DOOM 94 Page 23

  — Almost. Give them a listen.

  — Will do.

  How was I supposed to listen to them?

  — Do they have an album?

  — Well, no. Go to a show.

  Yeah right — as if I would just get up and go. But he was on a roll:

  — You’ve really never heard of them? I think they’re from Jelgava.

  How was that possible?

  — Are they playing in the festival?

  — In Blome? Probably.

  — When is it?

  — Tomorrow.

  And then we went back to talking as if we hadn’t spoken a lifetime, about the rifleman battles and how there were still bodies of fallen riflemen around Jelgava, how Pēteris altered his convictions, and how I altered mine, though I didn’t know to what. I spoke less and less. I was trying to remember something. He stopped talking as well, and we both sat silent for a while. There was still some beer left (though not a lot), but he stood up to leave:

  — I have to bike home!

  And after a heartfelt handshake he was gone. I went back to the kitchen and took another small sip of beer. I felt the liquid do what it always does. Right, my toilet was fixed now.

  I went into the bathroom and flushed. It worked — there was that waterfall sound. What’s the largest waterfall in the world? I flushed again. That helped, right, the Guáira Falls. Pēteris had fixed my toilet. Pēteris from Skyforger. We all gave up, but he didn’t. No, I wasn’t going to shit in this toilet, like I’d planned. I took my keys from my pocket to carve the name of some band into the bathroom wall. What had been our band name? I didn’t remember. I tossed the key into the toilet and went out, out of the bathroom, out of the apartment, and slammed the door.[ 4 ]

  * * *

  [ 4 ] At the time I wasn’t aware that the Guáira Falls, or the Seven Falls, had long ceased to exist. Poet Carlos Drummond de Andrade expressed his dismay at the destruction by writing: ‘Seven falls passed us by, and we didn’t know, ah, we didn’t know how to love them, and all seven were killed, and all seven disappeared into thin air, seven ghosts, seven crimes of the living taking a life never again to be reborn.’

  3

  I decided to go to the festival. I didn’t have anything planned that weekend anyway. I wanted to do something different. Something I hadn’t done in a long time.

  Friday after work I went to the bus station. I’d decided not to drive this time, even though I didn’t own a car. I never learned how to drive. Someone else was always driving and offering to give me a lift. But no-one else was going this time. So I went to the bus station and asked for a ticket to Blome. That’s where the problems started. It turns out there were two Blomes. Which one was I going to?

  — Where are both Blomes?

  As if the answer to that would help.

  — In the same direction, basically. One’s closer, the other a bit farther.

  — Give me a ticket to the farther one.

  I went to the platform, satisfied with my choice. I’d chosen right — there were already a few groups of long-haired, lanky boys and girls in all black. They were sitting on rolled-up sleeping bags with tents on their backs. Should have brought something like that with me, too? It hadn’t even occurred to me. In the end it wasn’t the most important part. I was going to observe, not sleep.

  Almost as soon as I got onto the bus, a group of three girls addressed me, almost in unison:

  — Excuse me, sir, is this your seat? We have seats five, six and seven.

  I waved my hand, sit, and went to the back of the bus. They’re the kind I need to watch. Uniformed morons. Sheep who can’t find their seats without asking for help. We had to deal with people like them in our time, too. But now this: ‘sir’. ‘Sir’. I was only used to hearing that from businessmen and professors. I only wanted police officers to call me that. In turn, if taxi driver or maintenance guy accidentally addressed me informally, I wasn’t offended, and felt a secret joy in the depths of my heart that there was still a youthful part of me. But now the youth was referring to me as sir. And the type of youth… It wasn’t worth my time to go on this trip. But the bus had already pulled out of the station, and so I did what I usually do when I’m confused and/or trapped on public transportation in-transit: I took a book out of my pocket.

  It’s like the book was boring on purpose. I stared out the window and pretended that the landscape was filled with the plots of interesting books. Someone was lurking behind those bushes, trailing someone who was on this bus. There’s a man sitting on the bench at this stop and he’s not looking at us. What’s he thinking?

