Free High Tide by Inga Abele Page B

Afghanistan?”
    But of course! The shotgun had been right there, loaded, and what’s more—Ieva had handed the gun to him herself. But of course, love! When would he have had another opportunity to get rid of the little bastard who’d ruined his entire life?
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    But he didn’t say that —because that thought was as wispy as a rose-colored, papery autumn sky—that he had possibly caught himself in his own lies. Now he was saying one thing, but at other times, like when he was sitting in the dust of the prison yard, watching the wind tug at the leaves of the elm trees, and Ieva was so far away at the other end of the world past the barbed wire fences and one hundred twenty-four kilometers of forest, rivers and bogs, or when they made love, he was able to break free of himself, from the biting harness, he felt her contented breathing, and at those moments Andrejs could do the unthinkable—let all the happiness of the world flow into Ieva, because she herself was valuable, because she was worth it. And if she loved that son of a bitch Aksels, then at those moments—even though it was unthinkable—he was able to let himself imagine that she was even allowed to love Aksels. Even Aksels! And at those moments some kind of serpent, vibrant as a Latgalian wool mitten, would hiss into Andrejs’s ear that this was the kind of true love written about in the Bible. A love that didn’t hate, wasn’t jealous, didn’t destroy, wasn’t submissive, just carried you toward the sun—carried, carried, carried you, forever carried you.
    But that wasn’t something Ieva needed to know.
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    He only added that he was the only one who could call her a bitch and, forgive him, but if he hears someone else call her a bitch, he’ll slit their throat.
    â€œYou’ve made me your personal swamp,” she said calmly after a pause.
    Maybe it was then that she had already made up her mind.
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    Then they probably both finally fell asleep.
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    In the morning it was overcast, and the air was full of the bewitching scent of spring buds, but Ieva was unnaturally pale and silent. Even that usually beautiful final hour they had, during which they normally dressed, cleaned up, and wallowed in thoughts of parting, memories and glances—now it was hard as stone. And the guards had forgotten about them.
    Once they’d dressed they sat stiffly on the beds facing each other, looking like they had met for the first time in their lives. The time came for them to go their separate ways, but the guards didn’t come. The black tentacle of the clock slowly slid to four minutes past ten, then to ten minutes past ten.
    The room grew darker and darker, until finally the black-blue cloud outside broke open with a mighty crack, struck the earth with a blinding thorn, and unleashed a grey downpour. Rain beat against the windows with such force that it rattled the windowsill like a tin drum. Andrejs sprang to his feet and started pacing back and forth across the room, then suddenly took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. It was a violet-colored shirt with dark stripes, possibly the nicest piece of clothing he had ever owned. And he put it around Ieva’s shoulders.
    â€œTake my shirt,” he said, “you’ll get soaked.”
    â€œThat’d be just perfect—to forget about us in prison,” she said, letting out a fake laugh and glancing at the clock.
    Five more minutes passed. Andrejs thought he was losing his mind.
    â€œJust think, my shirt’ll be free in a few minutes,” he said, just to say something. Just to fill the eerie silence.
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    The sound of the rain droned on forever, then was suddenly extinguished like a candle that had been knocked over—the guards came in and Ieva and Andrejs both jumped up.
    Andrejs obediently put his hands behind his back; there was the click of the cuffs, the jangle of keys, Andrejs at the door, her profile