DOOM 94 Read online

  The ball flew into the seats and hit me right in the forehead. Whack, and my glasses fell into my lap. Everyone laughed. I passed the ball back with composure.

  Two free-throws. You could even see red handprints on Artis’ arms. Down six, down five.

  How much time was left? Shouldn’t the game be over already? A guy with a whistle and a watch checked and answered the ginger: No, almost a full minute left. This time he approached carefully; their sniper made the shot from a safe position, almost without jumping, and so Kārlis’ brother blocked him pretty easily. He jumped, their sniper jumped, they collided, and the sniper fell to the ground and shouted: ‘Foul!’ but there was no foul, and Kārlis’ brother passed it down to Kārlis, then ran down to the basket himself to receive the next pass. It was an easy shot from right under the basket, and the ball went in, even though their sniper had managed to get down there and push Kārlis’ brother mid-jump. That was unnecessary, but he was offended, and his lips pursed with a sense of foreboding. I would’ve totally sympathised with him, had I been paying attention. Kārlis’ brother made his free-throws. Down three.

  Still they didn’t panic. You need at least two possessions to get three points in streetball, but it was their ball and the game was almost over. But stay calm. The tall guy knew that it was impossible, there was no way they could make those shots in the time left, and that was that, while their sniper’s brain was screaming at fate — no, come on, no way, that would be ridiculous! The ginger tried not to think. Our guys were thinking the same thing: ‘It’s just a game. If we lose, we lose.’ The ginger advanced, stone-cold. Artis was on him immediately. Breathing in his face, groping for the ball. The ginger hated people who guarded this close. He bounced it to their sniper, who caught it, but instead of taking the shot passed it to the tall guy. The tall guy froze, thinking it was the smart choice, but then Kārlis’ brother slapped the ball out of his hands. Everyone fell to the ground to get the ball. But instead of picking the ball up, Kārlis’ brother slammed the ball with his fist, sending it bouncing to the end of the court, where Kārlis picked it up and made the shot. Down one.

  The ginger’s hands were shaking. He thought about hugging the ball, dropping to the ground and curling himself around it. But let their sniper do that. When their sniper lifted his arms to take the shot, the guy with the watch and whistle started to count:

  — Three...

  Their sniper jumped back from his guard and released the ball. It was probably the longest shot he’d ever taken in his life. The ball hit the backboard well away from the basket. Kārlis hadn’t been expecting the shot to go that way as he jumped up for the rebound. The ball hit Kārlis so hard in the nose that blood gushed immediately out of both nostrils, fanning red across his shirt. But he managed to hold onto the ball.

  The guy with the whistle said:

  — Two...

  Kārlis jumped and passed the ball over the tall guy’s head, down to where Artis was already waiting. Artis jumped to catch the ball and, still in the air, took the shot.

  The ball went through the basket like butter; the net swished like the longest skirt of the prettiest girl. Up one!

  And the guy with the whistle called it:

  — Time!

  The other team didn’t understand what had happened. Our guys were jumping up and down like crazy, hugging one another. The other team’s fans were quiet; they were normal fans. Our guys’ fans were silent, too, because they were not normal, and hadn’t been paying attention to the game.

  I was wondering what Milēdija cared about thugs, was she looking for some, was she in some trouble? She was off hugging Kārlis. No, lady, I need these thugs for myself. I turned to Kandžejs. He wasn’t there. From the far end of the street, a police car was driving slowly in our direction.

  16

  One night I took my guitar and headed for the crossroads. I’d told my parents that I was going to go see Zombie. And I really had planned to meet up with him. I was hoping the thing at the crossroads wouldn’t take long. I didn’t really believe that it was going to happen. But I wanted to try. It was something completely irrational and black, and not really difficult. As Niels Bohr once said when someone asked him why he had a horseshoe over his front door: ‘I’ve heard it also helps those who don’t believe.’

