THE SMELL OF LOSS
VILIS KASIMS TRANSLATED FROM LATVIAN BY WILL MAWHOOD
ART BY FAINA YUNUSOVA
I first dreamed of a big lottery win, I think, when I was nine years old. The dream intoxicated me like the smell of freshly bought ice cream, allowing me neither to sleep nor to think about my school lessons. A thousand would be enough, I thought, for another cat and sweets morning and night. My thoughts reached no higher.
I got down to work at the local cafe first, where that summer a slot machine had been delivered and placed in a corner like a bouncer. After pulling the handle enough times to spend all my lunch money, I realised that my big win wouldn’t be found there. I switched to the ball lottery and watched the LatLoto draw every night for two weeks, trying to find connections between the winning numbers, but this turned out to be a waste of time.
Then it was the post office’s turn.
Our post office was set up in one of the few apartment blocks in the village. First of all you had to go through a corridor, sunk in eternal twilight. At the other end, on the right, was a slightly brighter room with a high counter and stale air. Piles of magazines and newspapers sat on the edge of this counter, along with lottery tickets, but my attention was drawn by the garishly colourful little cards with scratchable squares that promised instant santīms and lats. And they weren’t hard to convert into ice cream from the bus station shop.
For 20 santīms—or, two cheap ice creams—I bought one card, but I didn’t start scratching off the silver squares right there at the counter. Suddenly embarrassed, I hid the scratchcard in my jacket pocket and left, getting lost in the corridor once again and nearly going through the half-open door of one of the dark post office rooms, which reminded me of the torture chambers in spy movies.
That day I didn’t win anything, but I continued to buy the little scratchcards, scraping at them with the edge of a coin. And sometimes I got lucky. Several times I won 50 santīms, and once even two lats. That day at the bus station I treated all three of my village friends to ice cream, and we walked home, unable to wait any longer for the bus. Then they, too, joined the ritual of buying and scratching, but only for two or three weeks.
Usually the scratchcards yielded nothing, but I carried on going to the post office on Fridays, still hoping for a big win. And every time I got lost in the semi-darkness of the corridor, which remained as confusing as it had been the first time. I would stop for a moment among the tempting smells of paper and paint in order to figure out just where the exit was, then take a deep breath and leave.
When after several months and dozens of scratchcards my obsession finally ended, I never went back to the post office. Before long it closed, since the people of the village bought newspapers and postcards more and more rarely.
But every now and then, I catch a whiff of that post office corridor. It usually happens in winter, when I have stopped by a branch of some state institution in a small town, which people have tramped through with snowy boots. The lights buzz all day, creating a sense of unending evening, and the corridors lined with shut doors always make you lose your way back to the outside world. Back on the street, what a pleasure to fill your lungs with air and head to the nearest kiosk to buy an ice cream.
Of course later on you feel like seeking a sizable win in bigger cities, perhaps even abroad—in brighter, seemingly cleaner corridors, where after each visitor’s departure the smell of loss is ruthlessly scrubbed off the floor tiles. But even there, it would sooner or later be breathed back in our faces, as though it had seeped into our clothes, and with silent cat steps accompanied us into our new home.
About the Work by Will Mawhood
“The Smell of Loss” draws together several characteristic themes and preoccupations of the unusual Latvian writer Vilis Kasims. Though lacking the surrealism often flaring at the margins of his stories, it showcases other aspects of his style: a lush and nostalgic ambience that suddenly shifts to a stark and troubling alienation; an obsessive concern not only with memories, but with how and why they resurface; a tone that skips from seeming ingenuousness to light irony and damaged lyricism.
The story is set in the ’90s, the turbulent and traumatic decade of Kasims’ childhood. Ungurpils, the northern Latvian village where he grew up, once a remote and obscure European outpost of the Soviet empire, was suddenly cast wide to the world. In another story from the same collection, the narrator remembers watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on TV as a child, how the “fingers of colour” and “synthetic abundance” of American television showed up the “fading Soviet wallpaper” of his uncle’s flat and cast even autumn’s “flaming maples” into shadow.
In “The Smell of Loss,” too, the intrusion is loud and tempting: slot machines, lottery draws, and “garishly colourful” scratchcards with their hollow promise of riches—the returns being pitiful at best, the lasting impression one of loss. The lats and santīms offered in payment and occasionally received in reward are a physical manifestation of that transformation. Latvia’s currency between 1922 and 1940 (the year it was forcibly annexed by the USSR) was reintroduced in 1993. But the intangible essence of Soviet occupation could not simply be abolished by legislative act, and in many places it lingers still. The built environment of the story—the rambling post office corridors “sunk in eternal twilight,” the provincial state institutions “lined with shut doors”—will be recognisable to anyone who has interacted with Latvian officialdom. Sometimes surrealism is simply unexpected juxtaposition.
These jolts and contrasts are productive of svešums—a central theme in Kasims’ work, and a word which covers a broader field of meaning than any attempted English equivalent. It could by turns mean foreignness, strangeness, unfamiliarity, otherness, uncanniness, alienation… This makes the very title of Kasims’ most recent book, Svešuma grāmata, a headache for a translator. Should it be The Book of Strangeness? The Book of Alienation? The Book of Otherness?
