Prose: Erna Ķikure
Published: Inese Birstins, Canada, 1991
Cover art: Dzidra Mitchell, Australia
Cover design: Nelson Vigneault, Canada
ISBN: 0-9693766-4-2
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[Translated by Dzidra Mitchell]
INGE
Why did Inge break her collar bone? It would be simple if every “why” found a straight answer. There is not just one answer. There are many. If just one of them is taken as the right one, then we gain only a skewed version of the incident, as though looking into a distorting mirror. If one believes them all, then one is left just as confused as before. Inge is still little. It was just an ordinary mishap, but everyone says something different.
Inge is rather an odd child. No-one, who has seen her only once, recognises her the next time, because she is always changing. When she looks at herself in the mirror, she can look beautiful. At nine years of age, she knows her own face better than her mother knows hers. Just as from everything Inge takes into her small hands, she fashions some new creation, so too she forms new shapes with her face. She discovers some expression that causes two small dimples to appear in her cheeks, just for an instant. They glint like a pair of sparks in her smile, and then are gone. She gazes into the mirror with the kind of eyes as has Leonardo’s Mona Lisa. She has seen that picture in a book. This likeness to Mona Lisa appears in Inge even when she is not looking in a mirror. Seeing her, one can imagine what Mona Lisa looked like in real life, for Inge has the same sort of forehead, oval face, eyes, smile, and even skin tone. At other moments, there is none of all that. She screws up her nose, puckers her lips in a childish way, and romps away with her two dogs.
But then, at other times, she stands again in front of the mirror and holds her head so as to look quite regal. Staring into the mirror happens a lot, especially in the evenings, because opposite Inge’s bed there is a wardrobe with a mirrored door.
As soon as her mother opens the wardrobe door towards Inge, who is lying in her bed, in a flash, she is no longer lying down, is bolt upright. With the night gown slipping off her shoulders, she is standing, wrapped right down to her heels in the white sheet. Her shoulders are bared, the sheet magically wraps around them in the style of some evening gown, her eyelids are half-lowered, lips slightly parted, exactly like the looks on the models which fill the magazines, newspapers, and billboards. The sheet opens a bit to reveal a brown, suntanned leg in all its young child’s length. It is slowly, gracefully moved until it is positioned just so, in the perfect pose.
Then, with and exaggeratedly refined movement, that all disappears. The sheet is swapped for the mother’s nightgown. A totally different girl is looking into the mirror – the arms hold the drapery in a feminine mode around the shoulders, eyes sparkle, the lips smile. As though again by magic, accessories appear – bracelets, necklaces made of belts, stocking holders, ribbons, belonging to her sister and mother.
Inge’s mother takes back her night dress, but in a flash, a coloured beach towel appears, wrapped around Inge’s hips, around her neck hangs Inge’s sister’s black school stocking, and her arms and legs start dancing in a wild rhythm.
Inge’s mother tries not to look at her, for she must not start laughing. It is way past bed time. She scolds.
Now the sheet is over Inge’s head. She crouches in bed, poking her fingers up under the sheet, creating rising and falling motions, being a ghost.
Before her mother gets to switch out the light, once more Inge stands wrapped in the sheet with the leg arching elegantly.
Of course Inge’s leg and shoulders are no different to all the other little girls who absorb the endless stream of magazines that pour into our lives nowadays. Inge’s sister also sometimes wraps a sheet just so around her shoulders, and the two sisters jostle with each other for space in front of the mirror. It is delicious folly, transforming oneself into someone else. It is a game, and fun, becoming a Princess Di, a Marilyn Monroe, or some nameless other, who fill the magazine or newspaper pages from one end to the other.
Inge develops slowly. Only gradually is she starting to question whether gnomes and pixies really exist. With her dolls, she plays out the whole gamut of human life. They get dressed in wedding dresses, cradle their babies, lay them down into prams. These life events also get tirelessly depicted by Inge in her notebooks, day after day. She draws with her left hand, creating beautiful images, mainly of females.
Inge’s development in drawing, in the opposite direction to the art world, goes from abstract, from a search for purely aesthetic form, toward realism. A few years ago, Inge’s depictions were far from realistic, even though they were wonderful. The faces were gently oval, the forehead part a little wider, the chin endearingly pointed, the eyes – two straight little diagonal lines, the mouth – a little pink dot right down in the pointed chin, and the nose – absent.