  The group sitting behind me was growing increasingly loud. I had noticed them when getting on the bus; they were from that initial group. Two girls in all black and two long-haired boys. It was like an illness, like wearing a uniform. Were they afraid of being singled out? They weren’t all entirely alike, though; I started to notice a certain order to things. The shameless trio of girls up front were sitting quietly, their backs straight. This was probably the first time they were going to something like this. Towards the middle of the bus sat a lone thirty-something metalhead with glasses; I was maybe similar to him, except that he was fat, and had maintained his long ponytail and sour expression. He had probably participated in a lot of events, but was still an introvert and stuck to his very select group of friends, none of whom were with him now. And finally there was the group behind me — the loudest group, and they were getting even louder. I wasn’t even paying attention to what they were saying, but then one of the girls called:

  — Come sit with us!

  I waited for a bit to see if she called to me again, and I was surprised — how had they figured me out? I’d hadn’t looked the part in a long time, and I was holding a boring book. I’d been able to slip past the front lines unnoticed, but couldn’t fool the oracle in the back row. I went to join them. Signe, Ella, Ilmārs, Justs. Strange names — and they told me they were already drunk. Ella was the only one who denied it, but Signe told her:

  — I know, you say that now, but as soon as we get off the bus you’re going to fall over. I know how much we’ve had to drink.

  And they showed me how much they’d had. One 0.3-litre bottle of vodka, with just a sip left at the bottom. Between the four of them. It became clear that my travel companions were very nice. And by nice, I mean young. They couldn’t handle any more vodka, and offered me the last of it, which I drank in four seconds.

  Ilmārs remembered that he had a 1.5-liter bottle of a mixed drink with him. With my help they finished that off quickly. The girls remembered that they had wine. Oh, I said, oh! What kind of wine do young women buy? And by god, it was Martini. Girls, that’s not wine. But I said nothing, and drank it politely — a disgusting beverage — and then that was gone too. Too bad, because I was just starting to feel a buzz. And already loved my new friends. They really liked me. Signe put her hand on my shoulder. I had just gotten a buzz, we were on our way to a festival, and behind us was nothing, nothing at all, just us, people who met on the road, the perfect kind of human contact — being almost strangers who don’t need anything from each other. I felt so connected to our word, the real world, and so confident that, after accidentally making eye contact, invited the fat metalhead to come sit with us. We introduced ourselves — his name was Imants, and he had a little bottle of Riga Black Balzam with him.

  Then a woman up front asked if we were headed for Blome. All the passengers know where we were headed. I already felt like the leader of the pack and answered that there was no need to panic, because we needed the Blome that was further away. We had just passed that one. How had we missed it? Imants said that he had known which one to get out at, but also hadn’t noticed it. Meanwhile the other passengers were saying:

  — Yes, yes, you have to get out here!

  We asked the driver to stop the bus and spilled out of it next to the ditch. There was only the road, the forest and the ditch, and that’s all we needed. Imants said h
e’d get us to the festival; he made a call on his cell phone; there’d be a car here in a minutes, and we believed him and we laughed because we knew that’d we’d be able to get anywhere.

  And we really did make it. It only took a second for me to lose sight of my new friends. They had to go pitch their tents and whatnot, and I was left by myself, with no supplies, and so it took me longer to get in. I found an entrance where they were supposedly letting people in, but also maybe not. A few long-haired festival goers got in, but a few of them were stopped by security and sent away, and they left wordlessly and headed for the nearby field. Then I understood — you couldn’t bring alcohol into the festival grounds. Those who weren’t let in had gone to the field to drink what they’d tried to smuggle in. Some of them ended up passing out in the process. The field was apparently meant to serve that exact purpose; I laughed, but then suddenly remembered that I had a bottle of whisky in my pocket. I wanted to try to get in, but the security guards looked serious, twice as broad as they were back in the day. Although I couldn’t have taken them on back then, either. But what did that matter if I was simply a respectable person. I walked down to the field.

