A reflection

“And so I said it. I doubt my own perception, and I am out of my mind. But still: At the street of the village, in the middle of the crowd, I suddenly felt dizzy(...) And I see him, that Norwegian friend of Andrew's. (...) His stare was like this: I know you have seen me, but it doesn't really matter.”

Ira, who is this man? Yet another character for me to puzzle? Or someone I know? Someone I actually know?

It hit me today, as I was re-reading this email: there is something in here that hints to something else — the paragraph about Andrew’s Norwegian friend gives me a feeling of...I can only describe it as memory. The sudden feeling of something very distinct, a body memory, something it’s been part of. I am trying to recall, a Norwegian man seen in a crowd in a Russian village, far from anywhere I’ve ever been. I read it again, and then I look up from the computer screen and into the window in front of me. And here it is, with this paragraph, this flashing memory, as if at the same time Ira is watching her reflection in the mirror, a greasy train window on the way home from the town market near the Volga, and as we both look up, we see not our own reflections, but each other’s. Her mouth, her squinted right eye, coming out of a giggle and into that distinct contemplation that comes with watching one’s own face move over dark trees and barley fields, or as in this case, someone else’s, a Norwegian writer, with the Eastern hills in the distance. A double exposure, twice doubled.

That is a vague attempt of trying to describe the feeling that comes over me, like a flash of body memory, when I read about Ira seeing the Norwegian man.

Ira. “I know you have seen me, but it doesn’t matter.”

Endiuia

"This herbe is called Endiue or southistel, his vertu is if the ioyce therof be medled with hote water, and dronken, it helpeth the stoppinge of the milte, and of the liuer. It is good to heale the yelowe euyll, and the feauer tertian. It is good for hote postumes, and for to swage greate heates of the lyuer, and of the stomake, and it is colde and moyst."

So our little friend is a cooler for the liver. Comforting.

Re:

"Hi Jenny,

So my strange life takes another turn. And does it? I have to tell you now, even though I feel a bit out of my mind.

The whole week in the little village by the Volga was an adventure, a pleasurable breathing space I think. I have not told you about it, but what is there to tell? It's so un-interesting, and at the same time so important. Sitting at night listening to the BBC via the internet with a new friend, thinking about the lines in the wood at the deck of a fishing boat. The strange feeling of sitting at a table at night with someone you really don't know, the family I am staying with. (I wish I was a fantastic person, making everybody feel great. And then, again, I sit there, talking to strangers and feeling so great myself. Maybe they feel the same. Maybe this is fantastic. I doubt my own perception, tenfold.)

And so I said it. I doubt my own perception, and I am out of my mind. But still: At the street of the village, in the middle of the crowd, I suddenly felt dizzy. I was together with my new russian Friend and we were talking about nothing in particular. Then she started looking at a poster and we stopped for a second. And I see him, that Norwegian friend of Andrew's. Just in a flash, and I instantly thought I was wrong. But there was this feeling of having experienced something important and scary. And I am not sure what happened at all, exept that I saw that man. And he saw me. His stare was like this: I know you have seen me, but it doesn't really matter.

I told them where I was and that I just needed some space. Philip answered me, nice and irritating. That was a mistake, now I lost even my mind. I will have to leave my little Russian town. Now.

Thanks for listening. And thanks for telling Simon. Somehow that comforts me. That's more important than you know. What would he say about imaginary stalkers?

Love another way,
Ira."

The letter to Simon

Oslo, Aug 10, 2005
Dear Simon,
There have been a few incidents recently which have made me feel like like I am part of a mystery novel, or perhaps rather, writing a mystery novel. It’s kind of exciting, but at the same time I am left clueless to what’s going on. You’ve read the blog on the site I sent you, I hope (if not please do, and you’ll see what I mean). Anyway, here I am, writing to you.

