DOOM 94 Read online

  — So?

  And she replied:

  — So what?

  — When did you two meet?

  — Meet who?

  — That ex-ex-convict.

  — Who’s that?

  — Kandžejs.

  — You were the one who introduced us. We ran into each other not that long ago. It’s not like that. We just talked about the old times. I wanted to go back there for a little bit, to be close to it again. Back then I’d been totally in love with someone in your group.

  And she smiled brightly. My heart ached for my missed opportunity. I could I have known that she would turn out so beautiful. She had noticed me. I said:

  — I knew.

  She wasn’t too surprised:

  — Really? Did Gatis know too?

  — No. I didn’t tell anyone.

  And she smiled wickedly:

  — Too bad. Now it seems like it would’ve been better if he’d know.

  That was where I started to get confused:

  — Why?

  She was confused too:

  — What do you mean why?

  I tried to concentrate:

  — Why would he need to know…

  — Because I wanted him to know. But how could I tell him. You remember what I was like.

  I concentrated even harder:

  — Who were you in love with?

  — You said you knew!

  — I forgot.

  — With Gatis! You all called him Death.

  I burst out laughing.

  — What’s so funny?

  How could I not laugh. The two respectable citizens returned to the table and sat down. I asked them:

  — Who are you? Who am I?

  They paid no attention to my questions; they’d already grown accustomed to them back then. But back then I’d had a far better grasp on what was going on.

  Kandžejs and — alright, okay — Nellija were getting ready to go somewhere and began saying their farewells. But Kroģis suddenly grew pensive:

  — Hold on… I just remembered something. Who was it with?

  — What then?

  — Or who was it who told me… You, Jānis?

  — Told you what?

  — The story about the two guys in the dump…

  — What are you talking about? Calm down.

  — Someone told me that story…

  One he had his mind on something, he was immovable. We sat down to listen.

  — It went something like this… One of the guys had a gun.

  Kandžejs made as if to interject, but stopped himself. Kroģis continued:

  — He went out to the old Jelgava dump to practices shooting. There wasn’t anyone there, usually. He got there early in the morning, not another soul in sight. He pulled out his gun, and then spotted someone. But it was the same guy. Also with a gun, also come to the dump to practice shooting. They both spot each other. And are both frightened! And they both wanted to shoot — they were very particular about that — and suddenly they’re advancing towards each other! But then they both dropped to the ground and hid. Just lie on the ground and froze. So the other wouldn’t see them. There’s no way of telling who the other one is. He probably wants to shoot you. And you can’t move, because if you move, he’ll shoot you. And they’re both thinking this very same thing. So they lie there, not moving. For a long time. Because what in this situation can change? No-one else comes to the dump. It’s an old, abandoned dump. And so they lay there all day.

  — And they’re still there now!

  Kandžejs couldn’t resist. Kroģis continued, unwavering:

  — And so they lay there until night fell. They both tried to stay awake, and couldn’t figure out what to do. They both think: how foolish, how stupid. Maybe I should shout ‘truce’ to the other guy? Let’s get up and leave? But then what if he shoots me anyway? But then someone else does show up, someone without a gun. Some girl. She wants to learn to play the flute or recorder or something. But she’s too embarrassed to practice at home. So she’s come to the dump, and doesn’t see the two guys; she sits right between them, takes out her flute and plays. I think that must’ve been the most batshit concert there ever was. Who told me that story?

  — Why are you telling it now? Kandžejs asked. Kroģis cleared his throat; it had to have been the longest he’d ever spoken in one sitting:

  — I don’t know. No reason. Alright, let’s go. Have to go back to the wife and kids.

  Kandžejs glanced at the score sheet:

  — Don’t worry about paying me my winnings, you can keep it.

  Kroģis glanced at the score sheet as well. And asked:

  — What did you do?

  I was still in the throes of his story. I looked at the score sheet. They had all screwed me over so badly, what more did they want? Usually I was good at keeping score. But this time the events of the day had proven to be too much for me. I had given everyone positive-points. Everyone had won. Kroģis shook my hand:

  — See you around! Learn how to count!

  — Later!

  — Later!

  — Later!

  5

  As long as all the important things that had happened to me wasn’t just a figment of my imagination, I decided that it was time to write them down. I wrote for seven days and nights. I spent several years working this way.

  When I had finished, or as close to finished as I could get, I needed to make sure that I hadn’t screwed anything up. While the ink was still drying, I went to the Rare Books and Manuscripts department of the National Library. When I didn’t find what I needed there, I bribed the librarian with a kiss to let me into the secret literature section, the so-called Special Collections section. There I found a volume titled Complete Catalogue of Metalheads. It wasn’t hard to find Death. The catalogue included his last known address and telephone number.

  We sat on a terrace along the river. Some guest house in the Jelgava area. Death set aside the last roll of parchment paper and sipped his tea. He thought for a moment and then said:

  — It’s all true.

