DOOM 94 Page 22

  — Do you want to hear a poem?

  And I said:

  — No.

  But Zombie hummed in a little voice:

  — It’s Black Friday, black things are going to happen, I feel it, all sorts of bad, black thinks are coming our way!

  I added, in the same kind of voice:

  — We’ll have to slave away for seven long years!

  And one of the girls, whom I hadn’t noticed until now, spoke up in an eerie voice:

  — Know what? I’m a witch.

  That was honestly unsettling. Probably because it had been unexpected. Mele was the first to speak up, but the rest of us soon joined in:

  — C’mon, cut it out, stop!

  And the girl laughed:

  — Alright, alright!

  Death made his usual suggestion:

  — Should we go to the woods?

  I liked this idea.

  — Maybe we should?

  But where was there a woods around here? Death mulled this over, too, and said nothing. No-one said something for some time. Outside, the world had started to grow lighter again. Or else my eyes had grown accustomed to the dark. Near-sighted people see a little better in the dark than others. I saw that Death had fallen asleep in his chair, and that the unfamiliar witch was asleep with her head on his lap. Zombie had fallen asleep on the floor, naturally, right next to Mele’s pretty friend, who slept with her head on his shoulder.

  Only Mele sat by herself. And me. She was on the other side of the room, glaring at me. I suddenly felt sorry for this annoying idiot of a girl, who was so stupidly in love with me — couldn’t she let someone else do that? I called to her gently:

  — Tell me a poem!

  But she didn’t reply, just stared back at me with empty eyes. Eyes without irises. The hair on the back of my next stood up, but in the next second I understood that her eyes were closed, and what I’d seen was the morning light reflecting off her closed eyelids. I was the only one left standing. Why had everyone else fallen asleep? Of course, none of them had taken a nice long nap during the concert like I had. It was a little unnerving, like being the only live person in a wax museum; the morning light wasn’t exactly cheery and hopeful, either, but a corpse-like blue. Everything would be set right if I could only have a cigarette, but I had no way to light one. One of the girls had dropped a matchbook on the stairs, but I was too scared to get up and go look. What if they all attack me? Death and the witch, all of them.

  Death suddenly spoke, sounding like a real sleepwalker:

  — Are we really not going to start a band?

  I needed to roll my tongue around my dried-out mouth for a few

  moments before I could respond:

  — I guess not. I could never get the money.

  He responded:

  — No worries.

  And fell back asleep.

  Outside, the sky had started to become bigger and warmer. I worked up the courage to turn my back to the room and look out the window. It was almost morning. I turned back and looked at them, my dear friends, how they slept, just like little kids, which they were, and no-one in the world was better than them.

  I turned back to the window and saw the yellow grass of Ķīpsala, the mud that we’d soon walk through on our way to the train station — Death, Zombie, the girls, none of whom were mine, and me. Death — as silently as demon of the waterless desert, left undiscovered for centuries, completely unknown; Zombie — riding along regardless of the fact that the rest of us would be dragging our feet, he’d be riding, forever a restless spirit, the greatest jester that there has ever been. We’d walk along the canal, but not cross it at the bridge — we always crossed over two fat pipes that lay abandoned right next to it. We’d cross them this time, too, even though our legs would be unsteady and our heads dizzy, but it was never, ever out of fear, but out of the pure pleasure of walking across on these pipes. Once we make it across we’d stop. No-one will want to go further. The ducks swimming in the canal will stare at us. Zombie will shout:

  — I don’t want to go! I want to stay here and feed the ducks!

  But we won’t have anything to give them. And we won’t have a santims between us.

  That place will stay in my memory. The mud, the canal, the pipes and the ducks watching us reproachfully with their gentle, mysterious eyes. Every time I pass by Ķīpsala, that same feeling will wash over me.

  But I didn’t understand that feeling back then, when I sat by the window, staring into the future. I honestly couldn’t understand if I was happy or sad. I don’t understand to this day.

  And that’s how Latvia’s best-ever metal band was never born.

  And with that our history of metal comes to a close.

  III

  POST-APCALYPSE

  1

  It was only dark because my eyes were closed. The sun had been out for some time, I could feel it through my eyelids. But I kept them closed. I had just woken up; for a moment I didn’t know if and who I was, but then I remembered everything, including that there had been a massive party the night before. It had continued until the moment sleep had descended on us, in that intangible border covered in dreams, there was laughter and deep conversations, and gazing at the heavens through smoke — I remembered all if it, but I still didn’t know where I was. I hadn’t yet opened my eyes.

  I didn’t want to open them. I could spend a little longer not knowing where I was.

  That familiar feeling of being somewhere very far away. Now I was going to have to figure out where I was, say hello, interact, have breakfast and then get back home, which was probably all the way on the other side of the city from where I was, by bus or by tram, because it’s late enough in the day that it would be silly to take a cab. I had absolutely no clue where I could be — probably in the middle of nowhere.

  I finally opened my eyes — I was home! Actually at home. In my bed. The familiar ceiling overhead. The familiar trees outside the window, and behind the trees, the sun. It wasn’t morning anymore, but midday. And, right — the party had been at my place. My birthday party. Now I remembered everything, except for the part where I went to bed. I got up and went to look around the apartment.

