Tartu, Cratt & Samizdat
Raamatukauplus Krisostomo
The bookstore is a holdover from another century; the brass bell above the door still clunks; the dust smells like old secrets. It’s a quiet, stubborn place at the edge of the old quarter—a haven for unread stories, with shelves stacked close and the air thick with the weight of paper and time. No introductions, just a transaction.
Tarmo glances at a stack of periodicals, I flip through a volume of local poetry—each of us present in body, absent in spirit, holding our private distances. Business is swift, almost antiseptic. Tarmo signs for a package—something sealed, serious. He doesn’t explain, and I don’t ask. In his world, curiosity is a liability.
We step back into the afternoon, heads down, the rhythm of routine driving us forward. At Armastus Café, we pause for lunch. The owner—a wiry woman with hands hardened by decades—pours strong coffee without ceremony. We sit by the window as students clatter in and out, each bundled in scarves against the sharp wind.
I tell Tarmo the story—half for conversation, half as anthropology. “She started all this with a pushcart, you know. Spent years hustling pastries on the street corners. It took her half a lifetime to buy these chairs and these lights. Everyone here has a story like that—digging themselves out after Russia’s collapse, rebuilding with whatever scraps the world left behind.”
Tarmo listens, unreadable, his focus more on the patrons than my words. I can feel him measuring risk, not sentiment. The day moves forward. We pass the ice-skating rink, the scrape of blades echoing off the ice. Next stop: Fahrenheit 451, the kind of bookstore-bar that pretends not to care about politics but stocks samizdat under the counter if you know how to ask. Another tightly wrapped pickup.
Through it all, I watch her—half longing, half wary—wondering if the rooms of heaven are open to sinners like me, or if, like everything else in this broken, rebuilding country, you have to earn your way back with grit and cleverness, one flawed day at a time.
I walk beside him, boots crunching in the layered snow, eyes fixed forward—not daring to glance up, not needing confirmation of last night’s erasure. The cold stings my cheeks; each breath feathers the air, but there’s an odd comfort moving in step with this big, silent man whose presence both shields and unsettles me.
I know better than to look for warmth in his expression. Tarmo in daylight is all jaw and distance, his face a closed fist, no trace of the hunger or surrender that undid us hours ago. He doesn’t touch me, and I don’t let myself hope for it. Still, there’s something almost restful in the certainty of his stride, the way his shadow edges mine—close but never encroaching.
We walk as two figures stitched against wind and blowback, our bodies buffered by layers, our secrets zipped up high. Maybe we won’t speak of what happened; perhaps that’s just how things go. Yet next to him I feel steadied, as if there is a pact in our silence—a private knowledge that requires no proof, no glances, no smiles.
He is unreadable. I am resolved. But we are walking the same path, and in the hush and grit of Baltic snow, that is enough for now.
Managing the Network
Later that morning, from my hotel room in Tartu, I coordinate the pieces while snow blankets Tallinn. Sandi sits cross-legged in her rented studio, every inch the product of old yoga discipline—spine impossibly straight, limbs folded with unconscious elegance that belies hours behind a laptop. She’s taller than most people expect; slim, almost slight, with angular wrists and surprisingly strong hands. Wild grey tufts frame a face too focused for prettiness, except when she smiles.
Around her: a scatter of papers, notebooks, and a humming laptop. Outside, tall mullioned windows show only monochrome drift—Tallinn wearing last night’s blizzard like a fur coat, the world muffled and slow.
She calls, phone tucked between ear and shoulder. “Hi, Elena? Sorry, we haven’t spoken directly before—I’m Sandi, Mrs. Henderson’s new fire-juggler slash logistics ninja. Just checking in.”
A pause as she surveys the blizzard outside. “The snow’s made a mess. Half your Tallinn list is snowed-in or on skeleton staff. I’ve got Telegraaf follow-ups done and rescued your press folio from a coffee disaster—don’t ask. But I did spot something: notes about ‘the legend of the Cratt.’ Is this the beer brand with the quirky goblin label out of Tartu, or do you need the folkloric angle, too?”
“Good to hear you—finally. And yes, Cratt is both: the old Estonian myth and the beer. If they’ll talk, see how they spin the folklore into the brand—there’s a draft Q&A in my shared folder, but improvise if you get them chatty.”
Sandi nods, tugging her hair into a loose knot. “Copy that. Anything vital I should attempt in Tallinn, or do I cede to the snow gods and focus on Cratt?”
“Prioritise Cratt. The rest can wait for clearer weather or my next round. No heroics.”
“Noted. I’ll send you a summary once I’ve melted the icicles off this city—and my toes.”
The partnership—new, a little precarious, but promising—has begun.
Shortly after, I connected with Mrs. Henderson. My phone pulses with a faint unnatural undertone; static bleeds into the hush. She picks up on the first ring, the muted thrum of office machines in her background—paper, breathing, the faint click of a pen.
Mrs. H., “So, you’re in the loop—Sandi’s covering the bases in Tallinn. She’s heading to Cratt, closing out anything critical before the snow buries her alive.”
“Yes, I just spoke to her”.
A page turns on her end, crisp and careful. “Sandi’s been efficient—no drama. She found your missing receipts, by the way. Sent me scans already; I’ll flag them for approval. No PR fires so far.”
A small, relieved exhale escapes. “Perfect. And Hasna’s status? Did she finally give us the green light for Morocco?”
She mutters low, rifling through notes. “Hasna checked in this morning. Conditional go-ahead for both cities. Tangiers is hung up on last-minute paperwork. Tetouan’s ready—workshops booked, just waiting on the last sponsor’s signature. Sandi’s queued for Morocco visuals the moment Hasna says go.”
