Vaata kogu bukletti (.pdf) - Maris Lindoja Disain

who talks, a shop who comes to the guest’s
room, a car who drinks vodka, a dear friend
towards whom you have no obligations. I tried
to be all these things and at the same time to
figure out, as quickly as possible, which of these
versions my current guest hoped to find in me
most.
We drove from the station to the hotel. On
the way I gestured left and right, attempting to
explain where we were, where is the city and
where the sea. I remarked that we were lucky
with the weather. The Hindu yanked his cuffs
as far out of the sleeve as he could, and nodded
his head with rapid jerky movements.
In the hotel, having quickly dispatched with
the check-in formalities, I walked them to the
lift door. We agreed a time to meet, I memorised
the wishes of the Hindu, and we went our
separate ways.
The sun was high in the sky, the town was
windy and suffocating, and I thanked destiny
for this kind of weather, hoping it will continue
in the coming days. I was fed up with the few
autumnal weeks when I had to explain to the
southerners (a Bulgarian, a Catalan) that we
have winter every year, that it snows here in
winter, and the snow stays. […]
The programme was simple, the usual. We
had to drive around in town, see the Song
Festival Ground, Toompea Hill, Old Town from
above, Old Town while inside it, churches inside
and out. The guest had to attend an official
reception. The guest had to be taken to the
open-air museum. The guest had to hear
information about culture, facts of history,
legends and simply fabrications. The guest had
to have what he wanted and what he had come
here for.
I sat in the car in front of the hotel and
waited. They emerged from the door, Natasha
a head taller and forty years younger. Mr. Diksit
had changed into another suit, it was greenish,
with golden threads, and he glinted
occasionally like a smoked anchovy.
“Wonderful hotel,” said Mr. Diksit, “clean. Best
New York hotel standard,” he said. His speech
was quick and his glance lively. I was suddenly
afraid that my English sentences would emerge
from my mouth with a Finnish slowness, and I
replied in Russian. Natasha translated and then
turned to me:
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“You understand well? I will not translate him
then.”
I said I could understand. And if I didn’t, I
would ask her. We had reached an agreement.
On Toompea Hill I tried to explain to the
guests the ancient principles of urban building
and the reasons we still had the old town.
“Is this the sea?” Mr Diksit peered left from
the platform nearest to the city centre. “Is that
Finland? Where is Finland?”
“I will show you when we go to the other side”,
I said.
Mr. Diksit fell silent, gazed intently at the
roofs and then cried out eagerly:
“See, there’s the hotel! Oh!”
I nodded.
The viewing platform also had its official
photographer standing by his tripod. Mr. Diksit
noticed him and wished to have a picture of us
three. I conveyed the message. The
photographer was much upset and declared
that he only took pictures of groups.
“Oh, I see,” said the Hindu and asked me
whether it was possible to meet our
Hindologists. I explained that was possible
although as we have (after all!) a short summer,
everybody would be away on holiday, in the
country, unavailable. “I will do my best,” I added.
We walked to the other side to take a look at
the sea. Mr. Diksit stepped carefully on the
narrow cobbled pavement, afraid to lose his
balance or stumble. His glance was fixed on the
ground and I could not point out anything to
him. I began telling him legends connected with
Tallinn. He seemed quite keen. When we got
behind the Tallinn Cathedral, he stopped and
looked me in the mouth. I was half through the
tale about the grey old man living in Lake
Ülemiste who wants to drown the city but can’t
do it because all the inhabitants know what to
reply should the grey man appear and ask his
question.
“Oh, this is wonderful,” said the Hindu. “It is
a very stylish legend.” And he named some
analogues he knew. He classified the legend,
pulled out a notebook from his pocket and
scribbled a few key words into it. Nothing else
seemed to interest him. Not the views of
Schnelli pond, railway station, the sea, horizon.
He stood by the railing, deep in thought, and
then wished to know whether Estonians had a
national drink. I told him everything I knew
about our intoxicating beverages and how they
were made. Mr. Diksit’s attention was caught
by the wines. Natasha and I took a long time
describing to him red and black currants.
“Where can I get some blackcurrant wine?”
he enquired.
I started once again, explaining that this was
made at home.
“Can’t we go to somebody’s home then?”
“It is summer, the berries are not yet ripe, it
takes several months, even more, before the
juice has fermented enough to be called wine.“
This was the most diplomatic excuse I could
find.
Mr. Diksit did not pursue the topic, but a
deep excitement had appeared in his eyes and
I saw reflections there of the grey man and
blackcurrant wine. Two great pieces of news
had astounded him in this remote corner of the
world in the very first half day and he was eager
to make a gift of his own.
“Namaste,” he thanked me, bowed, pressed
his palms together, and touched the tip of his
nose with his thumbs. Natasha smiled.
Distant lands have come to me, I thought
stupidly and sadly, they have come, but I am not
an equal partner. All I have are a few more
artistic legends and medieval wall corners. Who
knows what comes next. […]
I spent the next Monday, Mr. Diksit’s third
and final day in Tallinn, with him and his
interpreter Natasha. We visited places
connected with the history of our literature and
other objects. His gold ring with a diamond
sparkled brightly against his swarthy skin.
When we sat around an office table at the
formal reception, coffee cups and water glasses
in front of us, he issued forth long sentences of
welcome. He droned on as if he were speaking
from a rostrum, and occasionally adjusted his
cuff-links. Natasha whispered to me that last
night Mr. Diksit had visited all the bars in the
hotel, every single counter and drinking place,
and asked for blackcurrant wine. Natasha
smiled. I immediately felt guilty. The days had
fled by, and I had let them vanish with the
illusion that there was still plenty of time, but
Mr. Diksit was due to leave this evening, and I
was to stay here. I had told him many things,
was it then my fault that he got attached to only
a few of them?
Then Mr. Diksit said:
“When I was a student at a Bombay university,
my history professor said to me: “Maybe you
will have a chance in the future to visit these
small nations. You must then certainly do it!””
With these small nations, explained the guest,
my professor meant Lithuanians, Latvians and
Estonians.
And now finally he was here. He said, in a
booming voice, that the days spent in Tallinn will
stay with him forever. His face was anxiously
alert, his glance sharp and firm. He was deep in
contemplation and nothing could disturb him.
After the meeting we left. Mr. Diksit, Natasha
and an Estonian writer drove out to our openair
museum.
At six I waited for them in front of the hotel.
At quarter past, they emerged, but not from the
lift, but from a car. They had just returned and
rushed upstairs for their suitcases. I waited
outside, feeling uneasy that once again
everything seemed out of control. Again a lot of
worrying, confusion, no peaceful farewells or
smoothly progressing events. I took it personally.
But there they were. Twenty minutes to catch
the train. We loaded the suitcases in the car
when Mr. Diksit suddenly disappeared. Natasha
climbed in. I stood by the car and looked
around. Several minutes passed. Suddenly I
saw him a hundred metres away at a souvenir
kiosk. The small elderly man was half hidden
behind the others. I waved and ran towards him.
He ran too, breathless with rapture.
He had bought a little box with a bottle of
cologne and a cake of soap, all made in Tallinn.
Satisfied, he took his seat beside Natasha and
we were off. I looked at my watch and tried to
work out what to do in case the road was
closed down because of the maneuvering
goods trains and we have to wait. Drive across
the lawn? Fly? I heard Natasha admonishing
Mr Diksit in mild tones. Then Mr. Diksit yelled
out:
“Rubbish! We have nothing to fear!
The magnetic power of myself and Mr. J (he
meant me) will stop the train!”
He was a winner. He knew everything about
me. We could stop all trains. He had added to
his own wisdom the grey man, black currants
and me. He had the cologne and the soap. He
knew what to do with all those things. He had
visited the small nations, and they existed.
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