DOOM 94 Read online

  We sat in the silence of the garage; my mind was blank. Dave struck the cymbal, I fell over again, and again they didn’t laugh, and then they opened a bag of crisps.

  Krist said:

  — We have to play one more show. It may be the most important one. For the truest fans, those who refused to believe the concert scheduled for Saint Alice’s Day is cancelled, and we have to give them this ghost concert.

  Dave answered through a mouthful of crisps:

  — It’s all true, y’know.

  Krist nodded.

  — And we need Kurt. For this one concert, we need Kurt back.

  The garage was silent except for the crunching of crisps, the pounding of my heart and the cooing of pigeons outside.

  — So we’ve been looking for him. We found a few guys who look the part, but there were two issues. Either they’re not one of us, or they can’t play guitar. You sort of look right, and you seem like one of us and you can, apparently, oy, oy, oy, play the guitar.

  Dave was sitting back behind the drums and counted off with his sticks — one, two, three, four — as if to say, let’s play.

  I shook my head.

  — What’s wrong?

  — I can’t play guitar.

  They both waved their hands at me in rock-and-roll-ish distaste:

  — Man, stop. It’s going to be more like a gig, a house party, you don’t have to be a genius! We promised to play ‘Sappy’, we’ll pull it off somehow. We’ve got Pat, too. Afterwards we’ll smash our guitars, jump around, hit the snack table and then — adios!

  I was already standing up to leave, still shaking my head ‘no’ so intensely that I even started to drool.

  — No, I don’t know how, I can’t, it’s not my thing...

  Then I slapped my hand to my forehead: — Oh, right, I just remembered, I have to... I glanced down to check my watch, but I wasn’t wearing one. But I still hurried out, calling apologetically behind me:

  — I have to get home, the kittens are about to open their eyes.

  Outside I almost collided with Pat, who was on his way back, carrying something in his cupped hands as carefully as if it was a butterfly. He leapt out of my way, saying:

  — Yow, Speed Racer!

  I headed home, and found a familiar street right away. I even made it back in time for the RBS Tops.

  12

  Nirvana was always number one in the Tops. Just like in the previous weeks. Oho, what a beautiful and momentary misunderstanding, I thought. ‘About a Girl’ was a really good song. Of course, I preferred the album version from Bleach, where he shouted, oh how he shouted! But even the Unplugged version of the song was undeniably good. But why was it at number one? I didn’t get it.

  The next day at school people were passing around the delayed memory book. The section “Your Crush” didn’t interest me anymore (how long was a guy supposed to wait for his name to show up, I was tired of it). There weren’t any interesting poems anymore like there used to be, either, such as:

  Life is just dark

  Without a sweetheart.

  Now I turned to the section ‘Your Favourite Music’. And was surprised. Nirvana after Nirvana, regardless if whoever wrote it was a punk or a shy, straight-A student. Kurt’s name was carved into each and every desk. At least the teacher didn’t start incorporating him into her lesson plan, thank God.

  Saturday I went to the market to buy pancakes to pickle them later, and what did I see? His blue eyes staring back at me from every T-shirt, his face, smiling or grimacing. And what did I hear? ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ or ‘In Bloom’ playing in every kiosk, sometimes even ‘Sliver’. From a few I even heard ‘Zombie’ or ‘Self Esteem’. The shopkeepers-cum-DJs were fat old women, moving their hips totally out of rhythm. And the people came and bought it all.

  I went to find Kārlis. He wasn’t home, but Pūpols was in the front hall eating croquettes. I told him what I’d seen.

  Pūpols bristled:

  — But who told me that Nirvana was just a bunch of idiots and druggies banging around like cavemen? That it was negative music, shit, if it could even be called music?

  I asked him, full of infuriated interest:

  — Who?

  Pūpols’ face turned red like a pussywillow in the sunset, and a big chunk of croquette flew out of his mouth as he sputtered:

  — Who said that it was all just some kind of new, destructive fashion statement that nothing good could come out of? That it would be better for people to stick to positive messages and listen to Michael Jackson who, by the way, can dance better too?

  — Who? Who!?

