On a worn-out divan, a blanket is bunched up. A dainty coffee cup with a broken handle, filled with cigarette butts, sits on a shelf by the bed. Beside it sits a white porcelain figurine – a goddess drinking from a golden vessel. The goddess’ neck is ringed with a brown line formed from the many times it has been glued and mended. An empty glass has been left on the bed. A dish with bed crumbs rests on the floor.

The stale air takes away Mia’s breath. She sweeps the rubbish from the window ledge and opens both windows wide. Mia leans out the window to take deep breaths. At her left temple she feels a strange pulse. Like painful waves crashing against a shore.

She takes a hold of herself and begins to tidy up. Out, out, all of that rubbish bagged, and out. The books put back on the shelves, everything dusted, the blanket shaken. The glass and the dish taken to the kitchen where they belong. Rhythmically. And air, much air. Flowers, there should be flowers. Some sort of very fragrant flowers.

In organizing the books, a cardboard box falls off the top shelf. Black and brown-tinged white faces cascade to the floor. They put a stop to Mia’s feverish activity. A woman with a frail infant in her arms stares sadly into the photo lens. A wasted face, slanted eyes plead for something. No doubt for the infant’s survival. Mia knows that her mother herself had barely survived. Only because her mother had by some stroke of luck obtained some dried sugar beets. Her jaw had bled from gnawing on them, but she had had a lot of milk for the baby. Until the babe was a year and half old her mother had more than enough milk. She had snatched her child from the very jaws of death. Death had been standing right beside her.

Later her mother had often played with death. Film sequences flash by Mia’s eyes. Mia is playing on the floor, whileher mother is lying in bed smiling oddly – her lips tinged blue, beside her a bowl with expired pills. Mia is standing at the end of the corridor. Her father is breaking down the bathroom door. Her mother has locked herself in. Probably trying to drown herself. Mia is home alone. She is sitting at a desk. The closet door creaks. Mia fearfully goes to look – her mother is attempting to hang herself with her husband’s necktie. The 18th of November – Latvia’s Independence Day is being celebrated at the insane asylum. Her mother’s medication has prompted her to hallucinate on a grand national scale.

Mia cuts short the séance. She tosses the photos back in the box and angrily resumes cleaning. The dust is irritating her eyes. Above her mother’s bed hangs a painting by someone who must have loved art. A beautiful, peaceful scene – a river in which are reflected the evening sun and a white church. The film of dust on the painting is so thick that Mia can draw a nude in the river, add wings to the church and sign below: “Come with Me.”