  I joined a nearby group, took a sip of my whisky and offered it around to the others. The first metalhead carefully accepted my bottle of Jack Daniels, then looked at me and asked:

  — Are you headed for some kind of VIP zone?

  Very funny.

  The whisky disappeared quickly, but the conversation didn’t go anywhere. I asked:

  — What’re you all most looking forward to this year? What band?

  — Tiamat, I guess.

  — Hah, there was a band with the same name back in the nineties. Pretty decent doom metal.

  — It’s the same band.

  I laughed:

  — No way. There’s no way they’re still alive.

  — It is!

  I let it go. Kids, they don’t understand the weight of time. I asked something else instead:

  — What about Tabestic Enteron?

  That got some mixed reactions:

  — Those guys?

  — They’re shit.

  — No, come on…

  And one of the girls came to life and said:

  — They’re crazy or something.

  My heart ached, and I asked:

  — Where are they from?

  — The looneybin.

  — From Jelgava or somewhere.

  I continued:

  — From Jelgava? Who’s in it?

  — Faun, y’know? Pussy Grinder, y’know?

  — Ah. Right, of course.

  But I didn’t know them. Not Faun, not Pussy Grinder. Then someone else asked:

  — Are you from Jelgava?

  — Yes! I answered earnestly.

  — So you know Jana, then?

  — Jana… Tell me something about her!

  — Well, she’s sixteen…

  — No. Then I don’t know her.

  The Jack Daniels was finished. The metalhead closest to me pulled a bottle out of his clinking sleeping bag and handed it to me. It was a bottle of Hektors. And it was just as sweet when I was a kid. Just as cloying, and just as detrimental. I’d had enough to drink, and went to the festival grounds. There were metalheads all around me, but I didn’t know anyone. It had been over ten years since I’d left the scene. But I observed it all with an anthropological curiosity. First of all, there was an unusually large number of girls. In the nineties, it was rare to find women in alternative society. Today, here, it was like a mass parade of models. Back then the girls had dressed just like we had, in ripped jeans and a T-shirt. Or in long skirts… But here it was like a carnival! Black lace, costume jewellery, sparkles, powder!

  It was clear I wouldn’t know any of them. I looked at the guys; they looked about the same as we had back then. All of them with long hair, heavy boots and colourful T-shirts: Burzum, Amorphis, Skyforger and a lot of groups I didn’t recognize. I looked into their faces, searched, and there, that guy looked like Cips, that one like Nose, but it wasn’t actually them. Maybe they were all dead. Or maybe none of them came here anymore. One guy looked like Peksis, but it couldn’t possibly be him. This guy’s mohawk was more colourful, and he was heavier-set than Peksis. As I watched him, a girl wandered out of the crowd, waved to me and walked determinedly towards me. I thought I knew her from somewhere. Long, long ago, but my memories feel so present that it could’ve been only recently… It was Signe, the drunk girl from the bus, whom I met an hour ago! She flung her arms around my neck and said:

  — Where were you? Where were you?

  Seriously, I thought, where had I been? What had I been doing this entire time?

  Signe and I were going somewhere. She must have been leading me. I didn’t say anything, but then she asked:

  — How old do you think I am?

  I looked at her carefully. I was never good at guessing ages. I guessed:

  — Eighteen?

  Thinking that it was always better to guess too low; girls always love a compliment. Signe laughed with pride:

  — Hah, people always guess I’m older. When I wear makeup I can pass for twenty.

  I tilted my head; for some reason I felt younger than her. We’d stopped in front of a beer tent.

  — Great idea, Signe, wonderful.

  — Right?

  I bought four beers so we wouldn’t have to wait in line again and we went to sit in the grass. What now? I raised my cup to my face, but how long could I hide behind it? Signe stared off into the distance, her eyes bright. Who knows what she was thinking.

  — What do you want to talk about?

  — What do you mean?

