DOOM 94 Read online

  Tonijs spit onto the ground and said:

  — Let’s go around! The railway bridge!

  — But that’s so far!

  — No it’s not.

  — Like five kilometres?

  — Farther!

  — Fuck off!

  That was Pūpols. Tonijs wasn’t offended.

  — Then stay here.

  And he turned to cross the road. Ten steps in he looked back at us and gestured for us to follow him. We all moved at once and walked to him. I hung back a little, turned to look at the silent stage, nodded, turned to face the bridge and stood completely alone facing the shadows. I couldn’t tell if they saw me, by myself, a small and dark object on a dark road.

  Then I turned and ran to catch up with my friends. Back off the road and into the reeds, except this time we walked forwards along the river.

  Pretty soon we reached a fairly walkable sandy path. It was a pleasant walk, everyone asked everyone else for a smoke and for a drink, but no-one had anything left. I purposely kept my distance from Death; gentlemen need some space after sharing a close moment of friendship like that. I walked along with Mele and her friend, chatted about life, maybe even flirted with both of them. Maybe the darkness helped me, because it was pitch dark, everyone kept tripping on and bumping into each other. But no, it wasn’t just the darkness. I had something now, something big, something all my own, and everything else was secondary.

  Soon we had made it to the railway bridge. It’s not easy walking along train tracks in the dark. And of course we walked right in the middle of the tracks; we weren’t afraid of the train. We weren’t afraid of anything. I shouted:

  — Let’s go back to that bridge!

  Everyone laughed and shouted back:

  — Yeah! Let’s!

  But we didn’t go back, just kept walking, towards Jelgava. Finally the river was once again far below our feet; I threw a rock into it. I almost felt good. I was fifteen years old, I had a few friends, we had found another bridge, and all around us it was dark.

  15

  I kept that feeling for a long time. I listened to the most recent My Dying Bride album and said it seemed a little on the light side. I listened to Death’s Symbolic and said it seemed a little too beautiful, a little too self-serving, wasn’t it just purely aesthetic now? I listened to Moonspell’s Wolfheart and shouted: what is this? Excusez-moi, but that’s not black metal! It’s shit! People, for shame!

  I did all my shouting internally, though. Why should I tell anyone else, I knew perfectly well what I was and what had happened to me. It couldn’t be stopped, big and exciting things were happening in front of me, and I couldn’t do anything about that, either.

  I was walking along Katoļu Street like some kind of pope and saw signs in everything. In windows, clouds, passers-by; everyone was acting too normally, like a bunch of conspirators in a novel when the main protagonist walks by. There was a large, yellow dog without a leash or owner trotting along in front of me. I kept about five metres back from it. The dog stopped at every tree. Obviously I couldn’t walk past it, so I stopped when it stopped. Such a mundane path likely lead to big things.

  I eventually came to the Cultural Centre. There were all kinds of people gathered outside it: jocks, thugs, teenagers, metalheads, girls and the media. I walked through the crowd with a feeling of total predestination, and I had to keep myself from waving to everyone, from looking to see if workers weren’t already screwing a plaque to the side of the building: ‘Jānis. Latvian Perkele. Was here.’

  But they weren’t here for me today, not yet. Culture was waiting for its time. Today they had set up some streetball hoops on Barona Street in front of the Centre, and they were holding a tournament. It was a youth tournament, and the winning team usually got a case of beer or a weekend at a sauna. Everyone else was milling around and there to cheer for their friends, or were just waiting for something to happen.

  My friends were there, too. They were crowded in the best place along the court, drinking beer, everyone wearing a printed T-shirt, trainers and skinny jeans. Only Kārlis and his brother were wearing shorts. Their excuse was that they were playing today. The players on the other teams all had jock haircuts — only our boys had hair past their shoulders (Kārlis and his brother were playing with Artis, just some guy). While the rest of us tended towards a contemplative lifestyle, Kārlis and his brother were mad about sports. They usually beat everyone in streetball, and usually also swept in the triples tournaments. Their enthusiasm for sports had carried over from a time when they hadn’t yet crossed over to the world of metal and melancholy.

  They were warming up and fidgeting when Milēdija showed up. She didn’t walk around the edge of the court, but crossed right through the middle, the sway of her hips almost enough to knock over the nets. Everyone warming up on the court just then made their shots, and the balls all got stuck in the nets. Milēdija walked up to Kārlis and kissed him.

  This was almost commonplace now. Tedious, banal, boring. Then she came over to sit down next to us and said:

  — Hey!

  The first game started. Our guys were up against a team of weaklings. Pūpols announced that there was nothing to worry about, the other team didn’t stand a chance; then he opened another beer.

  — Hey! Death called out and waved to someone. I looked to see who. He said:

  — Ģirtiņš.

  And there was Ģirtiņš on the other side of the court.

  — Man can he play the guitar! His fingers fly over his acoustic, sounds just like on the stereo. Then he slides up closer to the nut and plays a solo.

  Then Death looked at me:

  — Can you do that?

  — You know what, no, I can’t.

  Regardless of how that sounded, it was the truth. I couldn’t play any solos, just some strange muddle of sounds that I was rarely able to replicate. I would have said that much, too, but not here in front of everyone. Our musical project was still a secret.

