Olaf baffi lunghi (Olaf)
By Maria Vago – Illustrations by Federico Appel

No surprise, no loot The boy was sitting on the riverbank. He wore a shirt that was too big for him and a pair of patched-up trousers. He held a thin fishing rod with both hands. He held it tightly, and he must have caught a big fish because his face was red from the effort.
I felt my mouth start to water. I love freshwater fish: it has a more delicate flavor than that of the sea, and the flesh is more tender. A flash...a silver flash and splashes of water all around. The fish didn't want to be pulled out. With a strong pull, the boy made it fly onto the grassy bank. It was big! He stayed there for a while, contemplating it, while it struggled more and more slowly. Then the boy looked up and saw us. His mouth opened without making a sound. He even widened his eyes and ran away, abandoning his rod and the fish.
"There's your loot, Olaf," I thought. "The expedition is off to a good start."
I also thought that the boy could have spared himself the effort of running to the village to sound the alarm. It was too late. And too few, as usual, were the farmers capable of using scythes and pitchforks against us. After all, scythes and pitchforks are laughable weapons compared to our swords (and our axes). Weapons that are good for subduing the land, in fact, and not valiant Viking warriors. Ah, ah! Run, run! That's all you know how to do around here: run like rabbits and hide in the woods.
On the other hand, that's always what had happened: this was at least the tenth expedition that I had participated in. Not that I liked it very much, to be honest. I would have preferred to doze off near Sigur's forge, the blacksmith. I had tried to hide, but Leif had found me crouched behind a barrel, and he had thrown me unceremoniously onto the longship. He's convinced that I bring him luck...
 "But today the luck is mine," I thought. "Fish, here I come. Before Leif and the others are back from looting, you'll be in my belly. Word of Olaf Longbeard." As I savored the fish, I heard the shouts of our warriors as they went into battle.
It's a habit that I don't like: I have very sensitive ears, but it seems that the Vikings just can't do without them. First, they let out screams like growls or thunder, and then triumphal screams... But there were other screams that time. Not the usual terrified voices; rather, voices giving orders. What was happening?
I understood when I saw Leif and the others running back, first chased by some arrows and then by flesh-and-blood soldiers. Soldiers armed with bows and swords and dressed in iron chainmail.
 "These guys mean business," I thought. I gave up on the fish and ran to the longship. Just in time. Thorkel the giant, as strong as ten men put together, pushed the boat into the water and then had to take a few running steps to reach it and jump on board, because the others were already at the oars and bending their backs at a frantic pace.
"Let's go, let's go!" Leif shouted. An arrow hit him and lodged in his shoulder. "Quick! Faster!" A few minutes later, the longship was already in the middle of the river and speeding away, propelled towards the sea by strong arms and the current. Fortunately, our boats have two fronts; that is, the front and the back are the same thing; in short, they don't have to turn to change direction, which makes them agile and very maneuverable. A really handy thing, in case of a hasty escape. We were safe, but Leif's face was darker than a storm. His wounded shoulder burned, but above all, he burned with defeat. He hadn't anticipated that the village could be defended by a garrison of soldiers.
"They were waiting for us, that's clear," he said. "But who could have known about our attack?" Now that they didn't need to row like crazy, the warriors had enough breath to talk. "In the spring, we always attack some village around here, of course, they were expecting us!"
"But it had never happened before!" "They got clever, that's all."
"If we can no longer rely on surprise, from now on everything will be more difficult."
"We will have to say goodbye to the beautiful fat pigs waiting for us in pens, to the woolen blankets, to the golden books in the churches..."
"And even to the barrels of wine!" added Gunulf, his voice broken by a sob. Gunulf really liked wine: he could drink a whole barrel without ever stopping to take a breath.
Leif didn't say anything anymore. He sat in the middle of the longship, his back against the mast, and silently watched the arrow they had taken from his shoulder. My master looked incredulous and worried at the bloody tip. Then he looked longingly at the coast, now distant. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded calm and determined. "Who's coming with me?" he asked.
 Everyone's heads turned to look at him. Everyone's eyes asked, "where?"
"To the west," answered Leif, "where the sea ends and another land begins."
At that moment, the longship entered a bank of fog so thick that you couldn't see a whisker's length ahead. Raghner maneuvered the helm confidently. He knew those waters well, and there was no risk of him losing his way. But Leif wanted to face an unknown sea... Leif waited in vain for responses. The fog concealed their faces, but they were certainly faces of surprise, concern, or both.
"I call for an assembly," Leif said after a while. "As soon as we disembark. Immediately!"
"We don't have anything to unload anyway," Kol said.
"Nor any loot to divide," added Thorkel.
"Will there be anything to drink down there?" Gunulf asked worriedly. For the first time, he returned from a raid empty-handed and with a dry throat.
The assembly was long and very boring. The men talked and talked and talked some more. The women distributed large mugs of beer and rye bread with salted dried fish on top. And then more mugs of beer, because salted dried fish makes you thirsty. The children had been sleeping for a while under the blankets and furs.
Better Fur: Blankets are scratchy, fur is soft; even though both fur and blankets have a slight odor... But that's beside the point.
So, the children slept on their beds and I dozed off in a corner of Leif's bed, on a fur, when a loud noise made me jump and my hair stand on end.
About ten men shouted together, "Yes!" They still had their arms raised; even Gunulf, who was not standing next to Leif like the others, but was sitting with his legs wide against one of the wooden pillars that supported the roof. Between his legs was a bottle. His hand fell down and so did his head; Gunulf began to snore, with the bottle as his pillow. Yes, but what? The men started talking again. I wasn't interested in what they were saying.

Ruggiti (Roars)
By Daniela Carucci – Illustrations by Giulia Torelli

1. NOT HERE
It happens in an instant and always catches me off guard. A high-pitched, shrill sound makes me jump out of my chair. My eyes fly open, my heart races. It’s over in a flash, and I’m hurtling down the stairs, chased by the sound of the bell. I run, I run. Even though a voice shouts at me, as if in slow motion: ‘Don’t-run-down-the-stairs!’
But how can I stop? Today is Tuesday. I’m leaving school on my own and before I get home, I can stop to peek from behind the bushes at Mario’s workshop, because maybe he’ll let me in.I don’t stop running even when I trip, not even when I’m hungry, not even when my diary falls from my hands, not even if they call me to play.
I run to get to the hedge first, the one that separates the road from the workshop and which, if I look closely through its gaps, lets me see what’s inside: a yard of dark earth and wrecks of old cars. Parts scattered everywhere: a door, an engine, wheels, mirrors, half-finished mopeds.
Inside there’s also Mario, who doesn’t want me to spy on him, to stay there in the middle of the tall grass, and who, when he sees me, first tries to send me away, and then comes to fetch me.
“Come on, come in!” he says to me again this time.
“You’re a stubborn one, aren’t you?! We’re working here!”
But in the meantime, Mario opens the back gate for me. “And besides, Leo’s sad today; he’s not talking to anyone, not even me.”

I usually throw my arms round Mario’s neck when he lets me in, but not today. Because if Leo’s sad, I get sad straight away too, and I don’t throw my arms round him anymore.
I cross the courtyard quickly and, as I do so, I put my hands in my pockets because I’ve brought Leo: a salami sandwich, today’s snack, a frankfurter left over from yesterday’s dinner and two tins of Manzotin I’ve nicked from the shop round the corner, since there are loads of tins like that there.
When I reach Leo, I’m holding everything in my hands, and I call out: ‘Leo?’
Perhaps he’s asleep. ‘Leo, it’s me.’
Nothing. I look at his head, so big and full of fur, I look at his paws, worn down by time, and his tail, which moves, but only slightly.
‘Leo is all yours. He’s a good boy.’

Then I hear Mario’s voice behind me.
‘Leave him be today, that’s just how he is. He’s not moving, he’s not saying a word. Maybe he’s realised they’re taking him away.’
‘What? Who’s taking him away?’ I say seriously, looking Mario straight in the face.
‘The Security men: the Blues,’ he replies, looking down and speaking in a whisper.
“But why?” I insist.
“They say he can’t stay here: he’s dangerous, if he escapes he might maul everyone, devour the neighbourhood’s inhabitants one by one. A lion, even if old and tired, can’t stay in a mechanic’s workshop. We have to say goodbye to him.”
“Do I have to say goodbye to him?” I say quietly.
I hear no reply.
‘Is this goodbye?’ I ask louder.
But Mario is already further on, packing a bag with food for Leo, just as they do at my house when I’m off on a trip. But Leo isn’t going to a place where you look at a few paintings, churches and palaces until you’ve had enough and can think of nothing but when you’ll be able to play. No, they want to take Leo away, and no one knows where.
Shortly afterwards I hear a siren wailing, or rather many of them, and they’re getting closer. They’ve arrived.

Wheels skid to a sudden halt, scraping the tarmac.
Doors swing open and slam shut with a bang. Footsteps are quick and, now, I can see them.
There are at least ten of them, wearing blue stretchy suits, they have batons, shields and rifles with fake and real bullets. They enter the square without asking permission and stand in front of Leo’s den with their rifles raised.

No, it can’t be, they’ve arrived too soon, I’m not ready, it’s not time yet, and so, not knowing what to do, I try to stop them advancing and walk towards them with my arms outstretched, shouting:
‘Get out of here! Go away!’

‘Leo’s staying with us! He’s not dangerous! He’s the kindest, most peaceful lion in the world!’
They, however, are getting closer and closer and don’t look peaceful at all. There’s no time left. I grab a piece of rusty mudguard and stand in front of Leo’s den, whilst Victor, Mario’s dahshund, stands close by me and growls, baring his teeth. Meanwhile, the police take up their positions: rifles raised, fingers on the trigger, and all together they aim at Leo’s head or his heart, perhaps. It is at that moment that I scream as loud as I can: ‘I will never, ever say goodbye to him!’
Leo then raises his head and sits up. Now he is with us; I can see him out of the corner of my eye in all his beauty, and I remember the first time I met him, some time ago.

2. AT MARIO’S
It was because of the Alfa Romeo, the pea-green car with the long-pile fur-covered seats that’s been in our family for ages, at least since I was born.
Lately it’s been breaking down a lot, leaving us stranded, especially on Sundays. Once it broke down just before we reached the picnic spot with the boot still full of lasagne, bananas and cream buns. Another time, however, we were coming back from the seaside and the car started leaking water from all over; perhaps it had taken a dip too and we hadn’t noticed. In any case, there was nothing to be done; it wouldn’t start again. And so that afternoon we went home by bus with our buckets full of stones, twigs and other things brought back from the sea: even a really big crab that suddenly made itself at home in a lady’s arms who then started screaming.
The driver stopped the bus, caught the crab and asked us: ‘Do you have a ticket for this one?’
No, we didn’t, so he made us get off at some random stop.
Then one day, the car broke down right at the start of the trip, at stop number one, the newsagent’s. ‘You’ve got to know how the world works. At least on public holidays!’ said my dad that time, with the smile of someone who knows it all, just before the final defeat.
Needless to say, he wants to change it, the car. Every other day he shows us the photo cut out of a magazine of the new one: grey, long, low and sleek. ‘With this one you can go anywhere, even to the mountains!’ says Dad enthusiastically every time he pulls out that crumpled piece of paper he keeps in his wallet. But Mum, my brother and I don’t like it at all.
‘It looks like a metal shark,’ I say.
‘It’s not elegant,’ says Mum.
‘It doesn’t have a fur coat,’ my brother adds.
And so, we often go to see Mario the mechanic. Dad calls him “my friend Mario”, because they did their military service together somewhere in the mist. Or perhaps they met at the pub round the corner, or at a demonstration in the square, I don’t know.
Every time Dad and Mario meet, they reminisce about when they were young. And they laugh, and pat each other on the back. After a while, though, they get serious and Mario walks round the car, and starts asking questions, just like a doctor.
‘When did it stop?’, he says, stroking his chin and peering into the open bonnet.
‘Going uphill or downhill? Did you hear any strange noises? Did you drive on roads that were too rough? Has it taken knocks, blows, setbacks?’
Dad usually gets stuck in with the repairs too. The two of them pass each other spanners, pliers, rags smeared with black grease, plastic bottles dripping with oil, chains...
And they get under and over that battered car, even though my dad doesn’t know the first thing about engines.
Sometimes I just hear voices and I can’t see them anymore, or at least not all of them. A foot pokes out from behind a wheel, a head from the boot, a hand appears from the seat. And so, a few hours always pass before we leave.
Whenever I can, I go to Mario’s too, because I like that place: there are loads of abandoned cars, all broken down. I climb into one, then another, get behind the wheel and drive off. Sometimes, before setting off, I open the glove boxes and look under the seats, to see if there’s anything I can take home for my collection of lost items.
Once I found a box full of buttons and, so, I changed the eyes on some of my soft toys, the ones I’d had the longest. I put red eyes on a toad and it looked happy. I gave a mouse golden eyes and then called it Bijou, but I didn’t tell it. I stuck pink eyes on a snake, and it didn’t scare me anymore.
Another time, between the seats of a half-wrecked yellow car, I found a comb: long, narrow and black. I liked it straight away and tried to slick my hair back, even though I didn’t have any gel.
I wanted to try being a taxi driver, one of those in a vest, a man of few words, but who knows all the roads: just ask and he’ll take you there. Then, though, after combing my hair for a while, I realised the comb was old, it had lost too many teeth, and my hair was exactly the same as it had been before.
On closer inspection, rather than a comb, it looked like a set of dentures with missing teeth, lost by someone who was very absent-minded. I kept it anyway, though, and when I got home that day, I stuck it to the wall of my bedroom with glue, and drew a monster.
When I can’t find a single thing in those wrecks, I explore every corner of the yard, gather the bits I need and start building. One day I made a whole spaceship, another day the fastest motorbike of them all, and that time, together with Victor, we travelled far and wide – we went to Africa, Chile, and I think even Peru.
Except that after ten minutes he started barking; there was no way to get him to stop and the trip ended there. That’s Victor for you, a bit jumpy; every now and then he growls or barks, and you never know why. Mario says he’s got it in for ghosts, but I don’t believe in ghosts, so it must be that Victor’s just a bit mad. And I like him that way.
After playing in the square for a few hours, I hear the engine roaring; that means our old banger’s fixed again, and we can go home.
***
A few months ago, we were stranded again. ‘This is the last time,’ my dad announces, standing stiffly in the kitchen.
‘Let’s get it fixed first,’ my mum insists, pushing him towards the front door.
I’ve already got my shoes on and my jacket zipped right up to the top.
This time Mario has to come and pick us up right outside the front door, because the car shows no signs of life; it won’t budge an inch. We wait a while, amid Dad’s huffs and grumbles — he’s thoroughly annoyed at having to waste more time on ‘that heap of rust’ — until we see Mario and struggle to recognise him: he isn’t wearing his usual red tracksuit or even his woollen cap. He looks smart, wearing a jacket and grey trousers with thin stripes, and his hair is all slicked back.
Mario stops in front of the broken-down car and apologises for being late, saying he had an appointment and rushed over as soon as he could.
After loading the car, taking care not to get dirty, he tells us: ‘The workshop is closed today. But you aren’t customers like the others and I’d like to show you something.’ Then he climbs back into his van, which looks like a tango singer, and adds under his breath, lost in thought: ‘I’ve lost my mind.’
And without saying another word, he gets behind the wheel, and we sit beside him.

I’m Fine, Thanks
Jana Maasik

Excerpt translated by Adam Cullen

[pp 7–28]

First. Friday, May 16th
Ice Cube is rapping in the background about today being a good day. It is pretty good. I speed up on the skateboard, kick a few more times, lift the front wheel, jump, and land on a platform about thirty centimetres higher with the board only halfway on the surface. A frontside 5050 grind. I slide a couple metres, push off, land, and brake. Erik solemnly nods and then grins at his own patronising attitude. I wish I could come all alone to the old weigh station with its plastered walls and an asbestos roof, just two hundred metres from the river and our shack, but the guys also like the spot (understandably) and have been hanging out here for years. Same old, same old. Cars rarely drive by and although the pavement isn’t in the best shape, it’s compensated by a lack of any adults poking into our business and the side of the building itself (about ten metres wide and five metres high), which Max just started decorating with his artwork a second time. He and Erik covered up last year’s original attempt with grey paint a few days ago.
	“Check this out!” Erik shouts and kicks his way uphill along the same route I just followed. You’ve got to work up good momentum to make it, and he has. An impeccably smooth jump, a slightly rough landing on the concrete, a grind, and then back onto the pavement.
	“Wow!”
	Erik grins happily.
	We exchange a high-five and shuffle back to the others. Karl, Ralf, and Robby are standing with wide stances, their arms crossed over their chests, watching Max’s every move.
	“Somebody come over here and hold this, would you?” Max orders, shaking a can of spray paint agitatedly.
	Being the closest, I go over and take the stencil. It depicts a life-sized skater flying over a ramp. The ramp itself is already finished on the wall and looks just like a black-and-white photograph. It reminds me of LA artist Jonas Never’s (Max’s favourite) “A Touch of Venice” or maybe “California Sun”. Max is a huge Never fan. He likes other street artists, too, but Never’s something of a guru to him. The graffiti ramp on the wall is even covered in graffiti of its own: graffiti on graffiti. A little duller than it would be in real life, but the image looks brilliant. Crazy detailed. And all with just three layers of grey, black, and white.
	Max backs three steps down the slope to the others, cocks his head, squints, and starts giving directions: “Step a little to the left and raise it higher.”
	“I can’t reach any higher.”
	“Fuck, we’re going to need some kind of scaffolding. I can’t work like this. This three-legged stool is no bueno.”
	I stay standing on the stool, extending my arms and holding the stencil against the wall.
	“I dunno. Maybe I should add more shades. A couple light greys and dark greys… for shadow effect,” Max ponders.
	“You mean to make it, like, more three-dimensional or something?” Robby asks.
	“Nah… more realistic,” Max corrects him. “I’ve got to have a little think. Can you tell it shows evening and the ramp is only illuminated by a streetlight?”
	“Like it’s kind of dark or something? Sure, I think so. The wall not being white helps a little, I guess,” Erik comments.
“Could’ve been even darker grey,” Max murmurs, wrinkling his nose.
“Don’t sweat it,” Ralf pipes up. “Looks good this way, too.”
	“You keep your mouth shut! I’ll sweat when I wanna sweat, okay?”
	Ralf lifts his hands in defence. “Hey, chill, mate.”
	“Dry your eyes, mate, I know it’s hard to take but his mind has been made up…” Karl sings under his breath, grinning.
	“Hey, and you shut your mouth, too!” Max snaps.
	They all stand still and silent for a dozen seconds or so while Max comes to a decision.
	“I’ve got to make more preparations. I can’t finish it today,” he announces.
	We drop all the bottles of spray paint into Max’s backpack while he rolls up the stencil with extreme care. “Stencilling isn’t just some bullshit spray-a-few-blotches-on-a-wall. You’ve got to do your homework, too,” he explains, even though we’ve all grasped that ages ago.
	“Should we go to the Bowl?” Erik asks.
	I can’t decide what to do myself, so I just stare at the ground and roll my skateboard back and forth under one foot.
	“Or actually, let’s stop by our place first. I wanna eat something,” Erik says after a moment’s thought, then turns and shouts at Max, who’s already slung his backpack over his shoulder and pushed off down the weigh-station slope. “Max! Should I talk to my dad about that scaffolding?!”
Max turns his skateboard to the side to brake. “I dunno, maybe. My dad can’t be bothered to organise stuff like that.”
“Alright, I will!” Erik promises and looks over at me.
“I’m not coming right now.”
He gives me a look like I should rethink my answer.
“Maybe later.”
Shrugging, he waves goodbye and zooms across the bridge with the others. Karl is in the rear wearing a shirt with worn lettering on the back that reads “I  sk8”. Then, they disappear from sight. There’s a little over a kilometre to cross to reach town, which is nothing but a couple old Cold-War-era apartment blocks, several fields packed with new housing developments, a schoolhouse, a football pitch, a library, a café, a skate park, a petrol station, a so-called “shopping centre”, and a few other shops. The short commute to the capital and all kinds of other developments are attracting more and more people to the area. Not to this side of the river, though. This is where I live. And this is where the old, abandoned weigh station is. Further on are run-down barns and fields. The river is like a line drawn between the better-off folk and… Never mind.
My mobile is at nine percent battery.
It’s six-thirty.
Next to the weigh station, I find a weathered board that’s mottled grey and splintery. Shiny blotches of oil dot its surface. I pick it up and watch the woodlice and beetles scatter anxiously across the bumpy pavement. Flipping the board back over, I sit on it. The wall is warm from the sun, but the ground is still cold.
A slightly crooked sign at the opposite end of the sea of dandelions marks the town limits. Golden fields of grain undulate beyond it in summer, but right now, it’s still green. A huge island of stones towers in the middle of the nearest field. Alfred said it was made back when people were sent out to collect rocks and tractors scooped them together into that pile and others like it. The soil here is pretty stony in places, though not in the river valley.
It must have been three or four years ago when the guys and I built a fort out of broken-down pallets and sticks on the nearest stone island. We went to that ramshackle hut every day, surrounded by scraggly bushes and raspberry vines, until I was bit by an adder. I didn’t want to go back again.
The guys, and I mean all of them… I don’t know what I’d do without them. It’s hard to explain what I mean, exactly. Meaning I’d have to talk about almost all my days and all the things we’ve done together ever since I was nine. It’d be an insanely long story made up of minute details regarding what we’ve filled the days with. I know it sounds kind of dumb, but sometimes I think about them in connection with the moment I was born—the moment I chose to survive even though I was extremely premature and blue. I looked like a starved frog. Not that frogs are always blue. We’ve got this book that my old man used as a trivet. They gave it to my mum in the delivery ward and tucked between the pages is a photo of me when I was three days old. The only resemblance I still have are my eyes. Maybe it’s logical, I guess—a starved blue frog like that would be hard to love.
And still is.
My birth has nothing to do with the guys, of course, but the way I’ve thought of it is that back then, I was shown life’s contract in super tiny script. A page with two columns, good and bad. The guys, Luna, Merili, and Alfred were in the “good” column. Stumpy and my friends’ parents—especially Erik’s dad—too. There were other things in the “good” column like the skate park, adrenaline, Alfred’s garden, plants, school, school lunches. And a lot of other things, actually. Including people. The “bad” column was nearly empty, deceptively so, and maybe that’s why I got duped.
I didn’t read the fine print.
Ha. There was no actual “life contract”, of course. And I obviously wasn’t given a choice. No one is. You’re born wherever you’re born. Some people are luckier, others less so. But you can still imagine that I signed that contract and made my choice because the good outweighed the bad.
We moved here the summer before I went into first year. Mom still lived with us at first, though she didn’t stay long. “There’s nothing to do in this backwater. And I certainly don’t make enough to waste it all on the petrol it takes to commute back and forth all the way out here.” That was more or less what she said. All plain and simple. Petrol was pricey back then and it still is today. I still had my da here, of course.
I think it’s clear now why I see Mum so rarely.
I truly and honestly don’t feel like dwelling on it, but sometimes I do, anyway, and I’m always overwhelmed by the urge to do something dangerous.
Just as I get up and am about to ride to the Bowl, I hear girls’ laughter that shatters the relative silence of the windless evening that’s settled over the river valley.
“Hoodies, right, and baggy streetwear,” Merili says, obviously mimicking someone, and that makes the girls laugh even more raucously.
Now, they’re right next to the weigh station. I should come around the corner and announce my presence, but I wait.
“Huh!” Luna huffs disappointedly when the rumble of their skateboard wheels has faded away.
“They’ve already come and gone. Without us. Again.”
“Really, it’s kind of lame of them. They could’ve waited for us to get back from town.”
“Max is never one to wait. If he wants to do something, he does it.”
“You’re right about that,” Luna agrees.
They walk around to the other side of the building.
“Wow,” both gasp.
“He’s so good at it.”
“Yeah,” Luna answers somewhat dreamily.
“Okay, but what do we do now?”
“It’s not that late. We could go to the Bowl for a bit.”
I hear the rumble of skateboard wheels on pavement again and am glad I didn’t reveal myself. Not that I have any issue with the girls; I like them. I just didn’t feel like socialising right now. Still, something changed when they were around and I no longer feel any all-encompassing desire to go to the Bowl myself. I sit back down on the board and pick a scab off my knee. I realize more or less immediately that it was too soon. The droplet of blood swells into a big bubble and starts trickling down my leg towards my sock. I pick a fleawort leaf sprouting from a crack in the pavement, lick it, and press it against the open wound.
My mobile is at eight percent.
It’s five minutes after seven.
I try to decide what to do with the evening. The whole weekend stretches ahead. I don’t feel like studying and don’t want to go home yet, either. My stomach reminds me that there are at least twenty jars of jam, some kinds of juices, and other pickled goods in Alfred’s basement. And potatoes! Right! I could fetch some potatoes, peel them, and fry them. The mere thought of food makes my mouth water.
I kick my skateboard into motion and roll past our house that’ll be collapsing at any moment. (I know “house” is an overstatement, but I sometimes use the word anyway.) Next comes the concrete bridge with rusty railings, Alfred’s gate, and his front door. The first thing I do is light a fire in the kitchen stove. Next, I harvest some onions from the garden and dice them. The potatoes turn golden brown on the sizzling pan. He had a good stove.
Later, I wander around Alfred’s garden and pluck a couple weeds out of habit. As twilight falls, I connect my phone to the charger and fall asleep on Alfred’s dark red velvet couch.

Second. Saturday, May 17th

When I get home the next morning, Da is sitting at the kitchen table and drinking in nothing but a faded AC/DC shirt and underpants.
	“Well, where’ve you been, baggy-pants?” he asks and laughs uproariously at his own joke.
	“Alfred’s place.”
	“Why’d you disappear there? That geezer kicked the bucket.”
	He’s genuinely surprised. His jaw hangs open and his bloodshot eyes bulge. True comedy. I don’t really know what to reply—he’s well aware that I go there every day. Without exception. And that I sleep on Alfred’s couch at least eight nights out of ten. Or hasn’t he noticed? Not even that!? Weird. Their indifference hurts and at the same time, it doesn’t. The pain is number than it used to be, anyway. I wonder if I’ll end up feeling indifferent someday. Totally indifferent.
	“Not like I’ll hear a single sensible word out of your mouth,” Da grumbles and guzzles wine straight from the bottle. His skin is swollen and red, his eyes are swollen and red, even his fingers are swollen and red. And he reeks so badly that the whole house stinks.
	“Where’re you goin’?!” he shouts at my back as I walk away. “Come an’ sit down; I’ll pour you a cup!”
	What a generous offer.
	“We’ll talk man-to-man! Your da wants to chat with you!” he hollers. “You hear me?!”
	I know everything he’d say already.
	“Your mum went to the shop!” he yells after me. “She’ll be back any minute!”
	As if it’d be any better with her here, I think, and know I can’t stay. First, they’ll drink together, and then they’ll argue over money, or Mum won’t drink but they’ll still have a screamingmatch. I grab my skateboard and leave.
	“Hey, don’t go,” he slurs anxiously as if he actually gives a damn about what I do.
	I skate towards the centre of town. But before I make it over the bridge, I notice an SUV parked outside Alfred’s gate. The boot is open, and someone is grabbing things from inside… I slow down. It’s that guy again. He’s been visiting frequently and this time, he showed up with cans of paint. Or cans of something else—I can’t really make out what’s on the labels. And it looks like he showed up with that woman again.
	I should’ve guessed they’d be coming. This was a pretty close call. I left Alfred’s place barely a quarter of an hour ago. I recall that I heated the stove a little last night. Just to make the place a little less damp. I suppose could’ve cooked potatoes on the electric griddle, too. I wonder if they’ll notice? In any case, I still stashed my pillow and blanket away in Alfred’s room. Didn’t leave anything lying around. I don’t think.
	I tuck my skateboard under my arm and walk back to the other side of the river. There, I hide it under a bush and run to the little bridge. It’s actually more of a footbridge: Alfred’s own craftsmanship with a handrail and everything. His garden stretches across the opposite riverbank and even spread down to the slope.
	Before reaching the little bridge, I duck behind a spruce tree and freeze. The woman is leaning over the tulips on the opposite side of the water, barely thirty paces away, a blissful expression on her face like Alfred’s when he really liked something. She stands up again and starts walking back towards the house. Then, she stops and stares attentively at something on the ground.
	“Tobias!” she calls out to the man still unloading all kinds of stuff from the SUV. “Tobias, come here for a minute!”
	Suddenly, I realize what she sees and a shudder passes through me. She’s standing right where I weeded dandelions a couple days ago.
	“Look,” she says to the man before he actually gets there or can see what she’s pointing at. “Somebody’s been weeding. Look, dandelions.” She lifts a wilted plant with a dangling root that’s at least fifteen centimetres long.
	“Who’d be weeding here?” he scoffs.
	“But some has! Can’t you see?! Where’d this come from, then?!” the woman insists. “Somebody dropped it here. And look: fresh dirt as if someone were digging with a trowel.”
	“Maybe birds? Or a cat?”
	The woman snorts. “Oh, be realistic! What birds? What cat? Someone’s been working here systematically. And it’s not the first time I’ve spotted something like it, actually.” She snickers. “Last time, I thought it was like Alfred’s ghost was helping out a bit in the garden. It seemed odd ever since we came—everything was so pristine the moment that spring sprung. The leaves were raked, the compost boxes were emptied, and even I suspected that the compost had been spread out in just the right places. Isn’t that weird? Uncle Alfred couldn’t have done it; his health was too poor last summer already. He was even hospitalised once in autumn. And there are so few weeds! I’m 100% certain that someone’s been tending to the garden. I just don’t know who.”
	“Nor do I. A garden fairy, maybe?”
	The man smiles, eyes the dandelion root, and continues. “But it’s a good thing.”
	The woman stares at him intensely. “Good or not, it’s strange. Right?”
	“Listen, I’m going to finish up now and close the boot.”
	“Okay. But isn’t there anyone you can think of?”
	“No, how could I? Of course not.”
	The man walks away, leaving the woman staring at the flowerbeds. She shakes her head and smiles at some thought in her head.
	The house’s front door slams. I lower a branch slightly to get a better look and spot a girl in a white coat walking towards the woman. “Mum,” she says in a whiny voice.
	Huh, must be their daughter, I think. More or less my age.
	“Are you listening!? When are we going to go?”
	“But we just got here,” the woman replies.
	“What’m I supposed to do? My room’s like a loo. There’s nothing for me for me to do here.”
	“You can help your father. Or me.”
	“In these clothes?”
	“I told you to bring a change.”
	“But I didn’t.”
	The woman is visibly straining to suppress her irritation. “Then read a book! Or study, if you want. Do whatever you please.”
	“I didn’t bring anything with me.”
	“Take a book from Alfred’s shelves.”
	“I don’t want to read!”
	“Honey, enough. I told you to do whatever you want. Take a walk into town; maybe you’ll meet some of your future classmates.”
	The girl snorts spitefully.
	Instead of reacting, the woman changes the subject.
	“Look at how pretty these tulips are! Aren’t they? They’re everywhere. Look, they’re even pushing their way up between the flowerbeds and in the middle of the grass. I suppose that’s the moles’ doing.”
	I understand what she means. I think it’s actually a water vole that carried narcissus bulbs around while digging its tunnels. The girl glances at the flowers and nods. Her voice turns from whiny to sad. “It’s so unfair that I have to move here. I don’t want to! I’ll never see my friends again. I don’t know anybody here. Don’t you two understand!?”
	The woman stops admiring the flowers and turns towards her daughter. “But we’ve discussed it so much. We simply couldn’t turn down this inheritance. You know I’ve dreamed of having a garden like this my whole life. I’d like to open up a gardening centre here. We’ll renovate the house and you’ll see—it’s going to be such a beautiful home. You’re bound to find friends and the school here isn’t so bad at all.”
	That sends the girl into tears. I can’t see very well but can tell that she’s buried her face in her mum’s neck. Her shoulders heave; she blubbers and says she already has friends and a beautiful home.
	I want to slip away but don’t dare to move a muscle. And I don’t know what to think about the girl’s conundrum. It’s just such an alien situation to me. If I had a dad who spent his days active and sober or a mum who loved plants and cared for her kid, then maybe I’d understand. But I don’t know what it feels like to have to leave a normal home—I’ve never had one myself. No, I can’t sympathise. To me, she seems whiny and spoiled and like she’s making a big deal out of nothing.
	I grunt and wonder how on earth someone couldn’t want a house and grounds like Alfred’s? The garden is huge, has a rich assortment of plants, and is well kept. The house is over a century old and has high ceilings and thick walls. Alfred told me it used to be a dairy—a place that took in milk from big farms and villagers. They made cheese, cream, and butter, and distributed it to the people working the collective farm. Downstairs worked women in white gowns and headscarves. When Alfred was still quite young, the farm’s management granted him an upstairs room to live in. He stayed there for years and years. Some other men lived in the adjoining rooms. The main room, stairway, and first floor spaces constantly stunk of sour milk. Now, the building has the scent of muddy boots, old clothes, and the dried bunches of herbs hanging from the ceiling in the main room. It smells like Alfred’s life.
	I stare blankly at the river that separates me from the house, the garden, and the new owners, one of whom can’t seem to grasp just how lucky she is.
	The girl rests her head against the woman’s shoulder and the two walk away towards the house, arms wrapped around each other. Watching them go, the weight of the world collapses over me. I feel more abandoned than ever before and don’t want to go home. I sit down on the riverbank and hold my head in my hands. What’ll happen when they finish their renovations and move in? Alfred’s garden and house have been more of a home to me than the hovel where my old man sits around boozing and where Mum stops by once a month if we’re lucky. I wasn’t afraid up until today, but now, I am. It’s no longer a theoretical possibility or a non-existent twist, but more like an inevitable train speeding on schedule. Soon, it’ll arrive. The fear turns my insides cold. I can’t silence it with reason, either, because the more I think about the situation, the worse it is.

*

The bridge and riverbank are visible from Alfred’s garden from a certain angle, but the family’s inside at the moment. I creep out of my hiding place and run home. Not inside, but around to the back of the house where there’s a ladder and a decrepit hatch leading to the attic. I haul my skateboard up with me. It may be old and worn, but Da has pawned off lesser things for a fiver.
	The attic, which is nothing more than a low space beneath the roof (which leaks at one end), is rather bare. It’s where I keep clean clothes in one plastic bag and my school things and library books in another. There are two good reasons for storing things in the attic. One, the air up here is fresh, meaning my stuff won’t start to stink, and two, it’s sometimes better not to show my face downstairs.
	I decide to study first. I’ve got a maths test on Monday.
	Music is blasting and the bass is thumping downstairs, but Da is still able to holler over it. In the afternoon, I hear the rumble of a car when Mum drives away. Less than half an hour later, Da’s pals show up—the village drunks Pauly and Belly. I’m used to muting all those noises in my head.
	I spend the whole day up in the attic. I’m hungry. I’m longing to go to Alfred’s place and cook. Finally, at six o’clock, I can’t hold back anymore. I climb down the ladder and amble to the little bridge. There’s nobody in sight, but the SUV is still parked out front.
	I wish they’d leave already.
	As if my thoughts are answered, the girl stomps out of the house, hands jammed into her pockets, and stands crankily next to the vehicle. At least ten more minutes pass before her parents also emerge.
	They all get into the SUV and drive away.
	Finally.
	I take the key to Alfred’s house, which I wear on a string around my neck, and walk a short arc to the front door. Just last evening, I wasn’t afraid to openly walk in and out of the house, but now, I keep my eyes peeled like a burglar. I know all too well that I should stop coming by anymore, but I really don’t have any other option. At least no good option.
	The neatly trimmed spruce hedges almost conceal the house and garden entirely; the street is empty. I slide the key into the lock and turn it.
	The house is different: barer, and there’s an unfamiliar smell. A whole row of big black bin bags have popped up along the hallway, each packed full of Alfred’s old clothes and sheets and household goods. A lump rises to my throat. This little piece of Alfred is apparently destined for the dump. Possessions that enjoyed a long life; things he loved and kept. Lining the opposite wall are jars of putty, sacks of plaster, tools, and five-litre cans of paint. The living room rug has been rolled up and leaned against the wall. Tables, cupboards, bookcases—everything that can be disassembled has been. Alfred’s books are stored in boxes, the curtains have been taken down, and my footsteps echo when I walk around the room.
	I grab Alfred’s photo album from a box of books and head to the kitchen. I’ve got a clear picture of the grocery situation: in addition to the potatoes, jams, and juices hidden away in the basement, there should be macaroni and two tins of meat in the larder. I breathe a sigh of relief to see the latter are still there. There was no need to worry. People like them prefer finer cuisine.
	The kitchen has been tidied, the tablecloth scrubbed, dishes are drying on the rack, and the sink is cleaner than I’ve ever seen it before. I light a fire in the stove and leaf through the album while waiting for the water to boil. Only older photographs, black and white with serrated edges, are fixed to the pages by the corners. The rest are loose and stuffed between the pages in a thick bunch. The stack contains lots of funeral photos but also faded colour images of flowers and gardens that Alfred snapped on his travels. Finally, I find a photo with all three of them: the woman, the man, and their daughter.
	Written on the back is:

	Have a wonderful birthday, Alfred!
	Congratulations!
	From: Tobias, Mari, and our teensy Iti Isabel

Tobias, Mari, and Iti Isabel, I repeat to myself, and stare at their faces for a while. The man and women look very young. Iti is maybe two years old and wearing tiny jeans, a pink shirt, and her hair in two mousy braids. Tobias is tall and slender and has friendly eyes. Mari has short, somewhat wavy hair and a big grin that brings a smile to your own face.
	And yet, the picture still makes me feel terrible. My stomach starts to ache, maybe out of hunger. I shake the tinned meat out onto a pan and pour a quarter of the pack of macaroni into the boiling water. I knew how to cook a meal like this by the time I was more or less six years old. Ten minutes later, I’m eating.
	After dinner, I spend time out in the garden. I know I’m not allowed to do any more gardening and it almost hurts. Alfred would’ve been having his busiest time of the season and I would’ve lent him a hand.
	If my mates knew what I think about this garden and that I secretly come out here to weed and putter around, they’d think I’d gone loopy. I don’t blame them. One time in ecology class, Max turned to me and said, “You gay or something?” Max regarded basically everybody as gay back then, especially anyone who didn’t drink beer or swear almost every other word. He only asked because I’d gotten a perfect score on my homework and the teacher was pleased with me. Of course, I shouldn’t have poured more oil on the flames by saying I liked plants. That was Alfred’s saying. He’d always say: You don’t need to pour oil on the flames if you don’t want a big bonfire. In short, I do like plants, being outside, watching the circle of life, dirt, bugs, and generally anything that has to do with horticulture. And I’ve read all kinds of books about plants, even an eighth-grade biology textbook from cover to cover. That’s just for me to know, though. The guys don’t need to find out.

[pp 65–70]

Our form mistress Elise Känukukk shows up ten minutes late. Just as everybody’s about to give up and clear out, she marches in, breathless.
	“Has everyone who’s going on the school trip signed their names?”
	She waves a sheet of paper in the air and most of the class murmurs yes.
	“Okay. Hendrik, I didn’t see your name. Aren’t you coming?”
	She gives me a curious look. I conjure my usual indifferent expression and inform her I’m not.
	“You have better plans?” she asks.
	Karl raps under his breath, “For generations we been dealt bad hands with bad plans, prove your dedication by hoppin’ out Grand Ams…”
	“Karl Johannes!” teach shouts and claps her hands in exasperation. He shoots her his usual grin.
	“Yes,” I say and look down. I know exactly why she’s asking.
	But teach is already continuing, telling the class what to bring along and where they can spend the night if they stick to the original itinerary. I manage to totally mute the sounds in my head. I think about what happened in February, before Alfred was taken to the hospital.
	I was absent, for starters.
	Teach, being the responsible individual she is, called my mum and asked if something had happened. She didn’t immediately reveal that I hadn’t shown up for school. Mum naturally replied that nothing had happened to me. Teach then demanded to know why I wasn’t in class and my mum played the most absurd lie in her whole lie collection. What I mean, of course, is the lie she used on that occasion fell far below her lying prowess. Mum told teach that we’d gone on holiday to France. Can you imagine? A guy who doesn’t own a single pair of trousers without holes in the knees goes with his mum on holiday to France. A mum he sometimes doesn’t see for months at a time. Just to make things perfect, Mum casually forgot to tell me about that lie and teach interrogated me. “Oh, so you went to France?” she asked, clearly not believing the assertion. The question caught me so off guard that I was left speechless. Then, she asked me about a whole bunch of sightseeing attractions there and pressed me on whether or not I visited Paris, too.
	No, I didn’t.
	No, I hadn’t gone to Marseilles, either.
	It was like a breaker flipped inside of me. I couldn’t bring myself to lie even though I probably should have.
	“So, you and your mum didn’t go to France, then?”
	“No.”
	“Then why did she say you had?”
	“Mum’s like that sometimes.”
	“Like what?”
	I was silent.
	I could have told her I don’t know why Mum said that. It would’ve at least been partly true, but I was silent. My mum lies a lot and without shame. Sometimes her new lies fit earlier ones, sometimes not. Somewhere in the depths of her hazy, vague fantasy world, I’m doing alright. She’s not interested in me the way I actually am, anyway.
	“If you weren’t on holiday, then why didn’t you come to school?” our form mistress asked.
	There was nothing I could say in my own defence, so I stayed silent. Even though Alfred taught me everything I knew about plants, even though he was a mentor and a role model, even though he meant more to me than my own mum and old man combined, he still wasn’t a relative. Is helping a neighbour when he’s sick a good reason for missing school? Without parental permission or their knowledge…
	No, ‘course not.
	“Make sure that’s the very last time, then. I want a written explanation from your mother about why you were absent. And bring it straight to me.”
	I typed the explanation on Robby’s computer at his house, printed it out with his printer, and scribbled Mum’s signature at the bottom. I’m a master at forging it. Then I called Mum, read her the account of the virus and fever I’d come down with, and told her to stick to the story.
	I haven’t missed a single day since. Not one class. Not even when my friends pressured me to take a break and skived off themselves.
	“Think about both options! You’d be sleeping six to a room in Riga!” our teacher shouted over the din. “And by next class, you need to decide which route we’re taking!”
	Teach pulls me aside afterward.
	“Hendrik, I’m very disappointed that you can’t come.”
	She studies my face while I pretend to inspect a brochure about Riga sightseeing on her desk.
	“I haven’t met your mum yet. Nor your dad.”
	Lucky for her. Teach drives twenty-five kilometres to school every day and therefore knows practically nothing about local matters.
	“I want to fix that. I’ll come visit you at home…”
	She unlocks her phone and appears to open the calendar.
	My head is spinning.
	“Yes, let’s do it at the end of May. Tell your parents I’ll come on the twenty-seventh at five o’clock. I’ll send an email, too.”
	She taps on her laptop’s keyboard to look up the address. “Yes, I’ve got the contact information here.”
	It’s an email address that I created and occasionally check from Robby’s computer or the school library. She looks up and directly into my eyes.  “Is everything alright with you?”
	“Yeah, sure. It’s just… I don’t know if my parents will be home. Da is traveling to Finland for work in late May and Mum will be in the city then.”
	“Are you saying you’re going to be left all alone at home?”
	“No. Grandma visits us.”
	The lies roll off my tongue just as fluidly as they do for Mum. The truth is that I don’t have any grandmas, nor any grandpas. None. My mum and da grew up in an orphanage, which is where they met and made me.
	“Okay, but I’d still like to speak to your mother. You can arrange for her to show up somehow, can’t you? Tallinn’s not that far away.”
	“I can ask, but maybe the hour won’t work for her. She’s always booked in the evening. She can come to school during the day.”
	“I’ll write her. Have her check her schedule and get back to me.”
	“Okay,” I say with feigned casualness and hurry out of the classroom.
	All I can think about the entire rest of the day is the upcoming visit. I have to make absolute sure to avoid her showing up at our door, though I doubt I can coax Mum to come to school. She hates places like that. What’s more, I don’t know what condition she’s in. She hasn’t been to rehab in ages and from what I gather, she quit halfway through the last time two years ago. Would she even agree to make that sacrifice for me?

[pp 111–117]

Somewhere nearby, a car door slams loudly, followed by the low rumbling that old vehicles make when their silencer isn’t in good working order. I’m wide awake and hope it’s at least seven o’clock. Why did I wake up so early again? As if a biological alarm clock went off. I’m anxious; afraid that I’m already late for school.
	It’s Friday.
	I’m glad my old man didn’t come yesterday. I hope he won’t be here when that child-protection agent or social worker or whoever shows up.
	The kitchen looks so different with the flower-patterned curtains that I freeze in the doorway. Another jar of jam stands in the middle of the table. I grudgingly open it and stick the first spoonful into my mouth. Nasty thoughts have been worming their way into my head over the last few days, just like yesterday and earlier in bed. More than anything, I wish I could go somewhere else. Come right in and poke around when nobody’s home. The last thing I want is to watch them discover that there’s no electricity and that our only fridge is outside and wouldn’t even work if the power was turned back on. When that person comes… there’s nothing I can do to stop them. I can’t even close the front door because it’s off its hinges. It’d be really nice to not be here. Make all your triumphant revelations without me! My presence wouldn’t change anything, anyway.
	I stare into the mirror. A big red pimple has appeared on my cheek and my superpower of eating a whole jar of jam in one sitting has abandoned me. Today, I already feel sick after the fifth spoonful.
	My thoughts drift back to the child-protection agent… Left uncared for. Emotional abuse. I learned those words back when I was in nursery school; I’d overheard them. Mum always disagreed with such talk. She argued that I’m not coddled and things like those are different in every family. She claimed that I was absolutely fine; that I wasn’t mentally underdeveloped; that, sure, I was thin, but aren’t there too many fat kids, anyway? “He’s constantly running around everywhere—got no chance to plump up.”
	I pull on my backpack, grab my skateboard, and decide to kill time at the Bowl.
	It must be even earlier than when I left yesterday morning. The only car I see before getting to the Bowl is Erik’s dad’s, and I know he always leaves for the city very early.
	For starters, I do some 180-degree frontside ollies on level ground. I turn, land backwards… turn, land backwards, and so on until I reach the opposite side of the park. Then, I do nollie frontsides and right after that try a nollie backside flip.
	It was only while teaching Iti that I realised how hard it is to talk about what I do, exactly. All those names that are in a foreign language for me and descriptions of turning at different degrees might have sounded like Arabic to her. Sometimes, she just laughed and rolled her eyes. What I mean is that it’s way easier for me to just do them than talk about them. How can you explain something that’s stored in your muscle memory and has been a cinch to pull off for ages?
	I glance at my surroundings. Nobody’s walking along the sidewalk towards school yet. I smirk at myself because I don’t usually go to the Bowl so early like some crazy fanatic. Luckily, there’s a real park that surrounds our skate park, too—the old manor gardens. All kinds of residential buildings ranging from luxurious villas to terraced houses and apartment blocks are farther off. I can imagine the uproar there’d be if things were a little different and people had to hear the rumbling of our skateboards and other noises all the time.
	I kick off towards the metal-edged concrete block where Luna did her last nose slide. Usually, I grind frontside 50/50s on it, but today I do a couple nose slides before glancing back at the street.
	Deciding that was enough for now, I skateboard to school. I spot a woman with a bunch of keys approaching and duck behind a corner. She’d be sure to ask some kind of questions or at least eye me suspiciously.
	I plop down on a leather couch in the break area and start charging my mobile. I find out it’s twenty to eight. Iti hasn’t texted; maybe she never will again.

Me: There’s something wrong with my mobile, Iti. It switches itself off every now and then. Last night was pretty busy and I couldn’t charge it, either.
You alright?

Me: The guys and I are gaming tonight, it’s our game night or whatever. Nothing big but already like kind of a tradition. Robby and I are at Erik’s place, Max and Karl at Ralf’s place. Ralf and Erik even have special gaming rooms. We play Rocket League. Three against three

Me: You like gaming?

Me: I’m actually a little worried, sort of. About what’ll happen next. See, Alfred and I were friends. I went there all the time. And he helped me out

Me: If I don’t reply again or something then it’s because of my phone, okay

Even though I’ve pretty much gone full disclosure about all that stuff, Iti still doesn’t reply. And she’s on her phone almost constantly. Maybe five minutes pass before my mobile vibrates.

Iti: OMG! Dad called, he just got to the house. And guess what: all his tools were nicked! Like, all of them! Some were even rented

I’m overwhelmed by momentary panic as if I myself were caught stealing.

Iti: Dad’s pretty wound up. And know what else? He said he saw you there one morning. Were you there or something?

The mobile buzzes in my palm. So, he did see me. It’s impossible he could think anything else. Of course he suspects me.

Iti: I know you didn’t take anything, but it’d be good if you talked to Da. He’s a constable.

“A constable,” I murmur to myself.

Iti: You’ll talk to him, yeah?

Me: Yeah, sure thing. I was there. It was Monday morning. I’d forgotten something.

Iti: Explain it to him. I’m sure he’ll calm down. He said he’d take fingerprints.

It’s all too much. My stomach churns as the mobile buzzes in my hand. I feel like bunking off from school. I jump to my feet and kick the couch. A first-grade girl stares at me wide-eyed. Other students have shown up to school. I sit again, rest my head in my hands, and force myself to settle down by repeating all kinds of things to myself.
	You haven’t nicked anything.
Iti doesn’t believe you’re a thief.
Nothing’s changed.
I remembered the banging of car doors that morning and the rumbling of the broken silencer. I’m almost certain that’s when it must have happened.
“Yo, Hank,” Ralf says, plopping down next to me. His mouth stretches into a big yawn, and he starts scrolling on his iPhone.
I stare at my own mobile, too, though the screen’s blank.
“You want one or not?”
Ralf is holding a Snickers Duo pack and waving it at me. I was so spaced out that I didn’t even notice.
“Oh, yeah. ‘Course.”
Ralf yawns again and starts lazily describing his evening. He goes on about how their team is definitely going to trounce ours tonight because he and Max and Karl play like clockwork together, but I’m barely listening. Then, my mobile buzzes again and I check it.

Iti: Da’s coming to school. He just wants to know if you heard or saw anything. He said the thieves must have had a car. There was a lot of stuff and the things were heavy. Some kind of demolition tool, a jackhammer or something. Crazy heavy, I guess

“Well, there you have it,” Ralf teases, elbowing me. “Robby’s right. You are chatting up that bird Iti.”
	“Gawp at your own mobile,” I reply. “And I ain’t not chatting up nobody. We’ve just been texting a little… about when I can teach her more skate stuff and whatever…”
	“‘Skate stuff’,” he repeats, grinning.
	Luckily, he’s not the kind of guy who can be bothered to wind anybody up for long. Instead, he rummages in his pocket. “Want some gum?”
	I accept that, too.
	I give myself a little mental pep talk, the main message of which is that everything’s going to turn out fine. In reality, I’d like to be alone and think. I don’t know what about, exactly, but I just feel that way.
	The first bell rings.
	“Oy! Earth calling!” Ralf says, waving a hand in front of my face.
	I lift one corner of my lips in a smirk.
	“Let’s go.”
	After we’ve taken just two steps, Ralf stops and grabs my sleeve. “You tell me if there’s anything up with you. We can help you, understand?”
	“Sure.”

THE BIG SECRET
Written by Piret Jaaks
Illustrations by Marju Tammik
Translated by Adam Cullen
Layout by Tuuli Aule
Published by Päike ja Pilv, 2024
www.paikejapilv.ee
Translated
by Adam Cullen

Iris comes home from preschool
and sits in the corner of her bedroom.
She doesn’t talk to Mommy.
Or to Daddy. Or to Aunt Mirjam,
who came to visit.
Iris has a BIG SECRET.

“Dinnertime, Iris!” Dad calls out.
“Iris, please come and eat!” Mom calls out, too.
But Iris just picks at the drawstring of her hoodie.
She ties little knots in it.

“Iris, Aunt Mirjam has a present for you,”
Mom whispers in the doorway. But Iris doesn’t budge.
Mom gives her a worried look.

Usually, she’d have dashed to the living room right away,
climbed into Aunt Mirjam’s lap,
tugged on her sweater, and squealed:
“What have you got today? Tell me!”
and Aunt Mirjam would pretend to be surprised and say,
“Huh? Oh, the present! Well, it’s a surprise. Guess!”

And then, Iris would have guessed:
stickers, a big strawberry candy, or a little piece of chocolate.
And Aunt Mirjam would shake her head.
And then, Iris would have guessed:
a movie ticket or a lucky rock with a hole in it or a picture book.
And Aunt Mirjam would have said, no, it’s actually a round pearl.
Iris likes pearls a lot.

But today, Iris just sits in her room,
scribbling with a navy-blue marker.
She makes dark zigzaggy lines across the paper.
It’s because a secret has moved inside of her
and Iris doesn’t know
how to get rid of it.

“How about we offer her some pancakes?” Dad suggests.
“And put powdered sugar on them, too,” Mom reckons.
Iris just shakes her head.
The secret is sitting between her throat
and her belly, pushing down on it.
She doesn’t have any appetite.
“What are we going to do?”
Mom and Dad both wonder, worried.

That’s Iris and Aunt Mirjam’s favorite game.
They take turns rolling themselves up in the rug
and then trying to get out.
It’s the funnest game in the whole world.
But Iris only shakes her head.
“Do you want to play pigs in a blanket?”
Aunt Mirjam asks.

Then, Mom rests her hand
on Iris’s forehead,
but it isn’t hot.
Then, Dad looks into
Iris’s mouth to make sure
her throat isn’t red.
Then, they both touch Iris’s belly, but it’s
soft and plump just like a kid’s belly should be.
“Are you hurting anywhere?” Dad and Mom both ask.
Iris just presses her lips together and shakes her head.

Iris’s dog Bosse sticks his
snout into her bedroom.
He presses his cold nose
into her lap and asks,
“Iris! Iris! Are you okay?
Come play ball with me!”
Playing ball is Bosse’s favorite
thing in the whole world.
He’d be a ball himself if he could.
Iris and Bosse often pretend
that they’re a couple of balls.
They sprint around the yard
and chase each other.

Bosse has a look that says
Secrets are something he likes.
Bosse’s expression is very curious
and he has a tail that wags itself.
But Iris turns away from him and says,
“I’m not allowed to tell it to anybody.”
“Ball, then! Let’s play ball instead!”
Bosse says, jumping up and down.
Iris just shakes her head.
But Iris looks deep into the dog’s
big brown eyes and tells him,
“Bosse, you know, I’ve got a BIG SECRET.”

