Last Journey Home
by Jack Irvine © 2006
Anete is waiting for me when I clear immigration at the airport. I recognize her immediately from her photos. She seems hesitant, perhaps shy, and does not come towards me. I walk up to her.
“Hello Anete. It's good to see you at last.” She smiles, nervously, but also with evident relief.
“Oh Tom, it is you. I thought it is, but .... I do not want to make silly mistake.”
I pat her on the shoulder, and take her hand. She is small and neat, slim, dressed in boots and a warm coat against the chilly October air. She looks me up and down and laughs.
“Tom, you are such big! I know you are big man from your photos, but now you are here...”
“I hope you're not too disappointed.” She laughs again, and blushes.
“No, no! I like very much!”
We take the airport shuttle into central Riga, and I register at my hotel. Anete comes up to my room with me. She looks around critically, and adjusts the thermostat a little higher.
“Is all right, I suppose.” She shakes her head and frowns. “But maybe you think I am very rude. You come so far to visit me and I let you stay in hotel, not in my house.” I take her hand again.
“No, this is the best way. This is our first day face to face, and we shouldn't rush anything. We should get to know each other gently, and if we are going to become close, that will happen when we both feel right.”
Anete nods and smiles. “Thank you, Tom.”
When we return to the hotel foyer it is starting to rain outside. Anete intended to take me to some of the sights of Riga, but I am relieved that the weather is going to keep us in. Historic buildings can wait. I just want to sit down quietly with this lady and get to know her.
We take a seat in the hotel coffee lounge and Anete orders a pot of coffee. It is hot and strong and very good. We talk, tentatively at first. It is an odd situation, two people acquainted only via the internet, looking for understanding and comfort, hoping intimacy might develop if they like each other. Hoping, indeed, for a relationship with shared happiness to see out the remainder of their lives. I am sixty, Anete is six years younger. We each have our own baggage of decades, our hurts and disappointments, yet we dare wish for that which life has denied us thus far.
We talk of our experience of life. Anete talks of her marriage that ended in anger and violence, I tell her of mine that ended in sad indifference. The result was the same for both of us – a caution about further involvement or commitment, and a fortification around each of us that was meant to insulate against and compensate for the risk of new intimacy.
I find I am listening to her words, but feeling her intonations and body language as part of the engagement. She speaks English in a Latvian way, clipped and with the emphasis towards the end of each sentence. I know I must distinguish that idiom from emphasis of meaning or conviction. When she is speaking emphatically or of private matters she leans toward me, and I find myself automatically reciprocating. A most expressive part of her is her large green eyes that can show tears of sadness or frustration, and a moment later a twinkle of amusement.
I ask Anete why she placed herself on a “Foreign Brides” web site. She tells me that she feared loneliness in approaching old age, and decided to see if there was anyone in the world with whom she might feel comfortable. I tell her that I started browsing those sites for the same reasons, and was taken by the words she had written about herself. I say that I have always been skeptical about relationships started in such a way, but was moved by what she wrote back to me after I had purchased her address and made contact.
“So, do you know what you want?”
I cannot answer that directly.
“It's too soon to know exactly what I want. But I think I'll know soon enough if I find it.”
I sense there is a hunger in both of us to find what we are seeking if it is here. It does not impose a pressure or set aside caution, but it engenders a questing sensitivity and perhaps a willingness to set foot on bridges without full assurance that the planks are all sound. We have been corresponding for a year and been encouraged by what we have exchanged, but this face-to-face contact is very different. We both know that if bridges between us are not found, we will part and that year of preparation will be as nothing.
The rain abates, and we walk around nearby streets and lunch in a café bar with do-it-yourself buffet concoctions. We talk on, and find the talking easier as we go. During the afternoon we exchange stories of our personal lives and other relationships, and I find her more attentive and empathetic than any counselor I have seen in times of confusion.
Anete asks me if I would like to see where she lives. We take a bus to her suburb, forty minutes or so away. Her flat is in a medium-sized block with pleasant parkland and gardens around. It reflects my early impressions of her: small and neat, and tastefully comfortable. She makes coffee, and we continue talking. Time passes quickly, the afternoon darkens in an early clouded sunset. and I realize I am exhausted.