Perhaps this total ignoring of the nose was to blame for Inge’s turning towards realism. Her father so ridiculed these beautiful, noseless faces, that Inge, with clenched teeth, took on this repellent object, the nose, and along with it – realism. The beginning was fairly dreadful. But Inge was persistent. Battle also had to be done with the various other parts of the human body before they began to take on a properly human, rounded form. The relationship between the size of limbs began to shift, losing some of the previous charm in the gestures, but now all that is over, and an assured hand puts everything in its right place. Colourwise, Inge retains her freedom. The women are drawn in all the colours imaginable. They come with blue, green, violet hair, with starry golden eyes, with fluorescent faces. Only the lips consistently retain their red tones. Men also begin to appear, or boys. However, those are much less useful for art, as many before Inge have found.
Everything quickly changes form in Inge’s hands. If her mother is peeling potatoes and some potato has a little rounded head-like lump, then without the mother even noticing, it has disappeared into Inge’s hands, and comes back floating on some wood-chip boat as a fat, whiskered old man, with a green leaf for a hat. A moment later, that same potato has transformed into some animal-like creature on which sits a newspaper cut-out cow-boy.
Once, Inge, sick in bed with a cold, had grown weary of sitting there, playing with her pencils and dolls. Her mother tossed her the pin-cushion, where Inge’s sister, having just finished her needlework, had pinned several dozen pins with coloured heads. Very soon they were being formed into long, ornamental rows. When, after a while, her mother came in again, on the pin-cushion could be seen something resembling a colourful opera scene, with the king and queen in purple, and their courtiers in flashing colours, watching a couple in white, dancing with see-through veils and wings. All the pins had been dressed in minute outfits, cut out of lolly papers. If the little pin-cushion scene had been photographed, no-one could have guessed how it had been done.
Her mother sometimes despairs about Inge. Every corner is filled with her stuff. There are little containers with plants growing in them; boxes with caterpillars that will turn from green, to gold and then into butterflies; cicadas of seven different sorts, with their dried out shells, like strange carts or chariots, then sea weed, piles of snail shells, bird feathers, collections of stones, modelling clay, mud, plasticine, and marbles, endlessly rolling about. A multitude of cut-outs from magazines. Nothing is to be thrown away. The mother has to understand that. Perhaps her mother gives her too much of a free rein, and that is why there can also be problems. Not long ago, she cut her foot on glass, so that the doctor had quite a time trying to sew it up, and now the broken collar bone.
“It’s the mother’s fault,” says the father.
“It’s because she has brittle bones,” says the head of the children’s day care centre where the accident took place.
“It’s because they were mucking about, where Inge was doing somersaults,” say the other children.
“It’s because my hand slipped,” thinks Inge. Every one is right.
Inge’s mother thinks to herself it was something different- that it was because eleven year old Peter was there, among the other children.
[typed — Erna’s own rough translation of Aprikozu kociņš in Tu prasi patiesu stāstu]
[THE APRICOT TREE]
At the window Mrs. Youmaya was standing and looking in the rain (out in the? out at the?) rain.
She didn’t do anything good in her free day, hated to clean and polish, was fed up with mixing, cooking and baking too.
Some heaviness was weighing her down. Did not the life pay her enough for all?… Soon she will go around uncombed (?), and not decently dressed?
Was she not like the peartrees?
Didn’t she have in her that secret what was in that tree? (lifes secret force?)
It was raining.
One should plant a fruit tree of good, sweet fruit.
They had not a single fruit tree here in their small courtyard, nor in the little front garden, only the big, wild pear tree at the fence.
In mrs. Youmaya character was to act quickly, when something had come to the mind, what seemed to be good.
To plant a fruit tree would be reasonable, practical, and the time for that was convenient, the ground softly watered, the spring not yet too advanced, and her mind a little scattered (dissipied, restless) that might be saved by doing some useful, little job.
Should she first talk to Arnold about that?
Yes, if they could talk simply, as they formerly could… It seemed, they could [not]. — [word missing? possibly run off the edge of the page?]
Since some time now, talking went not easy between them.
Besides — Arnold was not interested in gardening.
Also — to plant a little tree, was not much bigger think, as to plant a flouwer. Becose of that she should not to phone and disturb him in his work.
Thinking a while — should she, or not to phone, she drew out her little Mini Moris and soon returned with a beautiful, little apricot tree, carefully wrapped up by the gardener. It had a good root and a three branch top, ready for planting.
Only one little tree. She did not dare more. And — there was not much place for more of them
Why was it an apricot?
Why not a plum, stat produces so well?
Mrs. Youmaya had thought of a plum tree. But there were so many kinds of plums. May be she was afraid to hear that question: “Why did you choose exactly this kind of plum? There are so many good (species?) kinds of plums…”
There were not known so many species of apricots. Therefore…
Mrs. Youmaya went around in the garden in her old raincoat under the soft rain, thinking, considering — where exactly to plant the tree?