  — And those same people, well, now they’re all into Nirvana.

  I slapped my knee:

  — That’s what I’m saying! Now those people are claiming to be one of us! Just yesterday they were saying that Cobain was only good at screaming, and now they’re screaming along with him!

  — And they said that it was just a bunch of teenagers being posers, wanting to look different, but now it’s become like some kind of mass-market uniform or something.

  — Who!? Who could take the truth and turn it upside down like that? The goddamned idiot asshats! Who?!

  Pūpols pointed at me with a fierceness that was hard to ignore.

  — What are you staring at? Answer me! Who’s the enemy!

  He brought his finger even closer to my face and actually poked me in the eye. It hurt like crazy, and my hands went up instinctively. One of them caught Pūpols in the nose.

  Pūpols had a particular nose. It was forever waiting on some otherworldly impulse to just start spewing blood. Once, a long long time ago, he and I had come to blows in the orchard behind school, and I only saved myself from being trampled to death by hitting him in the nose. It bled freely this time, too.

  — Gah, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!

  He looked at me and saw tears streaming down my face. He’d practically gouged my eye out. Pūpols stood with his hand under his nose, the palm puddling with red, and watched my tears as they fell.

  — Are you retarded? Why’d you punch me in the nose? And why are you blubbering like some girl? It was you, you were the one who not that long ago called Cobain a destructive moron, but Jackson a humanitarian dancer.

  Strange. I didn’t remember that. I mean, sure, at one point I had listened to Michael, and even tried to copy his moves in front of the mirror, working especially hard to perfect his famous crotch-grab. But that was so long ago. And I was one to quickly pick up the beauty of this new school of music. Wouldn’t I remember saying that?

  Just then Gatis burst into the hall. When he saw us standing there crying and bleeding, he said: — The fuck is up with you two?! And promptly vomited everywhere. As we later learned, he had been at a nearby park with some friends drinking yorsh, and after that, of course, he’d felt he was going to throw up. Kārlis’ house was the closest, so he’d rushed in, and probably would have made it to the toilet had we not thrown him off with our strange scene.

  Once we’d done our best to clean up the hallway and had calmed down, we told Gatis what was going on, and he said:

  — Who doesn’t listen to Cobain these days? I mean, what normal person these days listens to Nirvana?

  Then Kārlis came home and kicked us out.

  Gatis hurried off home to continue his vomiting. Pūpols, sulking and still holding his nose, ambled off across the courtyard.

  And I, having pissed everyone off, wandered into the summer night.

  I didn’t have to go back home that night. The rest of my family had gone to our cottage in Ozolnieki, leaving me behind in Jelgava.

  I walked along and thought about the times, about its particular characteristics. What more did we need? We were one step from breaking out and one step from falling behind, I could feel it. The feeling only intensified until it became visceral — freedom flooded down on the city. No, not flooded, but trickled down like a misty rain that soaks you to the bone.

/>   It’s unbelievable: you can clearly feel the freedom raining down, but the rest of the city is sleeping like the dead. It’s like standing on the street and looking in through a window at someone you love, and you’re pouring your love out against that window — the window can’t stay closed for ever, can it?

  I started to think about Milēdija, about how bad we were for each other, about how good it was that she didn’t like me, and how good it was that she’d chosen Kārlis’ brother.

  If only I had a cigarette.

  I’d walked all the way to the Jelgava Palace. Just for the hell of it, instead of turning in the direction of home I crossed the bridge to the Pārlielupe part of town.

  I stopped along the bridge, and looked over the railing. Almost everyone leans to look over the railing when they’re on a bridge, to feel that temptation to fall, that depth. When I got tired of that I looked towards downtown — there was nothing there. Then I turned to look the other way, towards Pārlielupe.

  A large group of people was approaching. The dark shadows drew closer quietly and quickly, eventually turning into young and middle-aged men, their heads shaved. There were a lot of them. They were so unnaturally quiet; they didn’t should, didn’t curse. Their gait was just as unnatural — very quick, some of them even running. My heart wanted to leap into the Lielupe River — they were headed straight towards me, a silent and stone-faced army.