  What was up with the world? I’d arrived with blessings for everyone and everything. And what did I get in return? Just me, hiding behind my beer, wishing I were anywhere else. He didn’t back down:

  — Can you play any riffs?

  — I don’t know if it’s worth getting carried away with solos and riffs.

  — What?

  — It’s kind of an empty expression of technique. Black metal doesn’t even have any solos.

  — Mayhem do.

  True, Mayhem had some killer riffs. I wanted to play like that. The ball rolled over to my feet; I picked it up and passed it to Kārlis.

  Death seemed a little bummed:

  — I just want to hear and make good music, okay?

  And there you have it; he had everyone’s attention.

  — You guys have a band?

  She asked that. She didn’t sound that interested. I tried to shut the conversation down:

  — There is no band. Not yet.

  But Zombie’s tongue had loosened up.

  — You guys need an accordionist?

  That’s just what I needed, for someone to mock us, please, go ahead.

  — I can play the opening to My Dying Bride, the one where Jesus is walking along the beach.

  He was talking about the intro to ‘Cry of the mankind’, which was played on an electric violin — for me it was a personally very, very meaningful bit; I didn’t want to joke about it.

  — I’m being serious!

  He was almost shouting. As if he wasn’t joking this time.

  — You guys know that I have an accordion!

  But I didn’t know. Zombie shouted over the court to one of his oldest friends, Kārlis.

  — Don’t I have an accordion!

  Kārlis glanced over for a second, but then turned right back to the guy he was guarding. Death jumped in:

  — You do, Edgars, I know. But an accordion is no good for metal.

  I took pity, too:

  — Why not? It could be intere
sting. An MDB cover with the accordion.

  Death shot me a loaded, glib look, and then asked:

  — Did you buy that guitar?

  — Yup!

  Death turned to look at me. The others didn’t react much.

  — What kind?

  — A Gibson Les Paul.

  This wasn’t the time to think small.

  — No fuckin’ way!

  It was an expression of excitement and awe, without question or a shadow of a doubt. Ģirtiņš had joined us.

  — You get it at AT Trade?

  — Where else.

  — They’re super expensive though.

  I know, Ģirtiņš. Five hundred lats. The same amount you’d get for one fugitive.

  — You can do anything with a guitar like that.

  Yes, Ģirtiņš, you can. If you know how. And if you have the guitar.

  — But that’s a little mad. All that for one guitar? For the same price you could’ve got a decent Ibanez, a Death Metal pedal and even a drum kit from Mareks.

  Death, why are you staring dejectedly at the asphalt like that? When have I had time to make it to Riga since our conversation, where would I have found the money to buy the guitar? Don’t be sad, you’ll get what you want.

  Kārlis came over, grabbed a beer and drained it.

  — What’re you yelling about? I lost track of the guy I was covering, good thing my brother caught up to him.

  — You not playing anymore?

  — We won. The next game’s about to start.

  — And when will that be over? I’m out of beer!

  Pūpols started to get cranky. The sunlight was blinding and creating strange reflections. It wasn’t comfortable sitting here.

  — It’s this team, then the Lefties, then the Clearing.

  Milēdija even knew the opposing teams’ names. She was looking off into the distance. She wasn’t even pretty. But that’s exactly what I needed — to fall in love with a preoccupied and ugly girl. Alright, she wasn’t exactly ugly. And fine, there wasn’t any love there, either.

  The fans started to shout:

  — What d’you think you’re doing!

  — Idiot savants!

  — Boys, get off the court!

  — Morons!

  — Assholes!

  I looked out across the court, and there were my friends, the thugs. And true to form — going anywhere in the world according to their own rules, this time ignoring the parameters of the court and fully disrupting the game. A quick pass by the offense caught Kroģis on the right shoulder. He whipped around to the left, looking for his attacker. It’s like that thing kids and thugs do — you come up on someone’s left and tap them on the right shoulder. But this time his left side was flanked by the net post, and Kroģis walked on, not understanding why the offensive player and fans were jeering at him. Kandžejs wasn’t much better off, even though his expression was one of cunning and awareness.

  I watched as the approached and understood immediately. Crime wasn’t a product of cunning, but of ignoring reality. He’d probably robbed a store thinking it was a vegetable patch, and had broken out of jail thinking he was just going to take a shower.

  But now they came over and sat next to me. I was their purpose.

  — Davai, pool?

  I sometimes played pool with them in the Cultural Centre. Sometimes, when I didn’t have anything to do and my real friends weren’t around. I wasn’t half bad, either.

  They had obviously been circling the Centre, out of the loop of the day’s events, a little confused why there were so many people out here, until they’d spotted me in a crowd of strangers and came to ask me to play.

  — I can’t, I have to watch streetball.

  — What streetball?

  — The game going on right now.

  — Basketball?

  — Sort of.

  — Why? Do you play?

  — No. My friends do.

  — Let your friends play — come with us?

  — I can’t.

  — What can you do?

  I glanced around, cautiously, only at my immediate surroundings. Their eyes were steely.

  Then Kroģis had a good suggestion:

  — Let’s go get some beers, then come back? It’ll be more fun to talk him into it then.

  — Davai!

  They hurried off, again cutting right through the middle of the court.

  — Who was that?

  Did they really not remember?

  — Some guys.

  — Oh really?

  — I didn’t think that type really existed.

  — Are they from the countryside?

  Seriously, none of them remembered that they were the scary guys at the Villa that time.

  Kārlis came off the court, panting, and asked us two questions:

  — Who were those morons walking on the court? Is there any more beer?

  And he sat down on the ground before anyone answered. I asked:

  — How did it go?

  I never asked ‘Did you win?’, so it would be less awkward for the other person to answer in the event they hadn’t won. But he answered:

  — We won.

  Milēdija crouched next to us. She said something about the game, very calmly, in her way. Always so calmly, that it was almost unbelievable:

  — Your third man is pretty good!

  That bothered me; she was playing the expert in everything that Kārlis was into. He agreed:

  — He is. We’ve played together a lot.

  — I think he made more baskets than you did.

  — I guess so, he had a good game.

  What was her angle? Am I the only one who cared? But whatever, it didn’t matter — I said:

  — It’s just a game.

  Kārlis turned to me:

  — You have to be good either way.

  And she added:

  — I like people who know how to do something with skill.

  I don’t know if she was being earnest, but it didn’t matter anymore because her words were a quote from Master and Margarita.

  — Maybe life itself is a game, Kārlis said. Anything can be. What’s bad about wanting to be good at it?

  — Nothing, I said.

  — I’ll play the game, you get the beers, cool?

  His brother called to him from the court — it was time to play. Kārlis stood up and went to life. I stayed on the side-lines, resigned to observe.

  I hadn’t managed to see much of anything before Kandžejs and Kroģis reappeared with a clamour of clinking glass. Kandžejs started pulling out bottles of beer and passing them out to our entire row. Even a few people not in our group got one. Everyone opened the bottles their own way: with keys, rings, lighters. Someone’s beer overflowed, and the foamy puddle trickled across the court. Kandžejs downed his beer in one and then turned to me:

  — Coming?

  — Where?

  — To play pool.

  I dropped my hands.

  — I haven’t finished my beer.

  — So drink up.

  — My friends are still playing.

  — Don’t you want to play yourself?

  Everyone around us either stopped talking, or kept talking as if the question hadn’t been asked. I felt Death’s eyes bore into the back of my skull, and Milēdija’s eyes on the left side of my neck.

  Then she suddenly tapped me on the shoulder, and just as suddenly

  asked:

  — I heard you’re friends with some kind of thugs?

  I was silent. And I felt the tiniest, tiniest bit pleased. But those thugs were sitting right here next to me. Kandžejs was blowing into his bottle like a kid. He wasn’t wearing his black leather jacket, just a plain striped shirt. His hair wasn’t shaved down anymore, but was growing out in ridiculous curls.

  Kroģis had finished his beer and was playing with pebbles on the asphalt and, even worse, was humming something that sounded like jazz. Right now they were not representati
ve of the thug title. I understood that they were doing it on purpose, they were putting on a front, but this time I didn’t like it. I was embarrassed by them. They’d screwed me.

  I didn’t answer Milēdija. And I couldn’t answer her — they would hear whatever I said, they were right there. She didn’t repeat her question. I looked at the ground, and she watched the game.

  Kārlis shot too soon, didn’t get enough spin on the ball, and it hit the back of the rim and bounced out. The tall guy on the other team got the rebound and passed it back to their sniper. Artis jumped and almost intercepted; he brushed it with the tips of his fingers, but it got past him.

  Artis fell when he landed, and their sniper was left unguarded — he shot and scored.

  Now the other team was up by eleven points. That’s a lot in streetball. Sometimes that’s the total score for a single game. It wasn’t clear how they’d gotten so far ahead.

  There were only five minutes left in the game.

  None of us was paying attention to it. Milēdija was the only one watching attentively, but silently. Her eyes shone and her lips were slightly parted.

  Kārlis threw the traitorous ball angrily, despairingly, under the backboard. His brother caught it, shot it over the tall guy, and the ball spun into the net. Down ten.

  The other team ran a slow, overconfident play and made a royal mistake — the guy dribbling hit himself in the foot with the ball, and the ball rolled away across the court. Artis, always watchful, grabbed it and took it back to the line. The other team reset their defence; the guy guarding Artis posted up by the free-throw line to block his path. But instead of taking the ball forward, Artis took the long shot. The ball hit the backboard with a crash and dropped through the net. Down eight.

  The other team ran a great play, but missed the basket. Our guys got the ball back and Kārlis missed his shot, but he caught the rebound, faked out the defence, and passed it to his brother for the shot. Down seven.

  The other team wasn’t worried yet. They made a break for it along the outside of the court, but Artis caught on, stole the ball and turned it. The guy he’d stolen the ball from, a ginger, went after him, he didn’t want Artis to get a shot in, but Artis was already two steps into his approach, already had his hands up for the shot, and the ginger was two steps behind him. He jumped when Artis did and slapped his arms pretty hard.