Oh, I forgot to write an introduction, didn’t I? I know — you always used to criticise my openings (did you like the blog intro? Did it make you want to keep reading?). I’d present my stories to you, real proud of my nightly panic-writing, and you’d break my typed-up heart immediately by saying: Where is the introduction? Where did this story begin? Did you forget to print the first four pages? Or did you forget to write them?
And even now, after spending an entire year re-writing, expanding, throwing out paper in the bin downstairs (a bit like shedding old skin), I realise I haven’t learnt a thing. Even my letter to you has no beginning. So let’s start again. Here goes:

Oslo, Aug 11, 2005
Dear Simon,
I hope this yellow page finds you well, and that you have apple cheeks and soft-boiled eyes. I imagine you and Anne in a big house with a big garden in the mountains, writing and reading each other’s drafts, while you secretly still take sheet music notes when she isn’t looking, and she secretly eats too many plums in the night, when she knows you’re up taking your notes.

There, introduction.
By now, you’re probably even more confused with the whole thing anyway — receiving an internet address in the mail, on a sheet of paper without any explanation, and then a letter that re-writes itself, as if I want to include all my drafts in the finished, stamped envelope. Well, let’s get to the point, then, I’ll skip the point where I say I’m fine and living in a studio with an elderly couple underneath on the top of the Eastern hills of Oslo, with my books and my grandmother’s green chair, and that everyone we both know are fine and doing ping and pong. On to the incidents, the mystery novel incidents. I’ll take it for granted you’ve read the blog, not skimmed through, but read it thoroughly, and thought of me while reading it, thinking: she hasn’t learnt a thing.

About a month ago, I received the first postcard from Ira in the mail. Since then I have received another postcard from her friend Philip, and two emails from Ira in the Russian village near the Volga. I almost wrote “received” once more there, and I apologise for repeating words, as you always used to point out to me. You have no vocabulary. It’s like you’re singing, la la la la. Where is your tongue? Does it know how to move? What about your brain?

I guess I have little more to say, Simonella, except: did you ever know a person called Ira back in the days? Did you ever date a girl called Ira before Anne? Did you ever...
Well, you know what the next question is, but I find it very hard to express. You know I was the only one in the end who could follow what was happening in you and to you. Could Ira be something like that, I ask. Without a question mark, because it’s up to you how to respond. I won’t get angry if you don’t write. If you’ve let it go and moved on, done what you came there for. Forgive me if I bring you back to somewhere you don’t want to exist in your past, an erased time. I might be a scratched-out memory, too.
But if you still. Could there be a connection. Even a slight one. Think about it...a postcard from 1987 taking 18 years to reach me from the Soviet Union. I was seven years old when it was printed. Now, it’s possible that someone has found it elsewhere, recently, and written it as a prank, but the thought of it travelling from another time is wonderful. Since it would have been sent, it would have passed through several countries, sometimes without crossing borders, just time. Imagine.
Please tell me of your thoughts if you and your health allows it. Or call me a fried banana and throw this yellow-papered letter in the bin (paper recycling). Then, you too shed my skin. That thought is wonderful, too.

Now I have to get back to work. I have a story on seashells (i know, still doing it) that I need to finish.

All the best,
Jennella

The Volga

I have not yet been able to respond to Ira's email. I tried, but the options are few as long as I don't know who I am speaking to. "Who are you?" seems a rather rude opening to an email to somwone who has just left the love of her life, and retreated to a Russian village (does she even speak Russian?). I think I am waiting to remember who she is - as if I really know Ira, Andrew and Philip. As if I have just forgotten.

Near the river Volga, in a village, lies a damsel in distress, hopefully sleeping by this point in a B&B. She doesn't know anyone here, and further; she has written to just one person, a person she really trusts, the first person to think of in a crisis, to say she is alive and well. This person is me, and as yet I do not remember anything, not a facial expression, not any of the features of a good friend: how they eat ice cream (head tilted; mouth open, yet a touch withdrawn; eyes concentrating on the melting scoops, nearly popping out and into the ice like glazed cherries), common word-isms they always use ("but" at the end of a sentence, ad nauseam rhyming, lines from The Young Ones).

