DOOM 94 Read online

  Marie-Thérèse of France, daughter of the King and martyr, also wound up in Jelgava. Louis XVIII didn’t have children, and so he placed his concerns for the future of France on Marie-Thérèse’s shoulders, and married her to her cousin Louis Antoine D’Artois. But the couple never had children.

  I stood by the palace lost in these thoughts; the palace was huge and rosy-coloured. Kārlis had invited me here. He’d said there was going to be some kind of concert, and that his brother could get us in. The concert was supposed to take place next to the palace, on a smaller island that was part of the main palace archipelago. There was a bandstand there or something. Neither Kārlis nor his brother were there yet. So I was standing around by the corner of the huge, rosy palace and making up its history in my head.

  Why hadn’t they had any kids? They had been the last chance to continue the royal bloodline. Who knows, maybe they did have a kid, but Marie-Thérèse, changing its diaper one day, may have remembered her parents’ — Louis XVI’s and Marie Antoinette — decapitated heads, as well as the letter the poor King had written to her own little brother: ‘If you one day have the misfortune of becoming King...’ She could have panicked. She could have taken the child, a stack of clean diapers and a golden sword, and given the lot to a nanny, a kind Jelgava woman... Yes, that’s exactly what happened!

  The kind Jelgava woman taught the French wretch our beautiful Latvian language and appropriately modest manners. The boy was

  handsome, though a little odd (Marie-Thérèse and Louis Antoine were first cousins, after all). He never asked about his past, and his children after him didn’t, either. And so we come to the seventh generation carrying Royal French blood in Jelgava. And no one knows about it. ‘It will live but no eyes will see it’, as My Dying Bride sang. Meanwhile the unwitting descendant of the King had a heart full of inexplicable desires. And he often feels out of place, he doesn’t have a lot of friends, and he’s basically dumbstruck when faced with any sort of practical issue. Yes, that’s it! Exactement! Everything was falling into place...

  So I stood there in my place, fitting right into the palace scenery, when Zombie came up to me, held out his hand and said:

  — Pull my finger!

  I pulled it, and there was a cracking rumble. Zombie had farted. The nearby ditch burst into peals of laughter; they were all there, Death, Kārlis, Kārlis’ brother, Šolis and Šolis’ buddy. I was happy to return to reality, to my friends in this rye-scented area of Zemgale. Kārlis’ brother shouted for us to hurry up, we had to get inside; Zombie shot back that we’d have been inside a long time ago if Kārlis’ brother hadn’t been so busy scratching his balls. But we eventually made our way to the entrance. Kārlis and his brother really did manage to get us all inside by chatting with the guard at the door. I’m never comfortable in these situations asking just how we were able to get in. It’s would be like stripping someone of their glory. And that’s not cool. Even the guard knew it and glared at us, letting us know how lucky we were that night.

  Though, Šolis and his buddy declined to come in with us. They said they’d be in later. I found that odd — it cost a lat to get in!

  But who cares about them — I was inside and had forgotten all about my shadowy dream world. We could already hear these magnificently broken wails which meant someone was inexpertly adjusting the sound system and that the concert was about to start, live life itself, the life I was about to live! And my friends were right there with me. I looked around eagerly, trying to spot other metalheads, but didn’t see any. There were quite a lot of girls and clean-cut guys, though. Death noticed this as well, and asked Kārlis’ brother:

  — Who’s playing tonight?

  — Otrā Puse.

  — What?

  I didn’t know the band, but I liked the name — otrā puse, the other side. It was exactly what we were interested in. ‘Break on through to the other side!’ It might not be metal, but maybe a heavier alternative band, who knows. They were taking the stage. They looked like regular guys. But metalheads could also look like regular guys. They started their set. It was absolutely, positively nothing like metal.

  — So what?

  Kārlis’ brother snapped at Death.

  — We should support local bands. You got another option tonight? You can swim back home.

  This is where the line between our tastes in music was drawn. The brothers were true music lovers and patriots, and event-goers. Death was more ideologically principled. But Zombie didn’t seem to mind the music— he was sneaking up behind girls and pinching their butts. That’s how he was. To get the most objective image of his behaviour, take everything I say about Zombie and multiply it by three. I just can’t always talk about him and him alone. In turn, everything in this book that I do could, honestly, be halved. So, for example: we had just sat down in the grass and Kārlis inconspicuously handed me two beers, which I drank so inconspicuously that two girls passing by flashed me a single smile; Zombie, meanwhile, had pinched one butt and gotten one foot wet in the canal.

  Kārlis and his brother went to stand closer to the stage, but Death stayed off to one side. I took three steps toward the brothers, but I stopped partway.

  Then Death called after me:

  — Screw them. I have a Walkman.

  We sat down in the bushes and listened to the Walkman. Death had a cassette with him; the cover was a Benediction logo he’d cut out of a Polish magazine. Death pushed the earbuds into my ears, and I listened. It was hard to understand, I could barely make any of it out. Death shouted into my face as loud as he could, thinking that he had to make himself heard over the music:

  — Can you hear it?