Mrs Youmay was standing at the window in her first story room and looking how steady it rains.
It rains and rains. The earth soaks full itself with the water, gets soft, opens itself deeper and deeper.
Everything will grow again, will grow, and grow.
All the gardens around were getting greener, becoming fuller with every minute.
The enormous (gigantic?) pear tree who extended its branches between the two houses, neighbours and theirs, and growing exactly at the fence (on the fence??) did not belong to neither of them, had taken the colour of (quite) black green, the trunk, the branches and leaves solid, firm, like cast in iron.
It will ripen again it’s big yellow, beautiful fruit, bitter and (sours?) was and to — whom?
(In?) Every spring it wrapped itself white (with the) in the blossoms, every sommer, drunken with powers of the earth, it carried out and scattered down it’s crop.,
Mrs. Youmaya with a sceptical smile, nonetheless with admiration and joy, almost with envy looked often at this tree. High and mighty it always responded to her eyes, returned her glance as soon as she neared the window.
It was a shelter for her in her Black (downcast?) moments, with it’s stubborn existence:
the pear tree in blossoms,
the pear tree’s branches suddenly full with (of?) green, almost undistinguishable from the leaves,
then they are getting (becoming?) lighter, bigger, more golden, like lamps stat start to glow.
Where was the right place for it?
Where Arnold would think to be the right place?
How could she guess that, without asking Arnold about that?
How could she ask Arnold — if they could not talk amiably? (Friendly, quietly?)
At last she decided that the only place where she could plant the tree, was the little flower bed with the forget me notts in the middle of the lawn, not far from the path, opposite the front door.
The forget me notts were not very happy there, may be they had too (of) much sun there.
Be how it was — there was the place where the tree planting would not change much of the little front garden.
If after all it came to that, that there was not the right place, the trouble would not be too big. It would be easy to plant the forget me notts back there as before.
Mrs. Youmaya dug the soil deeply, cleaned out the root of the weeds, put the manure under and planted the little apricot tree.
Carefully she flattened the fresh all around the around the tree, for a real fruit tree it should be, and left in the mild rain — let it grow, grow, to extend the branches against the sky, to bloom and to drop the fruit around itself. for ever after so… always so on… (?)
She, Mrs. Youmaya should also live like that, should look well after the little tree and first of all should say to her husband simply and joyfully (in the evening): “I planted a tree today!”
But she knew that she hardly will say so, she will wait — what will he say?
In all what she did, her husband found some fault lately, not too bad, but there usually came a word, that diminished her joy of something done. So better let his do the attacking if he wants to, not to provoke him with kind of boasting, about work done as if waiting for a prize.
Nevertheless in the evening Mrs. Youmaya pronounced her little sentence — telling that she has planted a fruit tree, however may be not very cheerfully, as the husband burst straight away: “Yes! I did see it. But if to plant something, first should be well considered — where to? So that the tree could grow and bring joy.”
The husband may be was not in a good mood, tired, the conversation started in the wrong moment, as further it:
“And where… where would you like to be it planted?”
“If you plant a tree, you must know — it will extend its branches… But — where would I like to be it planted? I have not wanted (anything)… you have it planted.”
Continued in such a way, the conversation could lead to a bad end. It had happened to them so, talking of other things. With periods of silences and much of careful maneuvering only their common life then could come on a decent road again. The peacemakings were rather pleasant, but the bad periods started to dominate.
This time the conversation stopped. The wife did not continue it. It might have continued in her in some different, furtive silent way.
The next day, returning from the hob, Mr. Youmaya greatly surprized saw that the apricot tree was replanted in another place, in the middle of the lawn, near the path that lead to the gate. Nearer the house, in their former place were the forget me notts, as before.
The tree was replanted and the wife was not at home. Her car was not there. There was no dinner. It seamed — she had left. He serched all around the house, but there was no explanation, some farewell note. That mad him angry. She sure had done it so to make him angry. Nonetheless he could no help getting so, however in spite of her he would not wished to run around banging (twisting) his fists.
Yes, in their former place there were the flowers, the same forget me notts, he saw that, unconsiously gone to the window to look that funny thing — the replanted apricot tree. About the garden Mr Youmaya really did not care at all. The gardening was not important to him. It also never had been the cause of their quarrels… If there all together were quarrels between them??…
Why has she replanted that tree?
A wifes running away from the house was not an uncommon thing nowadays.
One could eat out cheep and good. One could do the washing in the washing machine without even wetting a finger, or take the load to the public laundry, in case the machine broke down.
