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Next Sunday Leningrad Aurora?

One week from now, hundreds of kilometers from Tallinn?

What's going on?

Explaining nothing, the last line threatened: The meeting is vital.

There was no signature.

That kind of a letter is fit for a garbage bin, except...

Except:

Vital who for? Me? Him?

Can it be an emergency?

Have I inherited a fortune?

Are we dealing with a spy?

A seductive woman?

A wealthy foreign publisher?

What have I overlooked?

Luring me away to be murdered?

An admirer of my novels?

Some poor bastard about to die?

Army counterespionage?

I put the letter away again, and for the third time decided not to go anywhere. Am I a dummy to be yanked around on a string? An anonymous letter, and immediately I get ready for a fool's errand?

Who's the fool?

Apparently I am.

As an obscure writer, freedom fighters and spies tend to ignore me. True enough once in a while I receive letters enlightening me on some brand new world order or synergy, details appended. But cruiser Aurora the cradle of revolution that fired a shot on October 25 1917 signaling the beginning of the assault on the Winter Palace, what have I to do with it? Sure, my life has been affected by that infamous shot but so have the lives of the thousands around me. Will all of us now be called to Aurora? Perhaps only those who approve of the revolution? Only those who disapprove? If I alone was invited, how was I selected?

No, this is but a silly joke. Perhaps revenge? But for what?

What have I done?

Everyone is guilty of something, but am I guilty more than anyone else?

That's it: I will ignore this letter.

With the last packet from my Finnish publisher I brewed coffee, added some sugar I had obtained with my ration card, and to steady my shaky nerves, invented all sorts of excuses for doing nothing: gas stations are out of gas, trains are overbooked, buses are overcrowded - I can't travel at all, for our Great State is in a heap of trouble. Gas has disappeared, for the rail services that bring in gas have been severely curtailed. Gas tanks of the public conveyances are bone dry. Am I supposed to walk to Leningrad? I do have some bread left; no point in going to the grocery, for sausage is also out. Shortages promote self-reliance. At least something good has come out of this mess, thank God. There's nothing to be gained by going out. Let them write and invite. I'll pull in my horns, learn to know myself, tell the world go to hell, can't be bothered to watch the end of the world, won't cry at its grave. Far better to stay on the sofa with its springs poking at my butt but there is no sofa repairman available, and in any case, no sofa covers. I do have some soap saved up, a whole cake, I've even hoarded a tube of toothpaste. No way will I go to that cruiser Aurora. I'll ignore everyone and everything. Of course, poverty and lack of means should not be an excuse for shunning adventure. A colleague of mine recently visited North Korea, another one went to Mongolia. Far away corners of the world where the sun is hot and people and their habits are inscrutable. Going to that cruiser would be a new experience? I might get a short story out of it, a beginning for a saga? The last member alive of the Tsar's family wants to reveal everything, yet here I am, stretched out on a tatty sofa nursing my ivory tower. What if the terrorists are planning to blow up the cruiser, and I have the front seat for the event? Front seat? Maybe I'll be blown up with the ship?

No way will I stick out my neck.

Yet, the ship could sail and take me along. I've never been a writer of the sea and ships. I did write a commemorative article on Lennart Meri (meri = sea in Estonian) but that hardly qualifies me for a naval historian.

Am I being accosted by a radical organization getting ready for another revolution, and to advertise their cause, blow up Aurora? Afterwards they'll supervise ceremonial casting of flowers to the waves? Make endless boring speeches? But in that case the letter would have had a declaration, a slogan or two. If the contrarians indeed court me, I would not have been invited to a pier, but to a bar in a dank cellar. Could be a woman who adores me? In that case the letter would have had a few loving words at least, especially, since I'm known to be a sucker for emotional affinity. A homosexual? I've never been taken for one, and in any case, the symbols—a ship with large guns and a proud prow to split the waves—are inappropriate.

Could it be something to do with subconscious? Flying Dutchman? Long John Silver? Moby Dick, the ship of transcendence, the mast of the cruiser pointing at the North Star, the axis of the Earth? Could it be the White Ship that everyone is waiting for, the ship that never comes except to cross Lethe?

But the letter is matter of fact. Fine sand falls on my papers. I stand at the window.