A crow was riding the wind that came in low over the beach. Sand blew through the window, landed on my papers, entered my mouth. A yellowish light tainted the room, even my fingers. I carefully reread the letter from this morning's mail, but it remained impenetrable. A complete stranger, writing in Russian, wanted me to meet him next Sunday in Leningrad where the cruiser Aurora was docked.
Next Sunday, Leningrad, Aurora?
A week from now, hundreds of kilometers from Tallinn?
What's going on?
Having explained nothing, the letter's last line threatened: This meeting is vital.
It was unsigned.
The kind of letter that should go right into the garbage.
Except . . .
Except:
Vital for whom? For me? Him?
Is it an emergency?
Have I inherited a fortune?
Am I dealing with a spy?
A seductive woman?
A wealthy foreign publisher?
What have I overlooked?
Are they luring me away to be murdered?
Is it an admirer of my novels?
Or some poor bastard about to die?
Army counterespionage?
I put the letter away again, and for the third time decided not to go anywhere. Am I a marionette to be yanked around on a string? An anonymous letter arrives and immediately I get ready to run off on a fool’s errand.
Who’s the fool?
Apparently it’s me.
As an obscure writer, freedom fighters and spies tend to ignore me. It’s true that once in a while letters come to enlighten me on some brand-new world order or synergy, with copious details appended. But the cruiser Aurora, the cradle of revolution, the ship that fired the shot on October 25, 1917, signaling the beginning of the assault on the Winter Palace—what’s it got to do with me? Sure, my life has been affected by that infamous shot, but so have the lives of the thousands of people around me. Will all of us now be called to the Aurora? Perhaps it’s only those who approve of the revolution? Or only those who disapprove? If I alone was invited, how was I selected?
No, this is just a silly joke. Or maybe revenge? But for what?
What have I done?
Everyone’s guilty of something—am I any guiltier than anyone else?
That’s it: I’m going to ignore the letter.
Using the last packet my Finnish publisher had sent me, I brewed some coffee, added sugar I had obtained with my ration card, and to steady my shaky nerves, invented all sorts of excuses for doing nothing: gas stations are out of gas, trains are overbooked, buses are overcrowded—I can’t travel at all, our Great State is in a lot of trouble. Gas has all but disappeared because the rail services that bring it in have been almost completely shut down. Public transportation is bone dry too. Am I supposed to walk to Leningrad? I do have some bread left; no point in going to the grocery, since there’s also a sausage shortage on. Shortages promote self-reliance. At least something good has come out of this mess, thank God: There’s nothing to be gained by going out. Let them write and invite. I’ll withdraw, learn to know myself, tell the world to go to hell; I can’t be bothered watching the end of the world, won’t cry at its grave. Far better to stay on the sofa with its springs poking me in the ass—there are no upholsterers available, and anyway no sofa covers. I do have some soap saved up, a whole cake; I’ve even hoarded a tube of toothpaste.