  The first order of business was to make sure the bookshelf was still intact. By the looks of it everything was as it should be. No-one had dared to touch the old bookshelf. I pulled out one of the books and opened it to see if it was still old. 1695. My hear grew lighter. That always worked. I was soothed by these centuries that lay so silently in my hands and proved that time wasn’t all that important.

  But someone had taken out Latvian author Jānis Dāvis’ Plan for Jewish World Domination and had put it back in upside-down. I wonder who? This book had perhaps the most intriguing title of all the books in the shelf, a bibliographical rarity. Though, who had needed J. K. Huysmans’ The Damned? The book was shelved a bit crooked. Maybe someone had accidentally brushed against it with his shoulder, who knows, it was barely out of place. Everything else looked pristine.

  The same could not be said about the rest of the room. Even though not a whole lot had happened last night. There was a black jacket — it wasn’t mine — hanging on the back of a chair. There were empty glasses and bottles on the table, chairs, windowsills, all over. Some weren’t even completely empty. The majority of the wine had been New-World Zinfandels and Cabernet Sauvignons.

  The kitchen revealed showed more substantial signs of a party. The ashtray was overflowing and looked not unlike a hedgehog. Red wine had been generously spilled over the table and floor, and the midday reflected off shards of broken glass. The wines here were a little fancier, a rich German Riesling (even though it wasn’t yet the season for white wine), a few Pinot Noirs and some jerk had unearthed my bottle of Corton-Charlemagne, which I had been stashing for a smaller party. Like maybe just me.

  What was notable was the near-absence of any signs of hard liquor. I saw only one bottle of regular whisky, and a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. And those we
re only half-empty. What had happened to us? It wasn’t that long ago, when Kārlis and I had been roommates, that the view the next day was totally different. Those days, the apartment would be littered with empty liquor bottles and unfamiliar women or at least one of our friends. Back then, Kārlis had just broken up with Milēdija. Thirteen years, and then it was over. We were once again single and wild.

  But I guess he got tired of that carefree life. Me too. Everyone’s becoming more sensible. All we really drink anymore is wine. And there are only a few broken glasses. And everybody took a taxi home. How many people were been anyway? There were more people here than were actually invited. There was even this one guy with a gigantic moustache, and a lesbian couple. And for all those people, only a couple of broken glasses and a couple of books out of place. I’m happy they were here. I’m happy for the years we’ve lived, that have made us so friendly and smart. The moustachioed guy and I had talked about grammar. About how Latvian orthography uses a lot of commas. In turn, I talked a lot about the makeup of France’s Royal family. In France, a dauphin is the same as the Prince of Wales is in the United Kingdom. He didn’t ask me about it, but I still told him.

  The conversation in the kitchen was about how a reflective, intelligent person was, most likely, unhappy, or at least melancholy or depressed. I objected to this saying, girls, it may very well be that we’re each reflective in his own way, but intelligent? It was Socrates who said that a wise man is a truly happy man. Have you no respect for Socrates? But do you know of any truly wise person who is happy? No, I don’t. I noticed a little too late that I had offended everyone, whose only sin had been to be happy. But the girls kept on. You rely too much on authority. I rely too much on authority? Me? And what do you rely on? We see things for what they are. Oh, I see. I see things for what they aren’t. Do you think all those idiots telling you how to live your lives think that they’re looking at things the wrong way? No, they’re convinced they’re in the right, but they’re wrong. And how are you any different? You all think you’re right and that everyone else is wrong. Whatever, they said. I asked them what their combined age was. What does that have to do with anything? It’s not like we’re getting married. Okay, okay.

  Now I think about how old I am. Just me. I remember everything clearly, except for the part where I went to bed and how old I was turning. I remember when the wine got spilled: a wide, dark stream, and all the guests cringed, but I watched as if hypnotized as it spread over the edge of the table and trickle down, dripping quickly at first, and then gradually slower. But now these clear memories reminded me the main reason why I had actually gotten out of bed.

  Once I had taken care of that, I felt better. I tried to flush the toilet, but it didn’t work. The handle worked, but there was no subsequent cascade of water.

  Then I remember — it had broken last night. Each guest had his or her solution or advice to give, and so I had tried to fix it. Even though I’m no handyman, I still managed to do something, and even had a few pieces left over. But the fix, it turns out, hadn’t been permanent. What was I supposed to do now? I did what I usually did in those kinds of situations. I went back to the bedroom. The girl had just woken up, and I asked her what I should do. She thought for a moment, and then gave me the number for a plumber.

  Perfect. All I had to do was call. But not now, when I had to leave for work. So I hit the street. It was the first day of spring — my thirtieth.

  2

  The plumber showed up on Thursday night, right on schedule. There he was, a regular guy, with his hair tied back in a ponytail and a bandanna around his forehead. He took his earbuds out of his ears, shook my hand and asked

  — Where’s the toilet?

  I showed him to the bathroom and told him what had happened. He took off the tank lid, looked inside at what to me was an incomprehensible ocean, and let out a laugh.

