a rush, quickly turned into worry, relief, kindness. She profusely thanked my rescuers and asked them to stay for coffee, wanted to give them a bite to eat, money, but they just waved her off:
— Aw, no, stop! God bless.
They drove away across the flowerbeds. But I could finally lie back on our old couch, my leg propped up, and think — I wonder what my friends were up to?
* * *
[ 1 ] Līvu Square in Riga, then colloquially known as ‘Veldze’. Before it became a popular pasture for herds of brutish British tourists, it used to be a forum for the alternative lifestyle.
6
There’s a building on the outskirts of Jelgava that many tourists find interesting. It’s on the edge of a park, surrounded by shrubbery, as if defying the reality of the rest of the city. There were other buildings like it, such as the Courland Knighthood manor or Hotel Linde, but those have been razed to the ground three times over. But this one is still standing, tangible like a ghost with a body. It has a classical facade with four columns, though maybe they’re a little on the narrow side to qualify as true classicism. It’s like the new city just sat down on top of it, getting it all dirty; but the building still proudly carries its name: Villa Medem.
The Medems were an important family. Wasn’t it Konrad von Mandern, or Medem, who had founded Mitau? Yes, the same. But that’s not all — do you remember the Medem sisters, the lovely Dorothea and Elise? Was there anyone in Kurzeme who had called them anything but ‘beautiful Dorothea and clever Elise’? The beautiful Dorothea became the Duchess of Courland and lover to Talleyrand. The clever Elise became a poet. She didn’t even crack a smile when Casanova arrived in Jelgava. She must have been five at the time. And even when Cagliostro stayed at Villa Medem
fifteen years later, Elise didn’t fall in love with him. The count taught her how to communicate with the dead, promised her travels to distant planets and the power to create new worlds herself. All that probably didn’t happen at the Villa, though. Cagliostro did stay in Jelgava in 1779, but I think the Villa was built by Johann Adam Berlitz in 1818, or even as late as 1836. But what I do know is that 1994 is when the Junkyard moved in. A metal club that was open Friday nights.
I had spent a lot of time trying on clothes in front of the mirror. I still didn’t have a single, real article of metalhead-appropriate clothing. My jeans were unripped, but at least my shirt was untucked and the tongues of my shoes pulled out. When I showed up at Kārlis’ place to get them, Pūpols looked me over:
— Not bad. I was worried you were going to wear that lame blue shirt you have.
By the way, none of them had noticed I was limping.
We had a strict ritual for going to the Junkyard. Once we — Kārlis, his brother, Death, Tonijs, Pūpols, Zombie and me — were all at Kārlis’, we’d go next door to Zombie’s place. Probably because it was easier to drink there and he had a bigger TV. Which was important because our ritual included watching the RBS Tops. I had always watched the show, but here and now it was different. The music scene had radicalised, gone were the days when we rejoiced at Nirvana coming in at number one. Now, Death was going around school with a petition to get Obituary’s ‘Don’t Care’ at the top. He sent the RBS studios a large sheet of paper with a drawing of Obituary’s logo and around seventy signatures. The studio got the letter, but for some reason the song never made it to the charts. But it was just as well that neither Nirvana nor Obituary were included, because now anything on the tops was subject to ridicule. All the Soundgardens and Offsprings — half-assed garbage. Bon Jovi — a joke, girl rock. For some unknown reason, though, Sinead O’Connor was spared. But the closer we got to the top of the charts, the more fun we had. The social majority’s attempts to go alternative had decreased, the masks had fallen away, and the top positions in the charts were dominated by pure pop: East 17, Boyz II Men and, at number one, Take That. We watched closely and kept up a running commentary. Zombie seemed to know all the lyrics by heart and sang along in a singularly parodied operatic vibrato. The others made remark after clever remark, and made fun of every move the pop stars made. The new generation of rock was traitors, neither hot nor cold, and we spat them out in silence. But pop was the proper world order, one in which we needed to be the minority laughing at the majority. We watched the guys from Take That as they danced in the rain, and knew exactly what should never be.