Patekas, rasa, birda, sijātājs, smigulis, bāriņu asaras, debesu rasa, smīla, vīsla, gāzeņa lietus, aumaļu lietus, plītenis – downpour, dew, drizzle, smattering, orphan’s tears, heavenly dew, rainfall, rain squall ...

The rain soon ceases. He drives on.

The drive is lovely. It’s still warm and there, in a distant field, white oxen are grazing. Further away there’s a river where he occasionally goes to fish. The bigger ones for themselves, the smaller ones – for Bagar. Those were very happy times for the boys. His wife did delicious fry-ups. While he made fish soup – with dill and potatoes.

Since he’s on his own, it seems to him increasingly that all of this has never happened. There’s only the wind in his head, that carries with it words. Only him and that wind.

He knows every corner of the Vanetten store. The bread here, the milk and buttermilk there, bread here, meat there. Everything always the same and in the same place. Only the turkeys and pumpkins appear on their respective festive days and as quickly disappear.

Does he need anything? He takes a bag with red-skinned potatoes. They can keep at home.

“Well, what have we here?” the cashier mumbles to herself. “Red potatoes.”

She drags the bag over the squeaking code-registering surface.

Yes, potatoes. He pulls out a somewhat worn, shabby wallet, with carefully folded dollar bills – potatoes.

Tupeņi, kartupi, kartiņi, rāceņi, buļbas, buļvas, pampaļi, bimbaži, bimbaļi, bambuļi, zemes pupas – potatoes, spuds ...

No, he won’t go to the barber. In truth there’s nothing to cut. He’ll drive to the nearest town. He’ll just drive around a bit, maybe stop at Wendy’s for a coffee. Maybe go into Wegman’s to buy some fresh fish for himself and Bagar.

He parks his Dodge at the bus station. The station isn’t particularly large but it’s a stop for Greyhound buses en route from New York to and from Buffalo. Sometimes he comes here and sits down on a bench for no particular reason. Looks at the young people travelling to and fro. Since he moved from Germany to America, he hasn’t travelled anywhere. His wife had invited him to come with her to Germany, saying that he wouldn’t be far from his homeland there. But he didn’t want to go – everything was strange and changed there. What had once been lived on in his head. The wind that brought the words. Could it really be that there, in that place, there was anything?

In Wegman’s he buys some good fresh fish, a couple of onions and a bunch of dill. He could drink coffee right here. But the weather is so lovely. He places his purchases in the trunk of his car, buys a take-out coffee at the bus station, sits down on a bench between bus stop aisles, and, with pleasure, lights up a cigarette. Then suddenly he hears, in Latvian:

“I’ll come to New York ...”