  — Yup… I’ll see what I can do.

  I thanked him ahead of time and left him alone. I went to the kitchen and sat down in a chair. As if nothing had happened. But it had.

  Nothing had happened to me for about ten, fifteen years. I studied, worked, dated, broke up, travelled. I don’t remember a lot of it. But what happened was to him, my plumber, who was currently in my bathroom banging around. I knew him. It was none other than Pēteris from Skyforger.

  I hadn’t listened to that music since my early teenage years. A couple of times during my college years, but less and less frequently and eventually not at all. I fell out of the loop, I forgot, I cut my hair. There was nothing left anyway — Dzels Vilks had deteriorated, Chuck Schuldiner had died and Grishnackh was released from prison. Only Skyforger and Pēteris remained. He hadn’t given up yet, and still made good music. I still listened to them on rare occasion. I particularly liked the album Latvian Riflemen. If only I had known that I had been right there when Pēteris’ relationship with the riflemen had begun… All I knew was that he was an idol, a monuments and cultural hero, the last bastion of Latvian music, the most famous Latvian musician in the world and my personal proof against the weight of the world.

  I had never known him personally. That time at the open-air stage in Jelgava I had been a few bushes over, and after that had only seen him on stage or in the news. I’d heard that he worked as a plumber for the Daile Theatre. I had been amazed at how paradoxical it was — he was working in an institution that he was more famous than. I had never imagined that he would end up at my place, at my toilet.

  I tried to decide what to do. There was an unusually clarity to my thoughts. The young me from way back when would want to talk to Pēteris of Skyforger. Which is exactly why I couldn’t not do it now, not after I had broken all my promises and had become a slave, hypocrite, liar, swindler, pretentious and a snob — everything I hadn’t been back then. I couldn’t let the opportunity to talk with someone from that world pass me by.

  I opened a cabinet and set out a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé and a regular little of Chateauneuf du Pape. It was a time when men could choose between white and red wine. I even cleaned out the ashtray and set it in the middle of the table.

  I just hoped he didn’t think that I was some crazed fan who had broken his toilet just to meet a famous musician. It was crazy, I was thinking like a teenager even though I hadn’t been one for years.

  But he was already coming down the hall. Instead of a sword he had a towel in his hands, and he was wiping them clean and said:

  — I managed to fix it, it’ll work.

  And probably added to himself: ‘Shit away!’ That gave me some courage and I asked:

  — Care for a drink? White, red?

  — No. I don’t like wine.

  It was clear there wouldn’t be any conversation — I had forgotten how to converse, I can only talk about people exactly like me, and now I’m someone else. But he asked politely if he could smoke. I pushed the ashtray towards him, and after a moment of smoky silence I asked:

  — Do you remember that time that time, when you were still Grindmaster Dead, and you played at the open-air stage in Jelgava?

  He smiled for a second.

  — In Jelgava… Maybe. The open-air stage…where was that?

  — Opposite the palace. On the other side of the river.

  — I don’t remember. But could be.

  — It was one of the last Grindmaster concerts. You founded Skyforger not long after.

  — I can’t remember every concert.

  — What year were Skyforger founded?

  — Ninety-five… Why?

  — Nothing, never mind. I was at that concert. Sometimes I remember thenineties. How back then… Back then things were different.

  He nodded, but I thought — how were things different for him, his life is exactly the same.

  — Remember pissing in the bushes at that concert, and Death said hello to you?

  — I don’t remember anything like that.

  — Want a beer?

  — I could maybe go for one.

&nb
sp; He smiled serenely, as if he had anticipated this turn of events.

  We drink a lot of unfiltered Valmiermuižas beer, almost everything that I had. We smoked and talked a lot — it happened very organically. Just like other true underground stars, for example, Dambis or Šubrovskis, Pēteris was as kind and open as a king. We talked about the ethnogenesis of Baltic peoples, the reasons for the Second World War and the shortcomings of the metric system, but most of all we talked about music. I watched him through the smoke and beer foam and thought — see, he had done it!

  How had he done it? How had it been possible for me to say ‘no’ that one morning back in the nineties? Had I been scared then? Or perhaps lazy? Proud? How come I had left, but he had stayed? No, it wasn’t that I had left — the world had ended! But maybe it hadn’t? See, the world was still here and hadn’t ended. He told me that they had their own club, Melnā Piektdiena — named after the Black Friday concerts — where all at the wildest bands from overseas come to play. Quality stuff. There was even an open-air festival for metalheads in Latvia now. I used to dream of that happening! Had they read my mind? I had imagined the festival would take place in the winter, in the woods, on trampled snow; but the one Pēteris was telling me about didn’t sound bad either — in the summer, by a pond.

  I asked him:

  — Are there as many good bands now as there were back then?

  He again smiled in his serene manner:

  — Not as good as then.

  And he got lost in his thoughts. I wanted to say — of course, I understand that there’s one band that’s still that good, you don’t have to say it out loud, rifleman. But he said:

  — Maybe that one band… Tabestic Enteron. They’re maybe just as good.

  — For real?