DOOM 94 Read online

  My brother died in the war,

  But I hear him ride at night…

  The guy sitting next to me, my unfamiliar brother, shirtless and with a long beard, cried himself silly. I looked at him in disbelief — this tough-looking ironman was crying over schlager music. But he just kept on wiping away his tears while the table next to ours finished the song; they had fallen behind us by almost an entire verse. Wiping the last of his tears, the man clapped me on the back. I felt moved as well, and ordered him a beer and some garlic toasts. I was surprised by how good the food was here. The omelette was pretty decent, and the garlic toasts were quite garlicky.

  Then I felt it starting. The desire to push people away, to be macho, to have respectable friends and to be the wise guy. All of these were things that had stood in my way so I wouldn’t find what I came here looking for. And now I felt the strong desire to throw my money around. It started out so innocently — what’s more innocent than ordering a beer and bar snacks for a crying stranger? Even the Good Soldier Schweik had done that. But for him that had been the last of his money, and it had been the right thing to do. But I had a lot of money left. And I wanted to prove it. I had shaken off the kids; now I was surrounded by men who sang, men who were closer to my own age, but I didn’t have long hair, didn’t have anything. I was a stranger, and what’s worse, I was a traitor who had served the enemy for years, and now here I was, at a celebration, hopelessly trying to pass as one of them, and now I had lay down the only weapon the unworthy could wield, behold, I can buy garlic toasts, garlic toasts and beers all around!

  Theoretically there may have been a bit of solidarity in it all, of the prodigal son returning. Maybe that’s why I so sharply sensed how awful it all was — the fear of authority and the joy of being praised, and all that money. I had to get rid of it. Our table piled up with empty glasses. Here they had the pleasing habit of not clearing off the empty glasses, also you could see the damage done. I’d quieted the traitorous feeling in my brain and focused on drinking, but I felt myself sobering up with each glass. It can happen. The rest of the guys were warmed up from the singing and had turned to conversation. A Russian guy brought up the question of nationality. They’re usually the ones to start that one. The Latvians, maybe more online. But this guy got right into it, and asked loudly:

  — So what if I’m Russian?

  — Who cares. No-one said anything about it.

  I tried to be the voice of reason. It was true, no-one had brought it up at all.

  — I’ll have you know that my grandfather fought in the battles for Latvian independence!

  And he looked at each of us in turn. No-one said anything, because there was nothing to say. I was the only one who spoke:

  — How nice. Respect and honour to your grandfather.

  Everyone chimed in, well, of course, yes, of course. But someone on the other end of the table suddenly turned the attention to me:

  — But who are you?

  I didn’t hear the question because I was thinking about something else. Well, not so much thinking about something else as looking somewhere else. There was a woman sitting on the neighbouring table. She was wearing a T-shirt and thong underwear, and was sitting with her back to us. She fit into the overall setting quite well, and maybe it was this quiet, unobtrusive presence that pulled me into existential contemplation. I stared at her ass like I was watching two planets collide. Or like an idiot. And then the question came again:

  — Who are you?

  I gave a start; I’d been caught, I was flustered. I didn’t know the answer to the question. And I was tired of the question. I scratched my forehead with a two-lat coin and said:

  — I don’t know.

  I stood up and went for a walk. Who was I? Without long hair, without a tiger. There were no advertisers or French aristocrats who would recognize me. But hadn’t Signe recognized me? She hadn’t asked who I was. What had she seen in me? Where was she now? I couldn’t see her. And I was still unable to remember something. Something was niggling at my brain. Who was I? What was I looking for here?

  I started to notice that people had been running into me from a single direction. There was some kind of movement happening. Everyone was nudging me towards something. Or else they were the ones going somewhere, and I was just getting in the way. Then I heard music. And it was really good music! Could it be? Morbid Angel or Demilich? Anything was possible here. Now I was hurrying ahead of everyone. I worked my way up to the front of the stage. But no, I didn’t recognise the guys on stage. They looked like totally normal guys, except that they were dressed like clowns. One in a dress, one doing tricks, while the guitarist was wearing nothing but a thong. I’m dead serious. That’s what they looked like. But the music, the music was amazing. I couldn’t believe it myself. I said: ‘Brain, no tricking me this time. What are they singing?’ And I listened to the lyrics:

  You can’t stomach our shit-stained balls,

  But all you taste is rhubarb,

  Sooner or later I’ll be your astral whore.

  It wasn’t bad. Not bad at all. There was a hidden poetics in it, believe it or not. And then the final verse:

  And you’ll massage my little rosy balls,

  You’ll be my friends, we’ll go hand in hand

  To a place where the sun doesn’t set and birds sing Judas Priest.

  I just want to be happy.

  I almost started to cry, no joke. Just like that metalhead at the breakfast table and the song about the brother. The final solo was just perfect, too — tiu-riu-tiu-tiu! Once the song was over the audience started to chant what I had already figured out:

  — Tabestic Enteron!

  — Tabestic Enteron!