  I nodded in agreement, it really was. Death, who once again went by Gatis, put down his empty cup and asked:

  — But why do all of this? It’s all over. Have you been back to Jelgava? The gypsies don’t live by the Shittery anymore. The Pārlielupe Prison is being torn down.

  — The physical things aren’t what’s important.

  — What else? The open-air stage is gone. Your Tabestic was disbanded while you were writing this. They must’ve really been good. Now it’s all gone. No ideas, no mission.

  I shook my head, without knowing why:

  — It can’t all be over.

  — Maybe it isn’t.

  He walked over to his sound system and put in a CD. John Coltrane’s My Favorite Things.

  — I only listen to jazz now.

  But he shot me a look over his shoulder and added:

  — And sometimes Meshuggah. Meshuggah is too good not to listen to. I didn’t know what that was. Thrash? Death?

  — Thrash, he said. But we’ve changed too. Have you not?

  And how, my friend.

  — But why didn’t you write about First Frost?

  What more did he want from me?

  — What’s that?

  — You don’t remember? It was an incredibly important event. It was a landmark for a lot of people.

  No. Wait, wait. I started to remember something… It was after the end. When we had already decided not to start a band. Right?

  — It was the Sinister concert. The first top-quality death-metal concert in Latvia.

  I remembered it now. Strange, I had almost forgotten all about it… We went to that concert. Just that one last time, because Sinister was playing.

  — Man. Back then it was like, if we didn’t make it to that concert, then everything would be meaningless. We had to get there no matter what.

  — It was snowing horribly, even though it was only
October. I was waiting for you guys at the Ozolnieki station. You were seriously late.

  — It was seriously snowing, and we were on our way already, and the train was going as fast as it could. We were stuck at the Sugar Factory station for at least half an hour. We’d already polished off half a bottle of Merkurs.

  Meanwhile, I’d been waiting on the Ozolnieki station platform. The station building was closed, and the snow just kept falling down on me. The train was delayed, and maybe wouldn’t come at all. I was by myself on the platform. Maybe I should walk home. But I couldn’t do that — what if the train pulled in and I wasn’t here? They couldn’t go to the concert without me. I think I felt almost elated when I spotted the headlights of the train tunnelling through the psychopathic snowflakes. I scrambled onto the train. Snow fell from me as I walked through the train cars, as if I were a little piece of the outside world that had stepped in to a homey, rumbling room. They were in the second-to-last train car, and Death called to me:

  — C’mon, sit. Why are you so nervous?

  I sat down on the seat, which happened to be right above the radiator. They had saved that spot just for me. You couldn’t handle it for too long, believe me. But for now it was just what I needed. I didn’t get to sit there for too long anyway — as soon as I had started to turn from a snowman into a waterfall, they wanted to have a smoke, and so we went out to stand between the cars.

  We smoked, we drank, but we didn’t go back inside. Death said he didn’t want to be around people, and so we stayed right there, between the cars. The train stopped in Cena. Death leaned out to check whether any conductors got on and Zombie, of course, pushed him out. He only just managed to jump back on, and got a little worked up. When the door slid closed, Zombie kicked it back open. Death asked:

  — You going to throw me out of it while it’s moving?

  — No, it’s just so we have some fresh air. We’re going to keep smoking. Though, that is quite an idea…

  Snowflakes rushed past the open door, but I wasn’t worried about it. We were going to the Sinister concert, and we had left the world behind. Everything was going well, we weren’t going to get kicked off the train. As soon as I thought these words, Death said:

  — Conductors got on the train in Cena.

  — What? Why didn’t you say anything?

  — I didn’t have time, and you were too busy trying to kill me.

  Zombie peeked into the train car.

  — No-one’s coming yet. Let’s make a run for it at the next station.

  Death was sullen:

  — The next station is Olaine. It’s the worst station. If we don’t make it to Sinister I’ll never smile again. We should’ve just bought tickets this time.

  — Shut up.

  Zombie peeked again in to the train car, but they were coming from the opposite direction. Except that they weren’t conductors; they were five gopniks.

  — Oh! Look what we have here!

  We said nothing.

  — What’s up, Rapunzels?

  We said nothing.

  — You have to get off the train, see, the door’s already open!

  — After you?

  — What?

  And he punched Zombie. Even though I was the one who had spoken.

  Zombie lunged at him, but one of the other guys, a really broad one, grabbed him with some kind of sambo move and threw him to the floor. Then there was an awkward silence. Just to keep up the conversation, Death asked:

  — What’s your problem?

  — What?

  — What’s your deal? Why are you creeping around and starting shit? No-one wants you around. People can’t stand the sight of you. You’re already the real outcasts, is that what you want?

  Then the guy punched Death, too. Then gestured to the others — let’s go! He looked offended, and they left.

  Zombie stuck a finger up one nostril, pulled it out and looked at it. It was red.

  — What happened here? Did we just get our asses handed to us?

  I lit a cigarette and explained:

  — That’s how it has to be. We’re their enemies. It can’t be any other way. That’s our only chance — to be their enemies.