  His expression was earnest, as it always was when he spoke about music. Without waiting for my reply, Death took back the earbuds and put them in his ears:

  — You can’t hear shit, why didn’t you say something?!

  He sulked for a moment, pushed a couple of the Walkman’s buttons, and gave me the next song to listen to:

  — Try this!

  Now I could hear it, even over Otrā Puse’s songs. What I heard was really heavy and energetic, it was cutting, manic and thrashing. I couldn’t stay quiet any longer and said:

  — I had no idea Benediction was this good!

  — It’s not Benediction.

  — What?

  I looked at the coloured piece of paper under the cassette case’s cover.

  — Oh! I just put that there. I didn’t have the real cassette around.

  And that is how people who don’t understand the importance of the relationship between objects and their names make the rest of us look like idiots.

  — Then what is it?

  Death took a pack of crisps out of his pocket and opened it.

  — It’s Latvian. Huskvarn.

  — Latvian what?

  — A band. Huskvarn.

  Metal, in Latvia! How was that possible? Sure, there were punk and grundge bands, but metal was something so faraway and secret. It was like discovering Pluto, and then finding out that Pluto is right next door. And not half-bad, either. The real deal.

  — They’re from Jelgava.

  Ah, they were from Jelgava. Now it made sense. My heart settled down.

  Zombie ran up to us, panting and laughing at the same time, trying to tell us something. He put out his hand, doubled over and drew in a deep breath.

  — Give me some crisps!

  He took a handful and disappeared into the reeds. Death continued to shatter my worldview:

  — We have all kinds of bands. Heaven Grey, Dzels Vilks, Dies Irae.

  Am I the only one who feels like he was born yesterday?

  — Are they all from Jelgava?

  — No, not quite.

  Then Kārlis and his brother joined us, both of them looking disappointed.

  — What’re you guys doing?

  — Nothing.

  — It’s like Armageddon in there! The pop-kids are wailing on the metalheads. And you’re
out here with your hands down your pants! Hey, crisps!

  They each grabbed a handful and ran off. Death sniffed and said:

  — What is this garbage? Why are we here? We need our own place to go.

  — Totally. We should absolutely make one. Somewhere far away.

  — Why don’t you come to the Junkyard?

  I wasn’t about to admit that my mom wouldn’t let me.

  — I like to be alone.

  — Got it.

  And I needed to throw in a little cool indifference:

  — When was the last thing at the Junkyard?

  — Do you think it’s easy to set something up? We’ll have another one soon. We already have all kinds of music.

  — We should go to the Stocks.

  — We should. Though there’s no telling what it’s like there. The kids in Riga aren’t like us. I’ve met a lot of them. They’re like — let’s say you have five lats, they’ll be like, let’s all buy a bunch of drinks with it, and then they’re gone.

  If I were to ever have five lats, I wouldn’t regret it. I said:

  — But that’s our scene. A forest of metalheads. And new music.

  — Right, I mean, I’m all for that. We ended up going one Sunday.

  — Which Sunday?

  — Remember that time we all tried to go?

  — Yeah.

  — The Sunday after that.

  They’d gone to the Stocks without me. Real nice.

  — What’s it like? Is it even worth going?

  — I don’t know.

  Death passed me the crisps packet; he was in a sharing mood.

  — I don’t know. We never found it.

  — What?

  My voice betrayed two types of joy — that of a fool and that of envy.

  — I don’t know. We supposedly got out at the right stop. But there was just a hospital or something. We asked a few people — just normal people on the street — we asked, where are the metalheads? No-one knew anything. We never found it.

  — Maybe it doesn’t really exist?

  — Supposedly it does.

  I passed the crisps back to Death, and then we noticed the group. There were four figures standing in front of us, watching us with disdain. One of them was wearing a vest, the rest looked just as stupid. We stood up casually, as if we just wanted to stretch our legs.

  — Death metal fans?

  The guy with the vest spoke first. They were older guys, over twenty, with the calloused hands of hard labourers. I glanced around. There was noone else, none of our friends.

  He repeated his question and pointed at Death’s shirt. It had ‘Sepultura’ written across it. It was actually a good question.

  — Yeah. Sepultura play death metal.

  I’d answered their question and the conversation was done, that’s what I tried to tell myself. I looked over at Death. There was an unreadable look in his eyes. I asked him:

  — Where d’you think the others went?

  It was an attempt to shift the conversation. As if the four guys in front of us weren’t there, as if we were having a more than normal conversation, but at the same time giving these guys an important piece of information.

  — So, where do you think those maniacs went?

  Death answered as if it really was a normal conversation:

  — How should I know? Probably off exploring each other’s sexuality.

  One of the other guys, this one wearing a sports coat, stepped forward and swung. Death didn’t fall down, but stumbled back a step, the crisps packet falling out of his hand. The guy in the sports coat immediately bent down and picked it up. That was their purpose in the world, to somehow wind up with a half-eaten packet of crisps.

  The leader, the one with the vest turned to me. He shouted:

  — You some kind of professor?

  And he tore my glasses from my face. The world dissolved into a smooth jelly, but I understood that he was angry.

  — Dress normal!