  Isn’t this why I’d come here? It must be. Now I looked at those clowns in a completely different light. Especially at the guitarist in the thong underwear. It wasn’t the outfit that caught my attention this time. It was… It was Arturiņš from Jelgava. One hundred per cent, without a doubt. He was in a band now. Why hadn’t he waited for me? I get why Pēteris had started Skyforger without me — it was because he didn’t know me. But Arturiņš, why hadn’t he waited?

  When it seemed like the concert was nearing its end, I left the front row and made my way to the beer tent. I pushed my way past the losers just hanging around, and didn’t even glance at the girl who was still sitting on the table. I bought six beers. Five for Tabestic Enteron and one for me. I wanted to raise a glass with my friends, the accomplished musicians. I had forgiven them. I was a great enough artist that I could value art more than I valued myself. And there they came, no longer visible to the public, discussing among themselves how their set had gone.

  I approached them with my bouquet of beers. I handed it to them and said:

  — A gift, dear musicians, from a long-time fan of metal!

  Next to Arturiņš was a beautiful woman. She looked at me, then at him and asked that same question:

  — Who’s that?

  But Arturiņš, or rather, Pussy Grinder, looked at me and said:

  — That’s my friend! Always older and wiser than me.

  4

  You must think that I was done after Blome. But oh, far from it. The scar had reopened, and I couldn’t sleep. I still hadn’t found what I was looking for, still couldn’t remember some very important thing. It was in the past, the important things are always in the past. But the past is a mystery. There’s a great part in Plato’s Theaetetus about a bird cage. Remember, where Socrates and Theaetetus are discussing memory. Is it like a wax tablet in which all the events of our past are imprinted? Some go deeper, some are more shallow, the imprints grow duller over the course of time, are smoothed out, and eventually we no longer remember what once was. How many people came to Black Friday in 1996? According to the written record, 800. But an eight can look so much like a three… But no, says Socrates, our memory is more like a bird cage. And the birds aren’t docile chickens, but wild, vicious birds. If you put your hand in the cage
they’ll start to rage, thrash against the bars, up and down. You can try to catch hold of one, but you don’t know which one it will be. You pull it out and look; did you pull out the memory of a mysterious girl, or of an epic failure? You try to catch hold of another one, but birds aren’t just animate objects, but fragile things, you can injure them, and if you do it will never be the same again, and they’re easy to kill. The meanest ones peck your fingers, and then you’re the one running away. The beautiful ones are the hardest to coax into your hand. Tired of being pecked and desperate to catch what you know, but can’t see, you press your face against the door to the cage, and then you just give in and stick your whole head inside their bird kingdom, and they attack you and tear you apart.

  I didn’t know where to continue with my search, and then I got a call from Kroģis. The same old thug friend of mine. I didn’t even know he had my phone number, but I wasn’t too surprised — I’m sure he has his sources. He called to tell me that Kandžejs was just back from Ireland. I sort of remembered, right, he had gone to Ireland around ten insane years ago. Probably still on the run, I thought. Kroģis had run into him, and they thought — maybe all three of us could get together, play cards or something. Just like that. Something in this sleepy, peaceful world of the present had been set into motion.

  Soon enough, as unbelievable as it may seem, the three of us really were sitting together at an outdoor café. The sun was shining and Zane (our server) was all smiles. I had chosen the place, because they didn’t know their way around Riga. And there they sat, these two men, who had been so mysterious that at times it had seemed as if I had imagined them. It was so strange to see them sitting at a table with fancy glasses in their hands. Kroģis hadn’t changed a bit, though he was maybe a bit wider. His expression was just as grumpy as always, and a few more timid people at the café gave our table a wide berth. Kandžejs was a little broader than before, and was just as real, drinking unfiltered beer and constantly fussing:

  — Get one for yourself, it’s on me!

  — I already had one.

  — You don’t want another? See, I’ve got cash, have another!

  — I haven’t even finished this one.

  — Drink, drink up! I have the money, we’ll order more. Drink!

  Kroģis said nothing; he had become the quintessential manifestation of his own qualities and, it seemed, had stopped speaking altogether. But no matter, Kandžejs spoke enough for both of them.

  — I drank Guinness in Ireland, but we don’t have it here.

  — What d’you mean they don’t have it!

  — You mean we do?

  — Well not here, but at Suns, and in the Irish pubs.

  — We have Irish pubs?

  — They’re all over the place.

  — Can we go there? We’ll take a cab!

  — I don’t want to go to some dumb Irish pub. I don’t want Guinness, either. Can you make it without it for a little longer? You’ll be back in Dublin soon enough, you can get it there.

  Kroģis opened up a pack of cards and started to deal.

  — I live in Limerick, not Dublin.

  — Very interesting.

  — I can tell you about the house I have there, too.

  — So tell us.

  — I have a garden, too, with roses…

  — I was kidding. I don’t want to hear about it.

  — Well then what? Should we go play pool? We can take a cab. I played in a pub in Dublin once against Ronnie O’Sullivan. Beat him three to one.

  — I don’t believe you.

  — Oh well.

  I waited for them to blow off their steam about Ireland. After the second beer things calmed down, and I asked:

  — Do you remember that time in Jelgava?