  A maddening counter question. I had never known what to say when people answer with that, and I didn’t know what to say now, either.

  I had completely forgotten why I had come here. And then I looked up and, shit, there was Venom! Was it really Venom? It was, but he was bald now. And a little rounder. But it was that same sullen expression; no one else in the world had that face. There was no room for anything run of the mill in that face. I turned to Signe:

  — Excuse me!

  And I went to Venom. He remembered me! Or else he was used to being approached by strangers now and then. We didn’t hug, but he said immediately:

  — Well, what do you think?

  — What?

  He gestured to the stage. I listened for a moment; it wasn’t half bad. It was almost old-school. But they were no My Dying Bride.

  — Not bad. Who are they?

  — Frailty, obviously.

  I had absolutely no idea who they were. Now that I’d already failed I could continue on with the conversation normally:

  — Do you still do anything with the metal scene?

  — Yeah, I’m into journalism. We’re making a documentary about Skyforger, with three cameras. An article for a magazine. That kind of stuff.

  — Cool.

  — I’ve left all the nationalist organizations, though. There’s no discipline, nothing. I got sick of it and left. All of them.

  Now he peered at me closely:

  — But I’m feeding my tiger. What about you?

  I really like this expression of his. He repeated:

  — What about you?

  — Me?

  — Yeah.

  — Nothing.

  — I see.

  We were both silent. I thought about my tiger. What was it? How was I to feed it? I said to Venom:

  — Alright, I have to get back to the lady, shit.

  But Signe was gone. I went to look for her by the beer tent. I got a beer and a whisky, and looked around at all the girls. Too bad; all I saw were tits and ass — how was I supposed to recognize Signe? It was easier to recognize girls back in the day. Shouldn’t I be home with my girl, anyway? My phone vibrated; she was calling me. I didn’t hear what she said, it was so loud there, so I just spoke into the receiver:

  — Everything’s fine. Everything’
s fine. You know me.

  And everything really was fine. I just kept on going back to the beer tent. A sort of calm had taken over me, and I dozed off a few times right there on the bench. Some guys said I could go sleep in their tent if I didn’t have my own. Was it already time for bed? I turned down their offer:

  — Sorry, boys, but I’m accustomed to a certain level of comfort.

  And I fell asleep right where I sat. My dream was filled with wonderful music. It sounded familiar, as did all things beautiful. I didn’t want to ever wake up, I didn’t want this music to end. It sang:

  Do you dream of me?

  And I murmured through my drooling, yes, yes, yes.

  Even though I fell asleep on a bench, I woke up under a tree. Right in the festival grounds. Some girls walked past and asked:

  — Where are your glasses?

  I ran my hand down across my face; really, where were they? My head cleared immediately — they were Dior brand. I looked up. My glasses were hanging from a low tree branch. Old habits die hard. I put my glasses back on and went to find breakfast.

  There were already people outside the food tent. I ordered a huge omelette and went to sit down:

  — Good morning!

  — Good morning to you!

  — The morning’s as good as he who gives it!

  Like we were old friends, even though I knew no-one. One of them asked me:

  — What did you think of Tiamat?

  — Hm?

  — They were good, right? It was great that they played some stuff from the nineties.

  Ah, right. Like that old song: ‘You awake — and it’s true.’ It really was the same Tiamat, still alive and kicking, and it was them who I’d heard in my sleep. It hadn’t been a dream. I shouldn’t have been afraid to wake up. I only needed to open my eyes for the dream to become reality.

  But no-one around me was interested in my dream-like tragedies. Despite the early morning hour, the table was already crowded with half empty glasses of beer, and the others started to sing quietly. They saying happily, earnestly, without exaggeration, but they didn’t know the lyrics that well. I finished my omelette, finished my beer and joined in, modestly and with reservation, at first only letting my voice be heard when their choir forgot the end of a line, but soon they were all following my lead because they wanted to sing and someone finally knew most of the words. It was better than nothing. When we sang: