The Geographer's Library

Jon Fasman
“Ach, yes, I remember now. The memory, you know . . . not so good.
This is very wonderful custom, and I am so glad to you for doing this. When
does the newspaper print your obituary?”
“Not for a long time, I hope.” The joke went over like a fart in church: I
guess poking fun at ancient Estonians for ambiguous pronoun usage isn’t
actually that funny. Hannah grimaced with displeasure, and Tonu just looked
up at me, confused and expectant. “I’m sorry. That was a joke. I actually
don’t have a running date for the article yet.” I guess he was here, so why not?
“If you don’t mind, perhaps I could ask you a couple of questions about
your brother?”
“Yes, of course, but, you know, I’ve lost so much up here”—he tapped the
side of his head and smiled apologetically—“and Jaanja had lived in America
for so long time, so maybe some things I don’t know too good. But go, please,
ask as you like.”
“Thanks.” I sat down in my usual chair, next to the table that I had
knocked over the first time I came in, took out my notebook, and smiled nonthreateningly.
“Can you tell me when Jaan was born?”
“Well, we had not these calendars, so like today, on the farm where we
were born. My mother would say that I am six years older than Jaanja, and I
think that he was born in the wintertime, but for the question when? This
nobody can know.”
“But when Estonia was part of the Soviet Union, wouldn’t everybody
have had official documents of some sort? And for that matter, he would have
come here with a passport, right?”
“Oh, sure, sure, that garbage, ya, of course, but we just make up what
sounded right, you know, for the papers. I have an old passport of Jaanja’s at
home. Maybe I have two. You know a Russian saying: ‘Without a little piece
of paper, what are you? With a little piece of paper, you’re a man.’”He cackled,
shifted in his seat, and drew on his pipe until his blue eyes glowed
orange, as though lit from within.
“So what was your date of birth?”
“Mine? Ha! This is a clever reporter. I chose November seventh, 1917.”
“Why then?”
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