“I'm sorry, but I think I'd better have some rest. Jet lag is catching up with me, and if I don't get to bed I'll pass out right here.” Anete is concerned, and asks me if I would like to lie down and sleep for a while.
“Thank you, but I think I'll go back to the hotel and get a proper night's rest.” She wants to come with me to make sure I am all right. I assure her I can remember the bus route, and I'll be fine.
“Then I will come to your hotel tomorrow morning, not too early, so I can show you some of our city.”
I arrive back in the city, collapse into my bed, and nearly sleep the clock around. I wake early, as I always do, and have a dawn snack in the hotel's breakfast bar. I guess that Anete will not arrive for another two hours, but I want to see her again. I find the same bus that we took yesterday, and successfully recognize the stop near where she lives.
I knock on the door of her flat. There is no answer, and I wonder if we might have crossed between here and the city. I check the number on the door, and knock again. This time I hear a sound from within. The door opens a little, and Anete is looking at me, hair tousled and eyes heavy with sleep.
“Tom! You are here? Oh ... come in please. What is time?”
She is bundled in a warm winter dressing gown, but still barefooted. She glances in the mirror in the hall.
“Oh, I look so terrible! I'm sorry, I have slept too long.” I laugh at her.
“I just got up early and came over instead of waiting for you. And I think it's good for a man to see his lady first thing in the morning, before she's scrubbed herself up and put on makeup.”
“And now you will go straight back to Australia because you don't want to see such ugly thing every morning. Oh ...”
I put my hands on her shoulders, turn her to me and kiss her on the forehead.
“You look fine! Still half asleep, but soft and beautiful. I would be happy to see you like this every day.” We look at each other without speaking. I think we are both conscious that a small bridge has been crossed and a future hinted at.
She leads me into the living room, then puts on the kettle in the kitchenette.
“I could not sleep last night because was so much in my mind. I am still awake at three this morning, so I took tablet the doctor gave me for headache. Very strong medicine. If you didn't come. I think I would sleep half day.”
I follow her into the kitchenette and get out the coffee maker and packet of coffee. “Anete, you go and have a shower, get dressed, whatever, and I'll make the coffee. Off you go!” I turn her around and pat her on the bottom. She giggles, and disappears down the hall. I hear the shower running, and ten minutes later she is back, dressed in slacks and sweater and looking much more awake.
While we drink coffee and eat buttered raisin toast Anete tells me she would like to spend some time showing me around Old Riga, and that she has bought tickets for a concert in the city that evening.
“We will have to come back here in afternoon so I can change, then we have early dinner and get bus back to city in time for concert.”
“That's doing it the hard way. Why don't you bring your evening clothes with you, we'll drop them at the hotel, then you can change there before dinner? Save a lot of time and travel.”
Anete goes to her bedroom to gather her things. There is a basket of clean clothes over on the living-room couch. I find a long cream night dress there and roll it up tightly. When Anete emerges with a carry-bag I already have my overcoat on. The nightie is tucked inside the coat under my arm. Just in case.
We spend much of the day wandering in old Riga, looking at buildings that have stood since the fourteenth century, perhaps longer. Mostly we talk. Wherever we go we find a place to stop and continue our exploration of each other. We spend an hour on the viewing platform of St Peter's Church with the city spread below us, talking about our younger days, at university and starting careers. We sit in a pew in St John's near the ancient monastery and compare beliefs and religious experiences. We stand outside Riga Castle and discuss friends and the nature of friendship. We feel our own friendship is firming at an encouraging rate.
We change at the hotel, and dine at a comfortable restaurant nearby. We walk hand-in-hand to the Dome Square. The concert is good – organ and choral music – and mercifully short, for we are both weary. We walk back to the hotel, my arm around Anete and her head resting against my shoulder. The question of her making the journey back to her flat alone does not arise. We go up to my room, and Anete subsides into an armchair. I pour us a liqueur from the mini-bar, and present her with the nightie.
“This is my clothes! How did you get it?”
“Oh, just part of the service. We talked today about looking after each other, didn't we?”
“What surprise! You are amazing! Thank you.” She kisses me and takes the nightie to the bathroom. I call through the door that there is an extra toothbrush there that she can use.
When she comes out she seems uncertain. She glances at the bed, and sits in the chair. I know what is worrying her, and try to make it easy.