  — I remember, I remember. We got lost in the woods and stole a boat, of course.

  — I meant the time we were watching my friends play street ball.

  — Maybe. I don’t remember.

  I understood it wasn’t time yet. I focused on the game. I made a lot of mistakes, and had to deduct myself points. I was always the scorekeeper.

  — What do you do in Ireland?

  — Nothing! I have an Irish job now, which means I do nothing, just get paid! I play Unreal Tournament at work, I’m already on level five.

  — I only play Tetris at work, and I’m on level thirteen.

  Jesus, I thought, what are we doing here? Bragging about who has the easiest job. Kandžejs and I, like true friends, had always some level of competition between us, but now I thought — enough. Just then he called, and in his typical style — by turning his head and saying: ‘What a risk, what a risk!’ Of course, he had a decent hand and, of course, won, claiming it was a crazy heroic feat. I wanted so badly to get good cards, so I could show him how it was done, without talking, with a poker face, but I kept getting useless cards, and I made a lot of mistakes. Kroģis had already given me one of his looks. He had been the one who had taught me how to play all those years back, and now he watched my performance like a disappointed coach, probably thinking I’d wasted all those years letting myself go. I wanted to make him proud, but I never got the right cards. But Kandžejs got them, and eventually my frustration got the best of me and I asked:

  — What exactly were you in for?

  I needed to know. But he just trumped my hand and lamely replied:

  — What I was in for last night? Why don’t you ask your mom, she knows.

  — No, I mean that time in the nineties. What were you in for?

  — Where?

  — What do you mean where?

  — Well, where?

  — In prison! In the Jelgava Pārlielupe Prison.

  — Sixty-two.

  He had the annoying habit of counting points during the course of the game, thus announcing his victory. Then he turned his attention back to me:

  — What were you saying?

  — What’s wrong with you? I’m asking, why were you in the Pārlielupe Prison that one time?

  — Ah, me, in prison?

  — Yes!

  — For kicking your ass at cards, that’s why.

  — I’m serious. Tell me, please?

  — What do you want?

  I looked into his eyes and saw earnest confusion.

  — You used to always talk about prison… Folklore, stories…

  — Sure, I liked the subject, the music… You talked about metal all the time, but were you actually metal?

  — Yes!

  — Hey, metal, are you going to finally play like a person?

  That reprove came from Kroģis. I’d completely screwed up my hand. He discarded the junk cards and added:

  — He was never locked up anywhere. You out of your mind or something?

  Kandžejs howled with laughter:

  — You honestly thought that I’d been in prison?

  — Well, no, I mean… To be honest, yes.

  — How old was I back then? Fifteen?

  — Older… You were older than me.

  — Okay, so seventeen, maybe.

  — But how… You drove a car!

  Now both of them were laughing.

  — You thought I was some hard-core criminal, but that I would never drive a car without a license, right?

  — But the car, it was black…

  — That was Igors’ car, my sister’s boyfriend.

  They were positively shaking with laughter. I took the cards, shuffled and started to deal, but Kroģis grabbed my hand. I stopped, collected the cards, shuffled them again and gave him the deck to cut. I tried to get a hold of myself and re-join the world. But there was more. Kandžejs stubbed out his just-lit cigarette and said:

  — Oy, oy, oy. She’s coming. Look sober.

  A very attractive woman approached our table. She greeted everyone like old friends. I looked at her face, and I’ll be damned, but it really was her — it was Mele, good old Mele. We had both changed enough that we could honestly say to each other:


  — You look great.

  — You mean not fat anymore?

  Some things never change; this question was just like the old her.

  Then she explained:

  — I used to eat a lot to piss my dad off. All he wanted was a pretty daughter.

  And now he had one. Her teenage curves had stayed in all the right places, and I couldn’t stop staring. It really was her — who would have thought! I turned to my newly ex-cons:

  — Do you all know each other?

  — Oh yes.

  Kandžejs gave Mele a lecherous look. She answered coolly, casually:

  — We ran into each other not too long ago, when he first got to town.

  — But how did you first meet?

  — Weren’t you the one who introduced us?

  — Was I?

  I wrinkled my forehead and rubbed my cheeks. I couldn’t remember, but maybe it was possible. It turns out anything was possible. Kandžejs said:

  — Yeah, yeah, yeah, that one time, remember? At least I think so. That time in Jelgava — and he became animated again — Nellija, can you imagine it, this one was convinced that I’d escaped from…

  I put up my hands:

  — Stop! Stop! Everybody freeze!

  I turned to Kandžejs:

  — Did you pay already? You have to pay for the beer!

  He immediately rushed in to pay his tab, pulling notes out of his wallet as he went. I turned to Kroģis:

  — Do you need to go to the bathroom?

  He considered everything with an equal amount of seriousness. Even then he thought for a moment and then said:

  — I suppose I do.

  And then we were alone. She immediately grew sullen, just like she had a hundred years ago. I don’t think she had been faking it. I sat there fidgeting just like I had back then, and I’m an honest person. More likely the mask had been everything that had happened in the meantime. And even if not — for just a moment we were just as we had been back then, without pretence. I said: