Voron

The bridge by Rīga's Central Market

I wanted to share the fireworks with someone.

It was my first evening by the bus stop in front of Riga's Central Market, a place I would revisit often around the same time of night. As colors and sound bloomed over the Old Town, I ran to find a good spot to watch them by the low concrete wall of the canal. As the last of the fireworks shimmered and died, I looked to see who else had been watching them, and found myself drawn to the dim silhouette standing before me.

He was a big man, broad-shouldered and built like a sword: powerful but sleek, dark in his long coat, his shoulders slightly hunched as he pulled on his cigarette. "They were beautiful, weren't they?" I asked him, hoping he spoke English. What other language did I have to fall back on? I did not even know then how to say labvakar, good evening.


His response caught me by surprise: "Ach, they are nothing," he told me gruffly. The cigarette tip glowed and then faded as his lungs released a rush of smoke. "They are here and then gone, they are meaningless." He turned, and I saw his profile: a strong, planed face, oddly noble in the darkness. Salted jet-black hair glinted silver as he turned to look at me with deep-set eyes. I could not see their color - I imagine they were blue, but in the night they were expressively dark. 

"But that is the beauty of them," I told him, after a moment of thought. "They are here for a moment and gone, but they leave us with their memory. After all, that is all we will ever have of anything, isn't it?" I smiled at him. "I'm Kathryn, what's your name?"

I could feel him studying me, his eyes searching out this curious little girl, bundled in her coat and hat, and wondered what he was thinking. "Artūrs," he finally said, briefly.

"What are you doing here, Artūrs?"

He shrugged with one black shoulder, like a raven's wing. "I am here walking; it is always the same."

"Oh," I said. I craned my head to look up at him, for the first time realizing his height, and I laughed. "You are so tall!" I said. "Europeans are so tall compared to the people I am used to! You make me feel so tiny."

"Ah? And where are you from?" He looked at me down his strong, aristocratic nose, and I wrinkled mine in return.

"You can hear my accent - guess!"

"You are from America," Artūrs told me, decisively, without a guess in his tone. 

"You are right." I looked out over the water, back towards where the fireworks had blazed. I smiled at their memory, which Artūrs had so recently disdained. "I am a student here, and I have not been here long, but I see that you have a beautiful city."

He huffed a disbelieving snort, his nostrils elegantly flaring in scorn. "You have not been here for long enough. On the surface it looks beautiful; underneath there is only darkness. It is just like any other city, full of blood and corruption."

"Mmm. You think this is bad? You should see New York or Philadelphia," I told him.

"Hmm." He considered this in the space of a thoughtful pause, and then glanced over at me. "But I am glad that there are still people in New York or Philadelphia who can smile," he said.

I laughed, and told him I was actually from Washington, D.C. 

"I suppose I'm a bit of a special case," I added. "Jesus is my best friend, so I'm always smiling."

Instantly his face closed, and I watched with interest as he growled, "Don't tell me about your s----- Jesus. Talk about whatever you want, talk about your Jesus, but don't tell me about your s----- Jesus."

"Okay," I said, a bit taken aback by his response. I inspected his scowl as he muttered around his cigarette, and decided to coax some good humor out of him. "It must be nice to be tall. You can always reach the cookie jar."

Artūrs paused. "I don't like cookies."

"You don't like cookies!" My eyes flew open wide and I let out an exaggerated gasp. He looked at me sidelong over his cigarette, his stolid features softening. "How could you not like cookies!"

"No, I don't like cookies." I gaped at him in mock disbelief, and for the first time saw a glimmer of amusement rising in his eyes. "But I like chocolate. Not chocolate cookies, but I like chocolate."

"You like chocolate? Oh, whew," I said, dramatically slumping back with relief. The corners of his mouth twitched, and his cheekbones stretched. "I was worried there was something wrong with you. You don't like cookies, but you like chocolate, so I can forgive you."

And there it was: the smallest of smiles on that noble, strong face, hard and bitter with the weight of long years and many disappointments. I savored my small victory, and we stood together in comfortable silence, looking together over the water towards where the fireworks had burned, above the old city.

It is just like any other city, full of blood and corruption...

I said, "There are people trying to do right in your city. I know; I will be working with some of them while I am here."

"There is nothing good here." I could hear the words rumbling in his chest, on level with my ear. "This is a city built on blood and corruption. I cannot be proud of this city." The life faded from his eyes, and I watched melancholy rise in their depths again. "I cannot even be proud of myself."

I couldn't believe my ears.

"That's not true! What a thing to say," I cried. I propped my hands on my hips and raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Have you ever made someone smile?"

Confused, he looked down at me. His face said, What is this strange little amerikāniete talking about? "Yes," he said.

"Well then." I gave him the Look, the one that says, Listen Up, Mister. "You can be proud of yourself, because you never know what good you may have done for someone just by putting a smile on their face."

The cigarette sputtered and died, and shadows swept across his features in the absence of its warm glow. "No, it's not the same," he told me.

"I think it is." My words resonated in the quiet of his disagreement: Artūrs did not move, but merely stood in silent dissent. "And I'll tell you something, too." A slight movement as his chin tilted; he listened in spite of himself.

I considered the man before me, and I could see how his powerful form, how his very spirit, had been twisted by the courses of his life. "I think that you could be a very great leader if you wished to be."

That chin shot up, and he stared at me for a moment, stunned, before releasing a rough, bitter laugh. "You are lying to me," he said.

"No, I am not," I insisted. "You could be a man of power and of authority." His sharp dark eyes released me and turned their focus into the distance, into dreams long gone down the ages. "All you need is a little faith in yourself." 

I could see it in his profile: there was just that edge to that gaze, a desperate desire to believe what I had told him. "Hmph." He hunched his shoulders forward as he considered what had I said, and we were quiet together again. A breeze whispered around us and whipped out over the water while I waited for him to say something, but he was comfortable in the silence of his thoughts.

"I have only been here for a little while, but I like your people," I finally said. "You guys are tough, I think you'll be all right." He loosed an amused little sound, and I wasn't quite sure what it meant. I sighed. "I wish I spoke Latvian, but I only speak English and Spanish."

"You speak Spanish?" Delight flared in his voice. "Show me."

"You want me to speak to you in Spanish?" I said in Spanish. "Well, here you go!"

He really smiled this time, captivated by the sound of my voice. "Ah, what a beautiful language," he sighed, tossing his head back with pleasure.

"It's like singing, isn't it?" I laughed. "I know a little Portuguese too." I began to sing in Portugese and he closed his eyes in bliss, listening to the sound of my voice as it drifted down the canal.

A light blossomed from behind us, and I turned and found a bus rolling to a stop before the Central Market.

"This is my bus." Artūrs turned towards me, and I could feel the weight of his attention as he lingered, measuring me against some invisible ruler. Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin; had I been found wanting?

"All right," I said. "It was nice to meet you, Artūrs; thank you for talking to me." 

He inclined his head, the light flashing on the silver in his raven-dark hair, and climbed into the bus. "Goodbye," he said.

I waved, and he waved back, almost as though he'd forgotten how to do it, and I watched as the light from the bus disappeared around the corner. I waved once more as it turned on its track and came back towards me, and knew that I would never see him again.