“Anete, dear, I don't want anything to happen until we are both ready. I wouldn't've let you go home alone tonight because it is too far and too dark. And you need to sleep properly because you didn't get much rest last night, so you will sleep in the bed. There is a fold-down extra bed in that cupboard over there, and I'll sleep on it.”
She looks at me for a full minute, then smiles.
“Or we can maybe both sleep in big bed and be comfortable. Just sleep.”
That is exactly what I hoped she would say.
Dawn in October at 57 degrees north comes late, and it is still dark when I wake up. Anete is close beside me, and I can feel her breath on my cheek. I lie quietly, enjoying her closeness. As the sky eventually lightens, I can see her features. Her face is very calm, and her breathing deep and regular. She rolls onto her back, her eyelids begin to flutter, and her lips move. I let her dream take its course, and when she settles again I kiss her gently on the lips. She stretches and smiles and opens her eyes.
“Ooh ... I have such nice dream ... very happy ...” I put my arm around her as she rolls back towards me and snuggles close. It is a perfect moment of comfort and pure intimacy.
We stay in bed another hour. I get up and make us coffee, and open the curtains. It is raining again. Anete is resting on one elbow, sipping from her cup, I am sitting on the bed beside her, stroking her shoulder and back.
“I should have shower. Then we have breakfast – you are hungry, yes?” She might have heard my stomach rumble. Yes, I am definitely ready for food.
She looks out the window and shakes her head. “Too much rain. We will stay inside today.”
“Sounds good to me. I can't imagine a better way to spend a day than here with you.” Anete smiles and blows me a kiss. She puts down her cup and walks towards the bathroom.
“Do you want me to wash your back, Anete?” She stops where she is, looking down, and I wonder if I have gone a step too far. Could the mood we share from our night together be so fragile?
She turns back to me, smiling. I still see shyness there, but a delicious complicity as well.
“I think very nice idea. You wash my back, I wash yours.”
I feel caring and happiness more than immediate arousal as I watch Anete take off her nightie and turn on the shower. We stand looking at each other, sharing our nudity like two kids about to go skinny-dipping for the first time.
We soap each other, and I love the feel of her. I still have fair muscle tone for my age, but I am certainly not the man I was a decade or two ago. She is slim and shapely, though firmness has given way a little to softness, and there are some wrinkles that she would probably rather were not there. Her breasts are small and soft. She shakes her head as I wash them and says: “Floppy.” I kiss her and reply: “Beautiful.”
It is another bridge crossed without awkwardness, and we rejoice together without speaking of it. There are yet several days before we cross the final bridge in this part of our journey. We sleep together each night, and cuddle, and shower or bathe together with unflagging joy. We spend only one night at Anete's flat. I sense she feels more comfortable in the hotel because it is a place neither of us “owns”, and it has no memories other than those we are making together.
There comes the night when I emerge from the bathroom, get into bed and find Anete nude under the covers, her nightgown neatly folded on a chair. I know it was about to happen, for our conversation has tended that way, and we have been looking at each other with growing intent. We cross that bridge as it should be crossed, with consideration and deep, fulfilling happiness.
How can life be so good? As October gives way to November the days shorten and the snow begins to fall. The winter deepens, but the warmth and trust and caring between us grow. In mid-November I ask Anete if she will marry me. She laughs and kisses me.
“Yes, I will marry. And if you do not ask me today, I want to ask you yesterday!”
We are sitting over dinner in a warm restaurant watching the snow falling outside.
“Where we live when we are married?”
That is a question I have not dealt with yet because I am too happy in the present.
“Well, I have a good house in Australia, very comfortable with a nice garden, and you said you like gardening. But the climate is much hotter. The summer temperature can be double what it is here, and that might be uncomfortable for you. On the other hand, I could sell the place in Australia and we could buy a house in Riga where we would have more room. I feel comfortable here.”
Anete is resting her chin on her hand, thinking hard.
“Tom, do you think we can go somewhere different? In Riga I have ex-husband and all friends are my friends, not yours. Same in Australia, you have ex-wife and your friends, different history. Can we go where weather is not too hot, and not as cold as Riga? We will start new life together, nothing from old life.”
We plug in my laptop the next morning and pore over it for hours. There are some wonderful places in the world to live, but cost rules many of them out. I am comfortable financially and Anete will receive a benefit if she retires at 55, but most European or North American places would be beyond our means. South America is attractive, but language and political stability are problems. In Australia Tasmania has an acceptable climate, and we are drawn to its scenic beauty, the old character of Hobart, and the low cost of housing. Another possibility is the South Island of New Zealand, for some of the same reasons.
There is no New Zealand embassy in Riga, and only a minor Australian consular representative. Internet enquiries produce no more than computer-generated acknowledgements, so we decide to fly to London to establish our future residence at first hand.
There is a problem with going to Australia. Even if we are married, Australia House tells us that it will be at least a year, possibly two, before Anete will get a visa. “We want to discourage arranged marriages,” the official explains. I argue that marriage brokers will simply factor in the delay, but the people who will really be hurt are the genuine ones. “I'm sorry,” he says, “but it's Policy.”
New Zealand is more welcoming. As an Australian I can live there any time, and my wife or fiancée can come on a visitor's visa that can be extended until cohabitation criteria are satisfied. We put in the necessary paperwork, and go to dinner at the Savoy to celebrate our future. We briefly consider marrying in London, but Anete prefers to wait.
“We should marry in our new country, not this side of world. T hen can go home together and be comfortable.”
There are two other things to resolve. First, Anete needs to go back to work in the New Year and continue until her birthday in March so she can get her retirement benefit. Second, I need to go back to Australia to sell my house and pack up my library and other things and arrange shipping across the Tasman.
We are together for Christmas, and so much in love. The New Year will bring a brief parting, but our focus is on our future. I will be back in a few weeks, and we will live together in Riga until Anete's retirement, then go together to buy our house and start our new life together. Anete jokes about my going from a minus twenty-five degree winter to a thirty-five degree summer and back again in such a short time. I tell her Australia will be cold for me, and I look forward to her warmth when I return.
We blow each other kisses at the airport departure gate, and I pray that the days will pass quickly until I am with her again.
I did not see her again after that day. There is no possible consolation or solace. The remaining years of my life with Anete had the prospect of joy and comfort and fulfillment. Now those years stretch before me like a black, wind-blasted heath with neither life nor hope.
Through the rest of January and into February we emailed and spoke by 'phone daily. I worked hard to set my affairs in order. The house was sold and nearly settled, and my chattels were in storage ready to be shipped to our new home. I lived for that time each day when I would hear her voice or read her latest message, and we spoke always of our love and hopes for the future. In early February Anete told me her visa for New Zealand had come through, and she was so excited. I told her I would return early the following week, and we would never be apart again.
Then the contact was broken. I 'phoned her as usual, but there was no answer at her flat. My emails went unanswered. I did not know her workplace number, so I could not contact her there. I arrived in Riga on a cold blustery morning a few days later with a sense of foreboding that nearly crippled me.
I took a taxi to her flat, and rang the doorbell over and over again. I tried the near neighbours, but nobody was at home. I rang doorbells on the floor below, and a woman answered one of them. I pointed up and said Anete's name, but she looked at me, uncomprehending. She had no English, nor I a word of Latvian or Russian. I said Anete's name again, and the woman seemed to recognize it. She stared at me, shook her head and closed her door.
I went to the British Consulate and asked them to help me. I sat in a waiting room for hours while they “made enquiries”. Eventually a young man came out and sat down opposite me. I could see the sympathy and concern in his face, and it nearly drove me spare.
“Bad news, I'm afraid. It seems the lady after whom you were enquiring collapsed at work late last week. She was taken to hospital, but she passed away shortly after she was admitted. A cerebral aneurysm, apparently.” He looked at me and shifted uneasily in his seat.
“Was she a close friend, sir?”
The End
Jack Irvine is a writer, musician and artist (box constructions and welded steel sculptures). He taught for many years at university, but escaped academe five years ago to become a full-time writer.
Jack is a frequent contributor to online and paper publications in Australia and the US . His second book, In Praise of Younger Women, was published in Australia in 2005, and attracted favourable comment for the poignancy of his stories and his literary style. Dark Journeys is another anthology at present with publishers, and is his first foray into the darker side of story-telling. A novel based on the tales of an old Celtic wizard will be completed in 2006 and is expected to be published in the UK .