he didnât fall asleep so quickly. The woods, a dog, a girl. The dog shot dead in honor of the proud girl. Andrejs understood all of it, there was nothing to discuss.
There was alsoâwho was it againâTrygve Gulbranssen, Beyond Sing the Woods . Another Norwegian writer. The woods, darkness, horses, and the proud Christina. And everything carried this sense of a larger, more respectable life. It was natural.
How beautiful, Ieva had said.
Beauty!
To her, the greatest beauty could be found in the thing Andrejs hated the mostâsome kind of statement or phrase. Sheâd read those phrases over and over again and almost tremble with joy.
Ridiculous.
Why spend so much time digging around words? Outside there was real life, the woods, a tractor, livestock, and most of allâa husband. Andrejs gave up so much for them to have a life together: his skis, his shotgun, and even the woods. Because they had to make ends meet, save money. But she just re-read sentences. Whatâs the big deal, heâd often ask, itâs a nice sentence, so move on! But itâs not something real. It was better to steer clear of fantasies, awful things that they were.
Like that novel The Idiot , which Ieva found particularly beautiful. Jesus Christ! The definition of boredom.
When she opened that book, heâd fall asleep without the tiniest hint of regret. Dostoevsky could mess with your mind, and let him, but you were responsible for paying attention and drawing that line when the time came. Andrejs remembers what the book looked like: a Soviet era publication with a bluish-grey canvas cover, with a really stupid-looking cherry red picture at one corner of a man and woman with tiny waists caught up in dance. Ieva was pregnant then. He remembers what she looked like just as well as he remembers the book. The soft skin of her round stomach, the silky, soft triangle at its base and her breasts, hard and protruding like the horns of a stag, and with large, dark tips. None of that tiny waist crap. At that time all Ieva would eat was sprats with rye bread. The effects of the pregnancy were like thatâsheâd make him run into town for sprats if there werenât any in the fridge, even if it was the middle of the night. Downed them with rye bread like a madwoman. Lost a lot of weight. The doctors warned her, but nothing helped. She was stubborn.
They made love each night, and sometimes afterwards Ieva would read aloud.
It all happened in that one yearâfalling in love, a child, turning eighteen, a wedding, the collapse of the Soviet Unionâboom! An entire lifetime over the course of twelve months. Ieva cried. The whole year. Itâs no surprise Monta grew up so sensitive. If anything sheâs neurotic, because Ieva spent the entire year crying. Pregnant women shouldnât act like that, heâs convinced. Even if the empire collapses.
Monta was born while he was away. Heâd driven out to the border to clear a forest in NÄ«krace. He tore all the way back across Latvia to get back home to the Zari house once he heard the news. He wanted to bring his daughter home himself, in the tractor. Ieva wouldnât let him, said she wanted to get home by taxi. Again with some kind of fantasy sheâd gotten from a book.
When Andrejs met Ieva on the front steps of the hospital holding the baby, it seemed like several years had gone by instead of several days. Ieva looked disheveled and bright-eyedâunfamiliar. She had probably expected a flower from him, but he didnât have one. She shouldnât expect something from him that he wasnât going to give.
He looked at his daughterâcute. He called for a taxi. So be it.
But he fell asleep in the cab. No surprise since he hadnât slept much the last few nights. A cast-iron stove had smoked away in the loggersâ barracks, and all night there was nothing but charcoal and the howling of the village dogs. Now and then heâd light
There was alsoâwho was it againâTrygve Gulbranssen, Beyond Sing the Woods . Another Norwegian writer. The woods, darkness, horses, and the proud Christina. And everything carried this sense of a larger, more respectable life. It was natural.
How beautiful, Ieva had said.
Beauty!
To her, the greatest beauty could be found in the thing Andrejs hated the mostâsome kind of statement or phrase. Sheâd read those phrases over and over again and almost tremble with joy.
Ridiculous.
Why spend so much time digging around words? Outside there was real life, the woods, a tractor, livestock, and most of allâa husband. Andrejs gave up so much for them to have a life together: his skis, his shotgun, and even the woods. Because they had to make ends meet, save money. But she just re-read sentences. Whatâs the big deal, heâd often ask, itâs a nice sentence, so move on! But itâs not something real. It was better to steer clear of fantasies, awful things that they were.
Like that novel The Idiot , which Ieva found particularly beautiful. Jesus Christ! The definition of boredom.
When she opened that book, heâd fall asleep without the tiniest hint of regret. Dostoevsky could mess with your mind, and let him, but you were responsible for paying attention and drawing that line when the time came. Andrejs remembers what the book looked like: a Soviet era publication with a bluish-grey canvas cover, with a really stupid-looking cherry red picture at one corner of a man and woman with tiny waists caught up in dance. Ieva was pregnant then. He remembers what she looked like just as well as he remembers the book. The soft skin of her round stomach, the silky, soft triangle at its base and her breasts, hard and protruding like the horns of a stag, and with large, dark tips. None of that tiny waist crap. At that time all Ieva would eat was sprats with rye bread. The effects of the pregnancy were like thatâsheâd make him run into town for sprats if there werenât any in the fridge, even if it was the middle of the night. Downed them with rye bread like a madwoman. Lost a lot of weight. The doctors warned her, but nothing helped. She was stubborn.
They made love each night, and sometimes afterwards Ieva would read aloud.
It all happened in that one yearâfalling in love, a child, turning eighteen, a wedding, the collapse of the Soviet Unionâboom! An entire lifetime over the course of twelve months. Ieva cried. The whole year. Itâs no surprise Monta grew up so sensitive. If anything sheâs neurotic, because Ieva spent the entire year crying. Pregnant women shouldnât act like that, heâs convinced. Even if the empire collapses.
Monta was born while he was away. Heâd driven out to the border to clear a forest in NÄ«krace. He tore all the way back across Latvia to get back home to the Zari house once he heard the news. He wanted to bring his daughter home himself, in the tractor. Ieva wouldnât let him, said she wanted to get home by taxi. Again with some kind of fantasy sheâd gotten from a book.
When Andrejs met Ieva on the front steps of the hospital holding the baby, it seemed like several years had gone by instead of several days. Ieva looked disheveled and bright-eyedâunfamiliar. She had probably expected a flower from him, but he didnât have one. She shouldnât expect something from him that he wasnât going to give.
He looked at his daughterâcute. He called for a taxi. So be it.
But he fell asleep in the cab. No surprise since he hadnât slept much the last few nights. A cast-iron stove had smoked away in the loggersâ barracks, and all night there was nothing but charcoal and the howling of the village dogs. Now and then heâd light
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