  I pressed myself up against the railing, hoping to blend into them and escape their notice. What was going on, who had sent an entire army of thugs after me? They were close, so very close. Almost next to me. Watchful eyes, nervous mouths, row after row of them. As the last of them passed me, one of them glanced at me, hard, but didn’t stop. I watched them go. Thugs who leave you alone. Who were they? Ghost-thugs?

  I rubbed my hands over my face and decided that I was imagining things. I needed to go home. But first I had to stand for a minute to catch my bearings. I wanted to avoid a potential repeat-meeting with the ghosts, before the city swallowed them whole.

  I don’t know how long I’d been standing there in a daze, when a car pulled up next to me. It was the police, and a few officers stepped out of it.

  — Don’t move! Hands up!

  One of the policemen rushed over to me and shoved me against the railing.

  — Little bitch!

  Two of the officers grabbed me by the arms, a third shone a torch into my face. After the rest of the night’s events I didn’t even care anymore; all I tried to do now was not shit myself. But something still made me shrink into myself. As they scrutinised me in silence, I heard something, two seconds of it. I could hear ‘About a Girl’ playing from the police car. Even our enemies were listening to our music.

  — It’s not him. Look at his hair!

  And the officer tugged on my hair so hard it hurt.

  — What’re you doing out here? Are you stupid? Get lost!

  An unintelligible voice crackled from the police radio to mix with Nirvana. The officers crammed back into their car and, wheels screeching, shot off toward downtown.

  I didn’t know it yet, but the next day the Zemgale News would print: “Citizens of Jelgava, beware. Don’t open your doors to strangers, don’t pick up hitchhikers!” This misanthropic outpouring was a result of that night’s events. Eighty-nine inmates from the Pārlielupe Prison’s Fourth Colony had escaped through a hole they’d carved out in the wall of the laundry room. It was a world record! Well done, Jelgava.

  I still had no idea what the city was going to do with its newfound freedom. Police officers would be shot at from a stolen vehicle. Parents would forbid their kids from wandering around, finally giving the act of going for a walk meaning. To me, these criminals had really just been a symbol, a metaphor for our overall process of breaking out.

  But that’s not what I was thinking about there on the bridge. I felt like a traitor. No, I felt like Kurt had betrayed us so that I would now betray him and move on. I felt like someone had died again so that the rest of us could be free.

  We were nearing autumn, and the cold moon shivered in the river.

  II

  THE MN

  1

  The road from Jelgava to Riga isn’t that interesting. No hills, no valleys. All you can do is imagine. It’s like the entire region was carefully constructed to train the imagination. And once the train spits you out and you take in your surroundings, everything looks like something you can’t wait to tell your friends about. But what do they need your sudden poeticism for? They’re looking at it all right now, too, and are probably thinking about it themselves, which is why you’re doing the same.

  Behold, the Zemgale lowlands, flat, terrible. Nowhere to hide, no salvation. The sun lit up the sparse birch grove, drawing the eye to the cemeteries hidden there. There, in the distance, is Lithuania. And right before that wonderful country is the station for a town called Meitene — our word for ‘girl’. How I’d love to be there. A little closer to us is the haunted Eleja Manor. Then comes Jelgava — no comment. And then Olaine, the end of it all, a living nightmare, the anarchy capital of Latvia, a rogue territory with its own set of rules.

  That’s where we found ourselves just then.

  We were supposedly pro-anarchy, or at least we were for now — drawing jagged As with circles around them. But the anarchy in Olaine was the real deal, it consisted of dark and harsh laws. This is where all of Jelgava’s junkies started out and got their drugs. MDMA was manufactured there by the conveyorful. The police supposedly confiscated them by the hundreds of kilograms and incinerated them. Once Kārlis went to Olaine with a group of his buddies for a friendly basketball game. Their bus was pelted with rocks. Sometimes they even threw rocks at the passing trains. I was on a train once when it happened. As soon as the train pulled away from Olaine the rocks started flying. One hit a widow on the other end of the train car, and another just barely missed my window. I was always lucky like that.

  But now we were a better target for this city. We were smaller than a train, of course, but we weren’t made of metal. Metal was only in our hearts.