And people, what people would think, what formerly was the most painful part of it all — nowadays was much simpler. If the husband did not know where his five was, that was almost a natural situation — the wife had her own job, her own car, her own duties and happenings. If the wife left her husband for good, that was also a common thing, should not even mention the word — deserted… But — had Mrs. Youmaya left for good, there was no clearly visible sign, nor any real cause to think so…
Nevertheless the rage of Mr. Youmaja did not disappear, but moody persons sometimes are left alone. With the people in the first days, Mr. Youmaja had not to start explanations. The weather however turned against him: it stopped raining, the dry winds came then the heat — the sun burned day after day.
Soon everybody was watering its garden to save the good green colours of the lawn and shrubs.
However… if such heat will continue too long, the watering of the gardens will be forbidden all together.
In the beginning of the heatwave Mr. Youmaja was thinking about that, and even unconsiously — was waiting for that.
He did not think of watering his garden…
The weather was hot and dry the second week already. The water using was not rationed.
All the people were watering their gardens. More so the ever… Or so it seamed to mr. Youmaya. Hadn”t he ever noticed, how people watered their gardens?
It would have been easy for Mr. Youmaya to refuse watering his garden, he even would not even (?) think of doing so — let survive who can, and wild away who cannot. But — if they just would be doing that — wilting and diasapearing. No! As with every living thing, it does not happen so easily.
The destroing of something alive, could be a disgustingly complicated thing sometimes.
The garden turned grey and yellow. It showed it’s disaster to the world. The neighbours stopped at the gate, watched it… The passers by turned their heads.
It seamed to mr. Youmaya that every eye was watching him seeing him through and through… discovered ? un covered, grinned at about him.
Why had she replanted the tree just in the middle of the garden?
It extends its branches, the little new leaves wilting — it is begging, like an alive beggar.
Also — she had no reason to leave everything. There was nothing wrong between them — to listen only (… Just to listen (?) how etc.), how some other couples were battling…
And after all — had she really left?
(Once?) At one late afternoon. when Mr. Youmaya was standing at his window and looking out to the garden, as in his frustration he had stated to do, it seemed to him that he had noticed his wife coming in the street. Swiftly he stepped back from the window and was waiting that the door would/will? open and she would come in. But nobody came. Nobody was in the street.
Mr. Youmaya started to think, that he should take a special leave from his job. He should go away for a while somwhere.
He could not now take the hose in the hands and struggle in the dried out garden.
The damned tree seamed to be waiting for that… Extended his branches towards him, when he left for his job in the mornings. And then in its wilted leaves there were the mist of the night lie little pearls…
It was not likely to get a leave from his job at this moment.
Frustrated he walked the streets of the town and his eyes found all the towns gardens. The gardens, just gardens…
In one of them he noticed a new kind of automatic sprinkler.
Unconsciously (unaware?) he had stopped to have a good look at it.
Such one would suit him — it worked noislessly, reached a good amount of the ground, was throwing a row of the streams to one side, then turned automatically and threw the water to the other side.
Mr. Youmaya watched it a good while. An attractive new discovery.
With old ordinary things he would not have bothered to be interested.
Mr. Youmaya phoned to some shops and in the same evening already switched the new sprinkler in his garden. Let it to work all the night through. Switched it out next morning having jumped off the bed early enough. A sturdy tree, the newly-planted, it was reasonably recovered in a single night. It took many more nights for the lawn to get back its (green) colour.
Why did Mr. Youmaya switched in the sprinkle during the nights only?
Well… during the days he went to his work.
One morning early, when Youmaya went to the window already, yes — to look how much of the good green colour the garden had regained — the wife was standing on the path in the middle of the garden, stopped there, returning with her travelling bag.
Returning — from where?
That question only shortly shot through the head of Mr. Youmaya, there was no time to think it further — as the wife started for the front door.
He span around, away from the window, to disapear back in the bedroom, or washroom, or kitchen… But instead headed for the nearest door, the front door and tore it open, having not expected this, she fell in his arms. And she managed to lough and to hug him round his neck — warm, wet a little/a little wet from the sprinkler in the garden, she was at his mouth, his cheek, his ear saying: “Thank you. thank you, thank you.”
Thank you? For what? He wanted to stand harsh/harshly? against her. He had made, had done nothing to please her.
However in Mrs. Youmaya, may be some of the pear tree stubborn living powers had been settled in — her hands did not let him free. Still stiffening in uncertanty — to succomb or not to, he glanced at his watch and let her have her ways. It was not late yet, becose of the sprinkler he had developed a habit to get up early.