I leave a thumbnail dent in my notepad. “Keep me posted the moment Hasna signs off. I’ll check Sandi’s Cratt notes tonight.”
Silence on the wire—a beat too long. The paper rustling slows, her voice drops an octave, warning woven into warmth.
“Listen: don’t burn yourself out, Elena. The money doesn’t mean a thing if you’re not around to spend it. Keep your head down in Tartu; if anything feels off, you disappear. Full stop—understood?”
My throat tightens. “Of course. The same goes for you—if you need to tell me something you can’t say out loud, just text. I’ll vanish. No questions.”
A tiny sigh on her end, the soft clack as she lays her pen aside. “Just trust your instincts. Stay visible, but not exposed. Promise me you’ll leave the heroics to someone else, for once.”
I catch my reflection in the window—travel-worn, sharp around the edges. “Promise.”
The line clicks off, but her voice coats the silence: steady, familiar, still trying—in this business—to keep something human intact.
The Watchers Circle
While I keep a check on Tartu, Tallinn moves to its rhythm. Snow slicks the cobblestones of Old Town, muting footsteps, amplifying the hush that settles on the city after dark. Every window is a mirror; every puddle, a lens. In these streets, no one is truly alone.
Karim moves with the wary grace of someone aware he’s being studied. He shifts his route constantly—never retracing, always choosing a path a professional wouldn’t expect. The collar of his charcoal coat bites at his jaw, a deliberate shield. He passes the edge of the Telegraaf, slows to check his reflection in a window: eyes up, shoulders canted, the look of a man who trusts nothing but his nerves.
A tram rumbles past, sending eddies of snow swirling. He waits, lets a watcher—hair too neat, gloves too black—pass on the opposite side. Karim flashes a crooked half-smile in the reflection, just for the watcher, and slips into an alley where the light is broken and the shadows don’t speak Estonian.
They think they’re closing in. Maybe I let them.
Meanwhile, Mikael—broad-shouldered, wrapped in a parka that doesn’t mark profession or allegiance—slides into the booth across from Tarmo in a basement café that smells of cigarettes and cheap vodka.
His voice is pitched just for Tarmo, words clipped: “We tracked Karim to the station. Lost him past the ticket barriers—no direct contact with Elena or anyone else on our lists. Two sitters watching him: a Belgian with a North African appearance. UNESCO, maybe, maybe not. He’s careful. Leaves a messy trail, but makes sure you know you’re on it.”
Tarmo’s finger traces circles on the condensation of his glass. He doesn’t blink. “If he reappears, shadow him. No noise, no confrontation. Watch for who pays, who listens. I want to know who calls the tune.”
Mikael’s eyes flicker with understanding, a spectre of violence kept in check. “Understood.”
Tarmo lets silence build, calculating. Karim is a variable—one coiling with risk. If he belongs to Hasna, he’s a move on the UNESCO board. If not—if he’s riffing on sentiment—then he’s a wild card, and wild cards burn down operations more often as they save them.
If I slip, he’ll be the reason. If I act now, I risk a war nobody can afford.
Later, Karim surfaces at the edge of Rotermanni Quarter, checks the sightlines. He knows he’s being watched—at least two tails, maybe three. He stops, lights a cigarette, and lets his gaze wander deliberately across the square.
He meets the stare of the French-winter-coated watcher, lets a half-smile curl, a silent “I see you.” Just a fraction too long, a promise and a warning.
Which of us is the hunter?
He flicks the cigarette away, dissolving into the churn of tourists, and is gone before the watcher’s hand finds his pocket.
In my Tartu hotel room, I feel the city’s distance as a physical ache. There are eyes everywhere; I sense it in every sideways glance, every shop window’s warped reflection.
Is Karim still there? Is he observing for protection or presenting new danger?
I text Mrs. Henderson a casual update, code buried inside ordinary words. Trust no one. Stay visible, not exposed. I follow the instructions by rote, but every instinct is raw with anticipation.
Night falls over both cities. The standoff is precarious—one order, one misjudged nod, one slip of steel, and dominoes will tumble. Until then, everyone waits beneath the weight of their questions, each as dangerous as the answers they seek.
And somewhere—above, below, around—the spooks are watching.
May your sentinels keep up.
Author’s Note
If you were hoping for gun fights in moonlit alleys or declarations of love shouted over the howling Estonian wind—well, you’ve chosen the wrong chapter (or perhaps, the right novel, but the wrong weather). Here, all the drama is under the surface: silent side-eye, coded phone calls, and more emotional repression than a tax audit, the chapter in which absolutely no one cracks a joke, nobody gets laid, and the closest we get to rock and roll is the thump of a bookstore bell and the icy percussion of coffee being poured by someone who’s seen two regimes fall. Yes, friends, you’ve reached that portion of the saga where all the good stuff—sex, scandal, rock and roll—has been stashed off-stage, behind a fortress of zipped coats and tight-lipped silences.
I know what you’re thinking: Weren’t we promised intrigue, pleasure, and at the very least, enough wit to melt a snowbank? Believe me, I tried to slip it in (innuendo intended), but the characters wouldn’t break—too busy brooding, bracing, and navigating existential paperwork. It’s the Baltic: even the emotional abruptions are rationed, and the most erotic thing here is a shared, silent stride through snow.
But take heart: when this much tension stacks up—professionally, personally, and philosophically—you just know something’s about to snap. Consider this your warning (and, frankly, my apology). Tomorrow brings pressure finally unleashed: steam, secrets, regrets, maybe even the reappearance of sex (or at least a heated glance), and—because I owe you—very possibly a little rock and roll. Or at a minimum, a punchline worth the wait.
So button up for now, dear reader. The next chapter loosens everything, and the abruptions—linguistic, emotional, and otherwise—are about to get loud.
I.Ph.
The C.O.M.C. Files 