That night, Iris snuggles up to Mom.
“Mommy,” she says,
“I want to tell you something.”
“Oh, really? What’s that?”
Mom asks, putting down her book.
“But I can’t tell you, because
then it wouldn’t be a secret anymore.”
“You can always tell mommies secrets,” Mom says.
“It doesn’t count if a mommy knows.”

Iris opens her fist, revealing
a little rubber bouncy ball.
The ball is glittery and sparkly.
Mom and Iris stare at the ball and
Iris notices that Mom’s a little surprised.
Bosse also puts his front paws up
onto the bed to take a look.
Now, all three of them
are staring together.

“I wanted to bring it home for Bosse.
He just loves balls so much.
But I can’t give it to him…” Iris says.
“Why not?” Mom asks.
“Because the ball doesn’t belong to Bosse.
And it doesn’t belong to me, either.”
“Whose ball is it, then?” Mom gently asks.
“It belongs at preschool,” Iris admits, and
feels a little tear in her eye.

She simply adored the ball at preschool.
It was the prettiest ball she’d ever seen.
It stood out amongst all the other balls
that were kept in the cupboard.
But now, Iris doesn’t like the ball at all.
It feels heavy and ugly. So heavy that she
can’t even carry it anymore, so she hands it to Mom.
“I don’t want it anymore.”

Even so, Mom isn’t angry.
Instead, she says, “Take it back tomorrow.”
“Do I have to?” Iris asks.
“You do,” Mom replies.
“Because the other balls
miss their friend, just like how
Mommy, Daddy, and Aunt Mirjam
missed Iris during dinner tonight.”
Iris doesn’t shake her head.
She becomes very thoughtful and asks,
“But what will I say to my teacher?”
“You’ll say, “I’m sorry.” It takes
a lot of courage to do that,”
Mom replies.

The next day, Iris walks up to her teacher Miss Anne.
She opens her fist so they can both see the little sparkly ball.
“Did you find that somewhere?” Miss Anne asks.
Iris doesn’t say anything. She only shakes her head.
Miss Anne isn’t angry at all.
She takes Iris by the hand and says,
“Let’s put it back in the cupboard together.”

Iris’s teacher opens the cupboard door to reveal
balls that are blue, green, yellow, and red.
Iris can tell that they’ve been waiting all night long.
Just like how Mommy, Daddy, and Aunt
Mirjam waited for her to join them at dinner.
She sets the sparkly ball back among the others and says,
“I’m sorry for taking your friend away, little balls.”

Iris can feel that the secret has disappeared.
There’s no longer any big secret ruining her mood.
The one that was pushing on her belly,
the one she didn’t want to feel anymore, is gone.
Instead, she feels happy and light.

She feels so happy that she wishes she could go home
right away, run around the yard with Bosse, eat pancakes,
and play pigs in a blanket with Aunt Mirjam,
using the living room rug.
Later that afternoon, that’s exactly what she does.

Iiris tuleb lasteaiast koju ja istub oma toa nurka.
Ta ei räägi emmega. Ega issiga. Ega tädi Mirjamiga,
kes on külla tulnud. Iirisel on SUUR SALADUS.
Saladus istub kõhu ja kurgu vahel ning
Iiris ei tea, kuidas sellest lahti saada.

“A Shop for Strange Pets” written and illustrated by Elena Obukhova
DETAILS: Children novel for 6 to 12 years / 20 x 17 cm / 269 pages / softcover / B&W illustrations / published in 2023 by Prozart media.

To all those that value the animals as equals.
Meow.

Chapter One
Marko and Marika
The day was filled with sunshine and the scent of flowers to the very top, like a favorite cup filled with herbal tea. A light spring breeze was blowing, and down the hill from the Upper Gate, with full sails, two bicycles were racing. The bicycles rang out on the uneven stones of the ancient cobblestones: "Oh-h-rid", "Ohri-i-i-d". They were driven by twins Marko and Marika, or rather Marika and Marko, because Marika was born two minutes earlier and was considered the older one.
These children are a real nuisance to the local residents, but they are also a salvation for all the cats, dogs, sparrows and other representatives of the animal world. They are swimming champions in their age category, and sometimes in the wider area, but in karate training they only receive remarks and reprimands from the coach. Because how can you train with your twin and not get slapped at the first opportunity?
They can't sit still for a moment. Even when they're busy, they can't sit still. When they're not at school or riding their bikes through the streets, they're "helping" their neighbors at the little shop or in the yard, but their favorite activity is annoying the local vet, Tony. They brought him various injured animals so many times and so many times they didn't have the money to pay for their rescue, that the veterinarian declared them both his voluntary assistants.
It's May now, and the nine-year-old twins couldn't wait for the holidays to finally start, because, as always, they have a bunch of school related worries. Just try to get everything done when they give so much homework every day!
The bicycles shook on the stones of the old cobblestones, the bells jingled, and after their sound came Marko's agitated shout:
- There he is, Marika! Turn right! Faster!
There was a crash as one of the bicycles fell. The second one immediately followed, but it fell a little more softly, into the grass.
Marika ran into the alley.
Marko caught up with her. Marika fell to the ground next to someone's
fence and began to shout triumphantly:
– Hurray, I caught him!
She grabbed a large gray cat by its hind legs. Its front legs and muzzle on the other side of the fence expressed extreme displeasure.
Marko ran back to his bike and took the sports bag from the trunk. Together, the two of them put the cat in it, attached the bag to the trunk, and headed down to the lake with the captured animal.
The children ran along the quay, turned left and continued up the street along the sidewalk, waving to the policeman on duty in front of the police station entrance and greeting the firefighters, finally stopping in front of the veterinary clinic.
- Good morning, Uncle Tony!
- Good morning, good morning! Bring your idler here.
Marko fumbled a little with the bag and after a short struggle he pulled the cat out of it. He and Marika put it on the table and tried to hold it while the vet prepared the medicine in the syringe. The cat screamed, using all the cat curses he knew and tried to free himself.
But the injection had already been given, and the beast, apparently realizing that the procedure was complete, gave in a little and stopped fighting. Marika took some food out of her pocket, put it in the bag, and skillfully zipped it up before the cat could jump out of it and run away.
– There you go. One more injection tomorrow and he’ll be done, – Tony laughed.
– Thank you, Uncle Tony.
– No problem, I’ll wait for you around four o’clock to clean the floor. And the grass in the lawn still needs to be mowed. But that’s when you have time.
– We’ll be there around four, thank you!
– Oh, let’s just find Jack, and then the swan.
– Yes, that’s right, I almost forgot…
Bicycles are already ringing somewhere in the center. The gray cat-idler has started back home, probably not even realizing that these tanned devils saved him from certain death a few days ago. Well, what can you do, those cats are like that...

FILM POEMS BY DEJAN TRAJKOSKI
DETAILS: Poetry book 20 x 17 cm / 50 pages / softcover / first published in 2022 by Bata Press

LOST IN TRANSLATION

At this moment
Somewhere in the world
There are two people
Laying together
As buttons of a shirt
That cannot touch each other
No matter how close they are

CLOSER
It was the day
When the mill wheel was turned by one drop
The wind blew all the rust from the forgotten sickle
And the wings of two birds of the flock fluttered
In flight.

Those were the days when bees drank blood
The honeycomb has painted red
And the lines on our palms matched
One on the another one
Perfectly.

But, time does not transgress:
The winds we get used to
We forget them faster.

This is the picture from our encounters:
We are the place
And a nuance
Between red and blue
From the same flame.

AMERICAN HONEY

The letters of your breath
Like frozen steam they fall
And I line them up
Like a stone that stops water.

Your shadow does not bend over obstacles
So around her
A house I cannot draw.

The grass we lie on
It straightens up
Only in my place.

The color of your eyes
It moves to the corners of my lips.
It bends them like a hook, like an anchor,
Like a halved crescent moon
With a shadow in between.

I always see things where they are not:
When you push me away, I get closer to you.

I think it's strange you never knew.

FLEABAG

The waters
From two fingers
That quench a candle
Touched themselves through the flame.

Like two different books
With same number of pages
Which finally
Found themselves on the same shelf.

And in which
Ambiguous are the words
With a positive connotation.
For example: it will pass.

As if they shape new grammatical tenses
Giving birth to the Present impossible
And the Future painful
From the Past imperfect.

IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE

They have the same definition of the red color
And they know the air
Previously touched by one of them.

The meeting at the right time passes them by
Like a tear traveling at the same speed
But in different rooms.

Like land and water they are.
Always touched
However, unattached.

IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE 2

You both search for a place with round doors
Where one can enter from everywhere.
In which there is teas for dreams, hugs and soul mates.
And where the candles light according to the desire, the need and reasonableness.
When you find it, as drop of water you are, that kissed the cloud, before his cry.
Then, the real questions starts to cut through answers like the sickle through haystack.
Afterwards, almost without exception, the clouds stops crying
Faced with the inability to return to the site
Where one can exit from everywhere.

SPRING, SUMMER, FALL, WINTER…  AND SPRING

It is springtime.

On water I sleep
Learning the language of fish
In a house of silence.

Almost like twins they are
The leaves that heal
And the ones that kill.

Butterflies are always faster than we are
So we tie a stone to what
From the height we see.

It is spring.

The stone remembers the weight
And the scars are a school desk
On which with water
A prayer we write.

TIGER AND THE SNOW

If she's gone (if she dies)
The presence will become just a verb
And all the verbs - pronouns.

If the sun ceases to reflect from her eyes
It will come down to a flashlight.

The evening and the wind
If not join in her hair
They will stop being a cure.

The first drop that touches the thirsty dust
Will be left without a job
Its scent will be taken away
Like as the abandoned bakery
From our childhood.

I exist in her
Because I exist in myself
And vice versa.

Any other scenario
Is like a badly synchronized TV series.

The meaning was not born before us
So to tell stories of hope afterwards.

If she's gone (if she dies)
The presence will become just a verb
And all the verbs - pronouns.

TALK TO HER
There is nothing further from where you are.
The air embraced by your wings:
I am still breathing it.

Tears are a knife to the cheeks
And they do not drown in the rivers.
So every sigh is like cut love
Between leaf and carbon dioxide.

Sometimes the sounds resembles the past:
No closed door has a story like the open one
And the stones in front of them are always warmer
From waiting.

There is nothing further from where you are.
The air embraced by your wings:
I am still breathing it.

II

CINEMA PARADISO

To Fernando Pessoa
He lived with the illusion that she was waiting for him

I
I watched her like a soldier
99 days and nights,
Like a black and white movie
Slowly discolored by the paint.

II
The unattainable is a painted reality.
Escape is the most convenient way
Of ignoring life.
You have to run away
To be.
To live
Means to forget.

STALKER

On the screen is a woman who has never seen a swing.
She carries her wasted youth in her cigarette
Like sometimes the only companion
Whom she is looking for, from time to time,
Kissing it till the end.
For her, tears have long been just drops of water
Which will merge with the clouds
In a repeat kiss
Which can only be postponed
And not to be avoided
In that endless cycle of grief
Interspersed with hope
In rare moments
When the cup moves on its own on the table
As if drawn by a strong soul
A soul with grayness perforated
With a grayness, that gives birth.

STALKER 2

Faith and hope.
Even when
The only sounds
Are the creak od the door
Caressed by an unknown wind
And drops from an old faucet
Like rain
That is raining from the inside
From within the house.

AMARCORD
I
It is easy for the people,
They build on the ground.
What about the stars
That float without support.
Millions, millions of stars!

II
Different stories
Scattered in the sea
Waiting for the future
To save them from something
Whose name they do not know.

THIS MUST BE THE PLACE

The look after the lost soul
Will become like a fridge magnet
From a distant city
With an expiration date.

Leftovers are always around:
Cover for love
Time through your eyes
White sadness.

Can it be measured
With a unit of measure
How many
And what kind of tears are needed
For the soul to dry up?

LOST HIGHWAY

Kiss
Like the one
Between the highway and car tires.

It seems
It will bleed
Of closeness.

The palm of my hand on your face
Like lights
On the dark road
To your crossroads
Tiled with 1000 signs
None with my name on it.

Angels do not know what recourse is.
The rain did not teach them.

The unknown in front of us
In the dark
Travels at speed
Of the piano keys.

AMERICAN BEAUTY

Sometimes
The true cry finds its name very late
Only after all the waters have been changed
And that same look from both of them
Has impoverished
And fell apart
Like a plastic bag
That played in the wind.

HER

Today we gave grief a name.
We have banned the fake letters from existing.
In front of us are the pictures that we deleted
Because they reflected reality (because it can only be seen
one of us).
The favorite tone of our voices is on.
We are lying on the moon
Knowing that never again
We won't feel anything that strong
As in the times
When we lay on the moon.
Everything will be with less excitement.
As a kind of repetition.
And it will last
Until we start stroking each other's shadows
A million touches away.
Because, finally, we admit to ourselves:
- there is nothing new for us.
Only repetitions, with a lower intensity.
And, yes, we admit that it is not a big of a problem
As long as we're together.
Then again
Like gods
We will be the saddest and happiest people on
the world
For a while yet.

III

BEFORE SUNSET
In your apartment
Some things
Cannot be wiped like shoes on the doorstep.

At your home
The lines of the paintings are borrowed
From your temperament.

At your place
Books know what a touch is
And music is a conversation with you.

From your terrace
The flowers grow towards the room
Instead towards to the sun.

They all live outside your presence too,
But get alive
Because of your presence.

In your apartment
The shadows are just a place
Protected from the sun’s rays.

BEFORE MIDNIGHT

I want to be your lantern handle
To not close myself off entirely
To leave some air for you
So that you can say I'm suffocating you
You
My breath for kindling,
My spark from the fire.

I want you to be my lantern handle
To not close yourself off entirely
To leave some air for me
So that I can say you are suffocating me
Oh You
My breath for kindling,
My spark from the fire.

GEGEN DIE WAND

I see what is in front of me
After others see it.

I am neither a lightning
Neither a thunderstorm.

Just a space
Which fills the time in between.

GEGEN DIE WAND 2

I am a chair that nobody seats on
And a folded beer cork
Without a leg from an unstable table.

I am an edge of an unironed sheet
And a heel worn out
From the right side.

I am time
In which the embered cigarette butts
Do not burn your fingers.

DER HIMMEL ÜBER BERLIN

Now I know:
With you
I can be by my self
And not to be alone.
It has never been like this before.
Finally, I understand.
I know.
It's true:
Only two full moons
Can hide
Into each other.

THE MILLION DOLLAR HOTEL

The keys have fallen into the interspace of
the elevator
Whose buttons remember
On which floor they want to go
And on which floor they have to.

Hotel windows are like a well without a bucket
The light bulbs are changed once in a lifetime
And somewhere, maybe not even then.

As if we are crazy, we are afraid of the black spots on
the banana
While the black and white keys of the piano
Make love.

I am telling you about the conversations with the traffic lights
While we blink with our eyes and lips
In their rhythm.

Than you show me
That the same water in the glass is white
And in the sea - blue.

The sound of the trumpet spreads round and round
And I fly up
Than go down.

I will fall into the glass of water
And finally
A mural I will become.

PARIS, TEXAS

I

I knew these people
With their love held in different pockets
Lovers without spring and autumn
A fingerprint on a steamy mirror.

II

No one remembers
The first drop after the rain ends
Nor whose touch is the first to break:
The clock shows distance instead of time?
The doorknob creaks differently with each entry?
The favorite parts of the bedroom become
visible?

III

Together they looked as though they’d invented
the kiss.
As if they were the first people in history to have
kissed.
It’s as if they've loved each other forever
Even from primeval times
When the clouds first merged
And gave birth to water.
I knew these people.
Even an ordinary trip to the grocery store
Was an adventure for them.

IV

I knew these people.
All the opposites that brought them together,
that complemented them
Now they resembled quarreled windows, that forgot:
Hot air comes out from the inside,
As one enters in a person.

V

I knew these people
The red lights of the tall buildings
Don't flicker for them.

VI

A leaf may drown even after it drifts out of a whirlpool.
And plants are also born in a crack on the motorway.

PARIS, TEXAS (JANE TALKS TO TRAVIS)

I knew her
When that happened:
The embrace of their feet in the morning
Became cold.
They turned away from each other
Like in unplanned encounter.

I knew her
When she was there
Just like a silent minute of a wall clock
Suppressed by the sound of seconds.

I knew her
When she didn't know that
The time between accepting reality
And the battle with the remnants of love
Are part of a deal
No one wants to sign.

I knew her even after that
When, unintentionally, she draped herself
In the shroud of the familiar voice.
Until it faded away.

It happens so often:
Some clock hands
Arrive at the same place
But at a different time.

PINA (CAFÉ MÜLLER)

I
On a thin rope you walk
Therefore, I blow the dust from it.

I move the buildings
As if they are chairs,
Just to make a path for you.

The wall you lean on
I bent it
Pillow to be for you.

II

Maybe we are lovers.
Moved by wires.

We fall into each other
Like mannequins
At a time when hugs hurt.

The kiss afterwards
Is like the one after years.

THE COLOR OF POMEGRANATES

The colors are clock.
They measure the time
In blue and red.

The sun wants to drink water:
Feet are sliding through the carpets
Books are drying.

The shells are milk
From which we drink.
As minors and as adults.

Sometimes
The wings fly
Even without a head.

YUMURTA (EGG)

I

The sugar cubes are dancing in the water
Kissing eatchother
Until they melt together.

The spoon stirs tea
Joyfully
It's like it's her first time.

The knife is caressed with the butter
Making music
When touching the plate.

The water is boiling in the teapot
As if testifying
That we are home.

II

Thunder heralds a drop
who separated from her lover
So she traveled
Through oceans of time she traveled,
Until it finally evaporated
Reuniting with the cloud
In the scream of the lightning
That has meant to be born at that time.

YOUTH (SIMPLE SONG)

I remember everything
I'm losing control
I'm ready
I know everything
I caress you with words
I'm pulling your hair out
Slowly but surely
I feel you
Like a miracle
Like than
I'm getting lost
We are not them
We were
Just a whisper is enough
Just a whisper was enough.

YOUTH 2
If I am born again
I would choose the same
Weeping over impermanence
Above your total devotion to me
Which cannot be eternal
And which doesn't mean anything to me now.

YOUTH 3
To Blaze Koneski

When the beloved body and mind
Will change
Where does our love go?
When us too
We will go along the years,
Where does that miracle go?
And what is that thing, that still hurts?