  And this was not the best place for young guys with hair longer than what was socially acceptable. Mine was down to my shoulders; almost. Gatis, whom no-one called that anymore except his mother and our teachers, was the only one with hair actually down to his shoulders. He’d been growing it out longer than I had, but it wasn’t growing in length so much as in width. He took that in stride and always said: “Whatever, Tonijs looks way more like a poodle than me.” It was hard to say exactly how long Edgars’ hair was because it mostly stuck out in all directions, but it was definitely longer than the norm.

  Our jeans are even skinnier than before and ripped at the knees. Everyone wears trainers with the tongues pulled out and black T-shirts. Gatis has an Obituary shirt. They’re our new cult group. Well, the group was old — they’d been playing together since the eighties. They were from Miami and were one of the pioneers of death metal. And we are metalheads. Gatis is particularly into death metal, which is why we now call him Death.

  It’s hard to believe that he found the shirt at a rummage sale. It was a miracle, really. After that we all stormed the rummage sales to dig through the heaps of clothes. I even made my mom a list of what shirts to grab if she saw them: Death, Cannibal Corpse, Anal Cunt, Brutal Truth, Carcass, Hypocrisy. She never found any of them, but once brought back a Michael Learns to Rock shirt with three smiling guys à la Zack Morris on it. Despite my rebellious nihilism, my heart almost broke from how sweet it was. But I could never bring myself to wear the shirt.

  But Death managed to find an Obituary shirt for fifty santims. Yet he still wasn’t happy. He was a little superstitious and believed that he’d bought bad luck when he’d bought the shirt (though that didn’t stop him from wearing it religiously). Even now he was saying:

  — I told you! I told you! Something always go wrong when I’m wearing this shirt!

  We’d just been kicked off the train from
Jelgava to Riga. And for nothing — we just didn’t have tickets. The brigade of conductors took one look at our hair and left us at the next station. The train moved on, but we stayed there, in Olaine.

  — What now, boys?

  Death looked after the train, but it had already disappeared into the distance. Edgars always had an answer:

  — I think we should kill some dogs and sell their skins!

  He was totally out of his mind. He lived next door to Death. Because he was a little crazy and because of his obsessive love for horror films, everyone called him Zombie.

  — The townies’ll skin us soon.

  We scrutinized the city with eagle eyes, the city that spread out in front of us, overgrown with shrubs. We didn’t see a single person, but the shrubs looked suspicious.

  — Let’s get out of here.

  And we headed for the highway.

  You could see the Zemgale lowlands better from here; the Jelgava end of the horizon seemed even more endearing, more so than Riga, which we were dying to get to. We weren’t interested in Riga itself, but once you passed through it you could get to the Stocks. That was the centre of the world. Sometimes it was even called the Punk Stocks. My mom told me that hippies went to trade records there back in the seventies. This was out in the Biķernieks forest, where you could get by taking Trolley 18 or a tram. People would gather there — the rejects, those outside the law, those who didn’t want to be anywhere else — gather in the woods and do their thing, which the city and the world knew nothing about.

  So what did they do there? For now all we knew is that they traded cassette tapes. And that was enough for us. We needed tapes. Nirvana and Pearl Jam weren’t enough anymore.

  Sometimes I still secretly listened to Nirvana. But I listened to new tapes more often. I had Tiamat’s Wildhoney. I’d heard it on the ‘Rockade’ radio programme. It was as good as a fairy tale — no, dark as a fairy tale, depressing as a fairy tale. The singer growled like a bear, and then he was joined by female voices, and I’d imagine the women were singing naked. Death got their tape for me through his usual channels. Kārlis, in turn, had Napalm Death’s Harmony Corruption, which was something else entirely; they thrashed with superhuman strength and speed. Death had Entombed’s Wolverine Blues, Cannibal Corpse’s Eaten Back to Life and Morbid Angel’s Altars of Madness, and some other stuff I can’t remember. He definitely had Asphyx’s The Rack, which he loved more than anything, and he wanted their next album, Last One on Earth. Then he’d have all he needed in life.