Nothing in “The Smell of Loss” presented a comparable challenge, though of course certain words in Latvian don’t slot neatly over their apparent English counterparts. For example, “kairinoši” in Latvian simply means productive of a reaction, with no inherent value judgement attached. I checked with the author that the narrator experienced the smell of paper as alluring rather than irritating before plumping for “tempting.” And though the parting image describes a cleaner literally “scratching off” (nokasīt) dirt from the floor, the oddness of that term (rather than “scrubbing,” say) being used in English meant that I felt the parallel would have to be more lightly implied.
* *
VILIS KASIMS was born in 1986 and is a writer, translator, and editor. He has worked at the Latvian newspaper Diena and the online magazine Punctum, and continues to write regularly for various outlets. He has published four books, and translates from English, Russian, Catalan, and Spanish. He lives in Riga with his wife and daughter.
WILL MAWHOOD is an English writer and translator based in western Latvia. He is the editor of Deep Baltic, a website dedicated to the culture and history of the Baltic countries.
Source Text by Vilis Kasims
Zaudējuma smarža
Sapnis par lielo laimestu man parādījās, šķiet, deviņu gadu vecumā. Tas reibināja kā svaigi nopirkta saldējuma smarža, neļāva ne iemigt, ne domāt par mācībām. Pietiktu vinnēt kādu tūkstoti, es domāju, lai varētu paņemt vēl vienu kaķi un ēst konfektes no rīta un vakarā. Augstāk manas domas necēlās.
Vispirms pie darba ķēros vietējā kafejnīcā, kur tovasar bija atvests spēļu automāts un nostādīts telpas stūrī kā miesassargs. Dažas reizes paraustījis rokturi un iztērējis visu pusdienu naudu, es tomēr sapratu, ka lielais vinnests te nebūs atrodams. Pārmetos pie loterijas un pāris nedēļas katru vakaru televīzijā skatījos LatLoto izlozi, mēģinādams atrast sakarības laimējušajos skaitļos, bet arī tas izrādījās tukšs numurs. Tad pienāca kārta pasta kantorim.
Mūsu pasts bija iekārtojies vienā no nedaudzajām ciemata daudzdzīvokļu mājām. Vispirms bija jāiziet cauri mūžīgā krēslā iegrimušam gaitenim, kura galā, labajā pusē, bija mazliet gaišāka istaba ar augstu leti, nevēdinātu gaisu un avīžu un žurnālu kaudzēm letes malā. Tām blakus bija arī loterijas biļetes, taču manu uzmanību piesaistīja spilgti krāsainas kartiņas ar nokasāmām rūtīm, kas solīja tūlītējus santīmus un latus. Un tos nebija grūti pārrēķināt autoostas veikala saldumos.
Par 20 santīmiem jeb diviem lētajiem saldējumiem nopirku vienu kartiņu, tomēr nesāku turpat pie letes kasīt nost sudrabkrāsas laukumus. Sakautrējies paslēpu kartiņu jakas kabatā un gāju ārā, gaitenī kārtējo reizi apmaldīdamies, gandrīz nogriezdamies kādā no tumšajām, puspavērtajām pasta telpām, kas man atgādināja filmu spiegu spīdzināšanas telpas.
Todien es neko nelaimēju, tomēr turpināju pirkt un ar monētas stūri skrāpēt kartiņas. Reizēm man arī paveicās. Vairākkārt vinnēju 50 santīmus, bet vienreiz pat divus latus. Todien autoostā uzcienāju visus trīs ciemata draugus ar saldējumu, un mēs devāmies mājup kājām, vairs nespēdami sagaidīt autobusu. Tad arī viņi sāka pirkšanas un kasīšanas rituālu, tiesa, neizturēdami ilgāk par divām–trim nedēļām.
Lielākoties kartiņas bija tukšas, tomēr es turpināju piektdienās iet uz pastu, joprojām cerot uz lielo laimestu. Un katrreiz atkal pazaudējos gaiteņa pustumsā, kas vēl aizvien bija tikpat mulsinoša kā pirmajā reizē. Uz brīdi tad apstājos starp kairinošajām papīra un krāsu smaržām, lai saprastu, kur tieši meklējama izeja, dziļi ievilku elpu un devos ārā.
Kad pēc vairākiem mēnešiem un daždesmit kartiņām mana apmātība beidzot bija galā, pastā vairs neatgriezos. Drīz vien to slēdza, jo žurnālus un pastkartītes, un loterijas biļetes ciematnieki pirka aizvien retāk.
Tomēr es joprojām ik pa reizei sajūtu pasta gaiteņa smaržu. Parasti tas notiek ziemā, kad esmu iegriezies kādas valsts iestādes mazpilsētas nodaļā, ko cilvēki piebradājuši sniegotiem zābakiem. Tur augu dienu sīc lampas, radot nebeidzama vakara sajūtu, un aizvērtām durvīm piepildītie gaiteņi vēl arvien liek apmaldīties ceļā uz ārpasauli. Atgriežoties atpakaļ ielās, ir gauži patīkami ievilkt dziļu elpu un aiziet līdz tuvējam kioskam nopirkt saldējumu.
Ir saprotams, ka pēc tam savu laimestu gribas meklēt lielākās pilsētās, varbūt pat ārzemēs – gaišākos, šķietami tīrākos gaiteņos, kur zaudējuma smarža pēc katra apmeklētāja aiziešanas tiek nežēlīgi nokasīta no grīdas flīžu rūtīm. Taču arī tur tā agrāk vai vēlāk uzelpos mums sejā, it kā būtu iesūkusies drēbēs un klusiem kaķa soļiem pavadījusi jaunajās mājās.