Meanwhile, I try to understand how she ended up near the Volga, so far away from Stolby and the rocks. There are several rivers much closer to Krasnoyarsk than the Volga; Yenisey (certainly very close), Ob, even Lena in the China-way direction. I don't know how Andrew and Philip ended up in St. Petersburg either, writing nothing about their travels. I have this feeling they went on the Trans-Siberian railway, and that something happened on board that train. Andrew, what did you do to her?

As Krasnoyarsk is a stop on the main route of the Trans-Siberian, the group must first have gone to Moscow. Browsing the Trans-Siberian online site, I find that this has been the final stop of the railway since the Revolution. So they must have changed trains to get to St. Petersburg. Is it possible that Ira left the expedition already at this point? (Or did they travel in the years prior to the Revolution - between 1904 and 1917?) And went on another train south? Why, then, did the other two not try to find her, but leave for St. Petersburg on their own?

Or did she perhaps come to St. Petersburg with them, only to leave them there? Are they perhaps waiting for her to come back? A sudden feeling overwhelms me; how is Andrew really taking it? Does he really know that she is ok? What will he do now? All of a sudden, I know what to write.

The optimistic Ira

I have not yet been able to respond to Ira's email. I tried, but the options are few as long as I don't know who I am speaking to. "Who are you?" seems a rather rude opening to an email to somwone who has just left the love of her life, and retreated to a Russian village (does she even speak Russian?). I think I am waiting to remember who she is - as if I really know Ira, Andrew and Philip. As if I have just forgotten.

Near the river Volga, in a village, lies a damsel in distress, hopefully sleeping by this point in a B&B. She doesn't know anyone here, and further; she has written to just one person, a person she really trusts, the first person to think of in a crisis, to say she is alive and well. This person is me, and as yet I do not remember anything, not a facial expression, not any of the features of a good friend: how they eat ice cream (head tilted; mouth open, yet a touch withdrawn; eyes concentrating on the melting scoops, nearly popping out and into the ice like glazed cherries), common word-isms they always use ("but" at the end of a sentence, ad nauseam rhyming, lines from The Young Ones).

Meanwhile, I try to understand how she ended up near the Volga, so far away from Stolby and the rocks. There are several rivers much closer to Krasnoyarsk than the Volga; Yensei (certainly very close), Ob, even Lena in the China-way direction. I don't know how Andrew and Philip ended up in St. Petersburg either, writing nothing about their travels. I have this feeling they went on the Trans-Siberian railway, and that something happened on board that train. Andrew, what did you do to her?

As Krasnoyarsk is a stop on the main route of the Trans-Siberian, the group must first have gone to Moscow. Browsing the Trans-Siberian online site, I find that this has been the final stop of the railway since the Revolution. So they must have changed trains to get to St. Petersburg. Is it possible that Ira left the expedition already at this point? (Or did they travel in the years prior to the Revolution - between 1904 and 1917?) And went on another train south? Why, then, did the other two not try to find her, but leave for St. Petersburg on their own?

Or did she perhaps come to St. Petersburg with them, only to leave them there? Are they perhaps waiting for her to come back? A sudden feeling overwhelms me; how is Andrew really taking it? Does he really know that she is ok? What will he do now? All of a sudden, I know what to write.

"STOLBY" NATIONAL PARK

Well, that didn't really take long. An English-Russian dictionary. a few googles, and voila. Outside, it was raining, and while I waited for my poor computer to execute my searches, I looked at these things: a newspaper slowly dissolving against the signpost by the bus stop, umbrellas of lovers moving like pairs of mushrooms underneath my balcony (my own response to the St. Petersburg postcard), a streetlight coming to life, seagulls settling on a rooftop but sliding down towards the drain because of the wet surface. Now, I sit here knowing where Ira has been.

Ok, "Stolby" is a nature reserve in the heart of Russia, near the Western border of Mongolia and the Eastern border of Kazakhstan. Funny how these borders form an X on the map; Kazakhstan, Russia, Mongolia and China in a perfect cross. And just north of this x-shape lies Stolby, near the city of Krasnoyarsk, where the Trans-Siberian railway crosses the mighty river Yensei. Stolby is home to a famous rock called Taknak, which may or may not be these very postcard rocks. As yet I am unsure of - and my computer is too slow to - tell you more about that one. The mountains - the Eastern Sayan mountains - were formed by pulses of magma pushed up from the ground. (Pimple mountains! Ira with her foot on the pimple mountains. Ira of the pimple mountains!)

I think the rock looks more like a thumb.

WHERE is Ira?

I know I should be writing about the e-mail I got a few days ago, but honestly, receiving that email has crossed a few boundaries and I need to think for a while. Meanwhile, I have returned to the first postcard. I can't believe I haven't thought about this before - especially because it was the first thing that caught my eye, before I even read Ira's message — but this morning, I looked at the postcard again and decided to try to track down the image. I want to know where Ira, Andrew and Philip went on their expedition, although in a way it’s dirty work, like looking in someone’s secret diary. After all, the version of me Ira is writing to, knows where she is already. So I’m spying on that version, flipping through my own diary, really. Which makes it kind of harmless.

Armed with the Cyrillian alphabet, Google and a few hints (rock, climbing, forest, Russia), I am fairly optimistic. I have no idea what заповедник "стольы" means yet, but we'll see.

The optimistic Ira.

I am type-less

"Hi Jennaie,

You wouldn't have expected me being alone in the absolute middle of nowhere, would you? I certainly wouldn't. I have never really travelled alone before. But these last days I have had the pleasure of getting to know the Volga, staying in a village by the river bank. I have been staying at a private b&b, where the family's daughter has turned out to be a possible friend. Tomorrow we'll even go on a fishing boat together, at a side river named Vlir or something. I am absolutely enjoying this. I am lucky.

There must be a down side to this, you say? Oh Yes. Andrew told me to get lost, suddenly and quite unexpected. Not like "please leave me alone for fifteen minutes". More forever than fifteen minutes. He was completely frightening. So I guess I did. Don't know what to do yet, I am a part of our expedition too, and I thought I was a part of his life too. What can I do, your lover telling you to just leave? He has been a jerk recently but I hadn't expected, I just don't get it, and couldn't stand it.

Yes, me calling dear loved fantastic Andrew a jerk. There's more to this than just a sudden fight. Anyway more later. Right now I just wanted someone to know where I am. I couldn't even bother to tell the ever caring Philip where I went. And not the others, at least not Andrew. Please understand this. I just want to be alone (she said, her dark hair bla bla bla. My life is a tragic novel.) I hope YOU are fine!

Lvov (love the russian way,)
The Optimistic Ira."

Ira of memory

I must remember Ira, like I recognise my own face in the album of party pictures. Ira hidden by sunlight, Ira with raindrops on her fingers in the Russian summer rain, Ira as a set of curving contours in the dark, where a smile and a waist has identical shapes. Ira whispering stories (Soviet rock stories) through a half/full glass of wine and wine-stained lips in some conversation from our past together. Ira's head diving into her bag, eyes sharpening, looking for something (a postcard?). Ira and Andrew kissing each other for the first time (I assume after the second postcard they were lovers). Ira's hands around Andrew's neck, stroking and grabbing his neck-hairs. Ira in the forests, waiting for Andrew and his maps, dressed in baggy, wind-proof clothes and gumboots, scratching her cheek gently, tilting her head slightly; the delicate moves of a soft body beneath the weathery fabrics (although I suppose Andrew must have been blind to it. Her only observer must have been Philip. Philip the observer).

Ira from Soviet

I decide Ira is a person, not a stalker, not a prank. Ira is voted Ira, unanimously. All my toes agree. I celebrate with bare feet in the air on the balcony. Ira is real and is travelling Russia, or rather, she is travelling SOVIET forests: after all, if you study the back of her postcard closely, it says "1987." So it's 1987, and my friend Ira is writing a postcard from the Russian forests.