  He tucked my glasses into the breast pocket of my unfashionable shirt. Why hadn’t he thrown them into the reeds? Why hadn’t he hit me? Had he sensed the Royal bloodline? Or maybe it was human fear of the unknown, of magic? Who knew what sorcery a kid in glasses was capable of.

  But they didn’t leave Death alone. One of the guys pointed to the Walkman:

  — What’s that?

  Death didn’t answer. He put the Walkman in his pocket.

  — Hand it over!

  I glanced around again, and still saw no-one. This couldn’t happen, it couldn’t. I looked at the guy wearing the vest, waiting for something to happen. He was looking at the canal, watching it tensely:

  — Hold up, wait!

  And then he pointed. The rest of them turned obediently to look at the canal. It was like they had spotted the Loch Ness Monster. Remember, Šolis and his buddy hadn’t gone into the show with us. It turns out they had brought a bottle of booze with them, but there were too many of us. We went in to see the concert, but they went off a little ways and lay down in the grass and drained the bottle. Then they’d remembered the concert and started counting their money. They each had two lats. It cost only one to get into the show. So they walked to the nearest store and bought one bottle of “Agdams” fortified wine each, which cost one lat fifty. When they got back to the Palace island, they went past the bridge and the guard standing there, and lay down in the grass a little further down. They each drank a bottle of wine. They were having a great time, and the setting sun made the palace and the water turn pretty, muted colours. When the wine was gone, they recounted their money. They had one lat left between them.

  They thought about what to do. The buddy thought he could take the money, go inside and find someone he knew to borrow another lat from, then come back out and get Šolis. But Šolis wasn’t convinced. He climbed down to the water and stuck his hand in it. Even though it was autumn, remember, the setting sun had warmed the water. Šolis said:

  — Let’s swim across.

  They got undressed, folded their clothes into a tight bundle and swam. It was important for them to get to this concert.

  And this is what the four proletarians saw — naked shoulders, wild eyes, long hair and a bundle of clothes held high above the water.

  The one wearing the sports coat let out a frightened, superstitious whisper:

  — It’s a mob of Rambos!

  He dropped the crisps packet and the four of them disappeared.

  I said nothing. Death ran a hand over his cheek and asked me a very loaded question:

  — Is Sepultura death metal?

  — Aren’t they?

  — Well, I don’t know. Bestial Devastation and Morbid Vision were, maybe. But now they play pure thrash.

  — Well, I don’t know either. I think, I’m sure, that Chaos A. D. is pure death.

  I was in the mood for a discussion.

  But at that moment Zombie and the brothers showed up out of nowhere. Kārlis’ brother said:

  — What’s up, where did you guys disappear? This place is crawling with pop-kids, where were you?

  — Everything’s fine, we got ours, Death answered and spat. Šolis and his buddy crawled out of the canal, shook themselves off and asked:

  — Did the show already start?

  Kārlis’ brother was totally annoyed:

  — It’s already over! None of you can keep his shit together.

  Just then a group of totally normal-looking guys walked past us. Kārlis’ brother spotted them and tried to rally us:

  — See, there goes Otrā Puse! Should we ask for their autographs?

  We all looked to see if we had something to write on, even me. But why? I wasn’t even interested in them. But that was what you did back then. Music was important, and you had to take what you could get.

  The band even stopped and stared at us. Maybe because Šolis and his buddy were stark naked and wet. While the rest of us were fumbling around as if we were looking for toilet paper in an em
pty bathroom, Death took the piece of manufacturer’s card stock from the cassette case with “Lazer” emblazoned on it and went over to one of the musicians.

  — Excuse me, but could I please have your autograph?

  He even had a pen. The musician let out a sound of delighted disbelief, and bent over to balance the card on his knee and asked:

  — What should I write?

  Death thought, but not for long.

  — Write ‘Napalm Death’!

  — What’s that?

  — An awesome band!

  The musician paused, but not for long.

  — Okay.

  And he wrote.

  — Like this?

  — D-e-a-t-h.

  — Got it. You’re welcome!

  — Thanks.

  And so Death was the only one who got an autograph. The real deal. He put the card into his pocket and said:

  — A perfect show!

  I, little creep that I was, stared at my amazing friend in awe and total hatred. He had gotten everything — the punches, and the perfect show. And he had gone to the Stocks without me.

  4

  If that’s how things were going to be, I’d go find the Stocks by myself. If the cool kids don’t know how to find it, it’ll be the lonely boy with a scientific approach who does. I liked being alone.

  It all started out well. I didn’t get kicked off the train, or the trolley. Back then I didn’t know anything about Riga, not the Hotel Latvija, not the University. Yet I needed to find a place that not even the majority of Rigans knew about. It was a good thing you could catch Trolley 18 right in front of the central station — which, by the way, was far prettier back then. I’d been hoping that the trolley would be full of metalheads heading for the Stocks, and that all I’d have to do is stick close to them. But there wasn’t a single metalhead in the trolley besides me. Behind the trolley windows, the city grew gradually wilder, like Jelgava. Panel-board houses surrounded in large shrubs. It supposedly indicated I was headed in the right direction; the Stocks was in the woods, after all.