  Death said:

  — I think you’re full of shit.

  Then the door opened and I jumped, but it was someone else, with hole-punch and uniform hats. There was a woman in their group, and she said immediately:

  — You can’t smoke here.

  I tried to save face:

  — We’re very sorry, we’ll take care of it right away…

  But the men shouted in unison:

  — Tickets!

  And again we were quiet.

  — Tickets!

  — We’re just going to Riga.

  — Out!

  The train stopped. It was the Olaine station. Death said:

  — We can’t get out here. We have to get to the Sinister concert.

  — Out!

  And we got out. The woman shouted after us:

  — And get a haircut!

  They watched us to make sure we didn’t jump into a different car. Other offending parties were sent off the train, too, muttering to themselves. Then the doors closed. The train rolled into motion, giving off a blast of blue sparks, and pulled away. Was it even worth waiting for the next train in this blizzard, on this particular night? We didn’t know. Death indicated with his head to the group of people at the end of the platform.

  — It’s them. Our friends.

  — What friends?

  — The guys who just kicked our asses. They must’ve gotten kicked off too.

  — Let’s get out of here.

  And we left.

  — They’re following us.

  — Go, go, go!

  Where were we going? We didn’t know. It was still about twenty kilometres to the concert. But we didn’t care; we walked along the train tracks. It was tough going, the tracks were slippery, and the ties weren’t set at comfortable intervals. Visibility was bad — that is to say, visibility was nonexistent. That’s probably why we chose the wrong set of tracks to follow when we came to a split. That is to say, we didn’t choose anything, we just walked on without speaking. Zombie soon grew bored.

  — At least it’s not snowing!

  Although it was snowing, and cataclysmically so. No-one laughed at his joke. But he kept on cracking them.

  — It’s nice and cool out, so at least my lip doesn’t sting!

  I asked with genuine sympathy:

  — He get you good?

  — Half-way decently.

  And added fatefully:

  — You never get anything.

  — Who, me?

  — Yeah. You never get involved all the way. Isn’t that right, Death, he never gets hit?

  Death nodded.

  I stopped. This was insane. I had gotten used to being insulted. I had learned to stop caring. But now, suddenly, tonight, in a blizzard, and by my friends. It wasn’t the time or place for serious discussions and appropriate behaviour. So I did what I would never have done before that moment. I turned around and headed back. With giant steps. It was hard walking along the tracks, and the ties broke my rhythm, just like they had going the opposite direction. And now the snow wasn’t blowing into my face, but onto the back of my head. And I didn’t have to keep stumbling into someone. I walked alone, again, finally, as always. All this time, for all the Nirvanas, the metal — death, doom and black — I had walked with them, hadn’t fallen behind a single step, but it turns out, I wasn’t for real. In order to be that I had to go alone. Completely alone. Even the frozen moon wasn’t visible through the curtain of snow. Somewhere in front of me were my enemies, ever closer, and my friends ever farther away. Then, through the blizzard, Death’s voice:

  — Moron! Hey moron? Where’d you go? We’ll never make it to Sinister this way!

  As if we could still actually make it anywhere, as if we weren’t completely lost and, even if a train did come our wa
y, we were nowhere near a station, we’re somewhere in the wrong direction, we’re going to freeze to death, don’t they get it? Am I the only grown-up one here? The only sensible one, the only cautious one? That is, the only weakling? Someone had managed to infiltrate this group of guys who would never grow old, someone who’s always been here, a little, trembling old man. How could I ever start a band? Enough, enough, I have to head straight into my black destiny, to finally be fully birthed. And I went, and the snow wasn’t falling in my face anymore, and I could see what was happening in front of me. There they were, like two little trees on a swirling white backdrop.

  This is where my memory gets hazy. I asked Gatis:

  — What happened after that?

  — How should I know? You’d turned around to go back like some kind of idiot. And by the time we realized what was going on. I still don’t really get what happened.

  That’s right, exactly, I’d turned back by myself. I saw some people, they were there, like two little trees. I thought maybe it wasn’t the skinheads, maybe we hadn’t seen clearly in the dark, maybe it was someone else entirely, friendly and familiar people, but as I drew nearer I saw that it really was the skinheads. They sneered, baring their teeth when the spotted me. I didn’t speak, just adjusted my gait a little and planted my left foot out in front of me, shuffling towards them little by little in a boxer’s stance. The skinheads didn’t fully understand what was happening, but they knew what they had to do. The leader, the one who had already hit my friends, came forward and swung at my face. But my face wasn’t there anymore; I had taken a half-step to the left, dodging him. His fist punched through snowflakes, and I hit him with a right-hook. His legs twitched as he rolled over in the snow. A second skinhead came at me, but he was already terrified and had his fists up to block his face. I hit him in the stomach, and he whimpered and crumpled to his knees like an alcohol-soaked sponge. I saw the flash of a knife in the third one’s hand…

  Gatis interrupted my memories:

  — We got there maybe a minute later. Right, yes, it was soon. You were standing there, so were they.