  All I had to do now was find the crossroads. I couldn’t wait around with my guitar at the intersection of Rainis and Catholic Street. It would be safer near the church, but I could run into someone I knew. And I couldn’t go to the intersection of Satiksmes and Tarktorisu Streets because it was crawling with thugs. I was more afraid of people than I was of Satan. I went to the intersection of Skolas and Pavasara Streets. It was a good area, significant street names and few people. Artūriņš even lived nearby on Plūmju Street. So if I ran into him I could just say I was headed to his place for a jam session.

  So, the intersection at Pavasara and Skolas Streets. It was completely dark; there was a light somewhere along Pasta Street and the of a TV from a nearby window. I sat down in the middle of these crossroads, just as legend said you should. The road wasn’t even asphalted here. I took my guitar out of the case my mom had sewn for it and sat. I was supposed to play something. If I didn’t do it now, I wouldn’t do it at all. It wasn’t a big deal. I could do it quietly, no one would hear me. I started to play ‘Sleepless’, from Anathema’s Serenades. I only knew about six measures, but they were repeated throughout almost the entire song. At the part where the was supposed to be a solo, I tried to improvise something and botched it. What now, should I try ‘Sappy’? No, ‘Master of Puppets’. I didn’t make it very far. ‘The Freezing Moon’, yes. If only I could do the riff. But someone was coming, I had to stop for a minute. But the person stopped:

  — What’re you doing?

  — Nothing.

  — You playing the guitar?

  — No.

  He lit a cigarette; all faces look the black in the dark, don’t they?

  — You not allowed to play at home that you have to come do it out in the street?

  — No, forget it.

  My reply didn’t make sense. I wanted to stand up, so I wouldn’t be sitting on the ground in front of this stranger, but my legs didn’t listen. He put down the box he had been carrying, and sat down on it. The cigarette illuminated his fingers, the skin looked like it had been painted black. Like Death’s new leather jacket.

  — And I’m just off from work. I’m a welder. Didn’t even get the chance to clean up, everything’s black. And I still have to get home. But that’s all the way by the RAF centre.

  — It happens.

  This time I answered him like a human being. He glanced up at me.

  — It happens for you, too? Welding all day and then dragging your ass home to a wife who’s crazy?

  I should’ve just offered him a cigarette. I hadn’t noticed until now how cold it was. Not that a cigarette can warm you up, but it lets you shut off your brain for a bit. But he kept on moralising.

  — Tough life you’ve got.

  Strangely, he said that in a tone that was completely, totally devoid of sarcasm.

  — Play something!

  — Now?

  — Why not? We’re sitting, hanging out. A little music would be nice.

  I set up a chord and strummed the strings. Maybe ‘Freezing Moon’ again?

  — Play, play. Don’t you want to?

  I wanted to, so I played as best I could. The setting was appropriate, because it really was freezing, unnaturally freezing, and maybe that cold light wasn’t from the TV in the nearby house, but from the moon.

  The welder popped a half-smoked cigarette between his lips and held out his hand:

  — Isn’t that thing totally out of tune? Hand it here.

  I gave him the guitar.

  — So, what do you play?

  — Black, death, doom.

  My answer came in a polite whisper.

  — What now? Black doom?

  — Sure.r />
  The welder rubbed his blackened cheeks.

  — I’m more of a blues guy myself. Don’t you want to play the blues?

  — No, metal.

  — Ah. Heavy metal?

  And he picked his way through a Malmsteen-esque riff.

  — No, no. Heavier than that.

  — Pfft!

  He set the guitar down.

  — You need a different guitar for that.

  — I know.

  — You know where to get one?

  — I do.

  — You get that guitar and you’ll be set.

  — I know.

  — So you know everything. Why are you out here?

  — To learn how to play.

  — Get that other guitar and then we’ll talk. That’s how the game works. You don’t get something for nothing. You know where to get the money for it?

  — Yes.

  — And so? Decide! Decide what you’re going to be!

  — Okay, I whispered.

  The welder stood up and walked away.

  17

  It was time. We had to get the ball rolling. I needed that guitar, and this is where my thug friends could finally come in handy. It was time for business, plain and simple. I just had to call the police and tell them that I’d found their fugitive, and then go collect the cash.

  I was home alone. I crouched down by the phone, picked up the receiver, put my finger in the finger wheel. I’d long been fascinated by all these forbidden numbers, the ones you could only call in case of an emergency. Sometimes when I was home alone I’d dial only part of the forbidden number (read: I’d just dial the zero and then stop), feeling how there was only one move left between myself and the extraordinary. You weren’t supposed to mess around with these things. Those of my friends who were gutsier than the rest did it easily and without consequence. Though the kid who called in the bomb threat to school that one time did get caught. I don’t know what happened to him. But I didn’t care; I wasn’t about to do anything bad. What I was going to do was upstanding and commendable.

  I picked up the receiver and dialled 0-2. Busy signal. Hilarious. What if I was being stabbed to death? I dialled again. I already felt bolder. It seemed logical for the line to be busy; there was always something going on in Jelgava, after all.

  But this time someone picked up right away.

  — What is it?

  Did I recognize the voice? Could I have dialled up one of my friends with that two-digit number?

  — Hello?

  I had to say something, otherwise I was just breathing into the receiver like some kind of nervous girl. If I hung up, it’s possible he’d think it had actually been a girl, but it wasn’t, so I said:

  — Hello!

  As if he had called me. And he said:

  — Yes, this is the police.

  So it really was. But I asked anyway:

  — Really?

  — Yes, really! This is the police. What is it?

  He was sounding increasingly annoyed and familiar. It was interesting. My heart stopped pounding in my chest. I had to say something, so I said:

  — Never mind, it’s nothing.

  — What d’you mean, nothing? Who is this?

  — Me?

  — Yes, you!

  This police officer was odd. I didn’t know any other police officers who were like this. But this one, turns out, knew me:

  — Oh, hey man, what’s up?

  It was Šolis! I asked:

  — Šolis?

  — Who else!

  — What’re you doing?

  — I work here!

  I hadn’t known that. But when I thought about it, I think there had been one time when I’d made some scathing remark about the cops and someone, Pūpols I think, had mentioned that the hard-core metalhead Šolis was a cop. I hadn’t believed him, and had laughed at him and promptly wiped the information from my mind.

  — But how?

  — Oh, you know. I came here to work right after I graduated. So they couldn’t enlist me. Not a bad idea, don’t you think?

  What did I think — I wasn’t thinking anything. I still had a few years to think about these things. I asked, to be polite:

  — How’s it going?

  — Man, it’s a mess! Hugo just called me because, hey, we’ve got a problem, they just arrested Gintiņš. For running from the cops. They’ve got him in lockup. So they call me all, what’s going on? Why? What’re you doing about it? But I wasn’t even on duty at the time, you know?

  — Yeah.

  — Anway. So they’re yelling at me — get him out of there! But what am I supposed to do about it. I go in, and yup, there he is. I ask, what do you want? He says, black tea!

  Hold up, I had something to add to the conversation:

  — Death ran into Morbid not too long ago in Riga. They’re sitting quietly on a bench. Then Morbid goes: ‘I’m still one and a half centimetres

  short!’

  — With what?

  — Death asked the same thing. Morbid says he’s growing a stomach ulcer. Eating all kinds of paper, straight up, drinking lots of vinegar.

  — That’s nothing!

  I hated it when people made comments like that when I told stories. But I didn’t say anything, let them say what they have to say.

  — Tontons was enlisted. He decided that he had to break his arm. But how? He asks Ernests to help. The two of them decide: Tontons is going to put his arm across the toilet seat. Ernests was going to jump down on his arm; that should break it. So they go into the bathroom. Tontons puts his arm down. Ernests backs up, takes a few steps and jumps. But Tontons’ reflexes kick in and he instinctively pulls his arm back. And Ernests comes crashing down, breaking the toilet bowl and his ankle!

  That story really was better than mine. I tried to think of another one.

  — There was this one guy who...

  — Alright, anyway, I’ve got to get back to work. Later! Metal.

  — Later.

  I remembered that Unholy had also had problems with the army. Their guitarist Jarkko Toivonen had served in the Finnish army while the band was on hiatus — which is why his brother, guitarist Ismo Toivonen, kicked him out of the band. Or maybe it was Ismo who had been in the army... All I know is the brother said: ‘We don’t have room for traitors’. No, wait, why would he say that? He said: ‘We don’t have room for slaves’. But what does that have to do with traitors? Why had I called Šolis? Oh, right, business. Never mind, I’d call back later.

  18

  A lot of people, maybe even everyone, have a day they’re looking forward to. Some people count down the days to Easter break. There are even those who enjoy birthdays. For us, the concept of holidays and vacations was a moderately fluid one. We were waiting for something else, for a specific date to fall on a specific day: namely, Friday the thirteenth. Superstitious people were wrong when they said this day was no different from the rest. It was. Every time there was a Friday the thirteenth it was a metalhead holiday — Black Friday. I’d start to get anxious by the eleventh, much more than for my own birthday, which I had learned to emotionally ignore by that age to avoid the inevitable feeling of growing older. Time has no real meaning, time doesn’t exist by itself, it’s just a relationship between objects that move at varying speeds. Time is relative to these objects and speeds. What year was it? Ninety-five? Or maybe ninety-six? I don’t know anymore. I didn’t know back then, either. It didn’t really matter. How long has it been since Kurt shot himself? Longer than between that moment and the day I was born. Finally, massive objects had appeared that moved at a different speeds, and time took on meaning, but lost its tempered fluidity. All I knew was that it was Friday the thirteenth.

  Death, Zombie and I left on time, right after school. Black Friday was being celebrated in Riga, at the Robinsons Club. Everything went smoothly, no-one checked for tickets, and we got out at Riga’s Central Station.

  That’s where the first significant event took
place. There was an old man sitting in the square in front of the station. Right on the ground. He held out his hand, asking for money. Completely out of character, Death pulled out a twenty-santims coin and gave it to the him. Zombie asked:

  — Are you insane?

  — No, just pretty weak, the old man replied.

  Zombie flinched, as if he hadn’t thought that this pile of grey rags could talk. He apologized:

  — Sorry, I didn’t mean you, but this do-gooder here, he said, and pointed to Death.

  Death didn’t answer until were a ways away:

  — I don’t know. I suddenly got the feeling that that could be me someday.

  — Moron, Zombie said.

  I thought what Death had done was really admirable and deeply justifiable. Maybe that really would be him some day. If something extraordinary happens and we don’t die young, then we’ll be old men sitting on the ground, all alone. We won’t give any orders and won’t own anything. And if someone gives us any money we’ll go straight to the liquor store and spend it all.

  Which we already did now — we headed for the Latvijas Balzams store that was right across from the station. Back then it was a better bet to buy alcohol at an official retailer. If I remember correctly, we grabbed the usual, a 0,7 litre bottle of black-currant flavoured Riga vodka. What’s more, we were short twenty santims to buy a chaser, even though we’d carefully counted out everything on the train in... Zombie was furious.

  Then we went to hang out at Death’s dorm. Yes, really, he’d just started college. The vodka burned our throats, and even Death questioned his earlier actions, and thought out loud:

  — What is life trying to tell me?

  Zombie chimed in:

  — That you’re an idiot!

  But by the time we made it to the club, which was right next to the dorms, the vodka was going down smooth. As did the drinks we were offered by the other metalheads coming in from all over. There were people we knew and there were strangers, all of them sharing their bottles with us. Once we reached the entrance, though, the reason for their generosity became clear. The bouncers were patting everyone down and laying down some ground rules: