In the other direction from his house the road leads to an open field, where three trailers are parked. Some vagrants live there. They too are his friends. He has in the past brought them blankets, some dishes and an old television. The people keep changing there, but all are terrible drunks. Perhaps they also take drugs. Young women – emaciated like sun-dried fish, sallow skinned and toothless. They don’t talk much, just exchange a common everyday phrase or two. Once one of the women kissed him on the cheek and said: “We’re not bad people, just wanderers ...”

Wanderers, well yes, wanderers – the wind rises in his head. Klejonis, klīdējs, klimsts, staigulis, pasaules gājējs, sirotājs, blandonis, klenderis, vazaņķis – so many words and nuances in

Latvian –wanderer, tramp, vagrant, derelict ...

Given he’s better off, he can afford to give to the Indians and the tramps. That’s why he drives to see them. Other than that he hasn’t made any friends here. Not that he’s wanted any.

On the way to the store he also stops at the church.

He doesn’t even know the denomination of the church. Generally he never used to attend church. But once he came into the church because his oldest boy was ill. Then he entered to light a candle for his son. He sat by himself among the rows of church pews. Listening to how the burning candle sputtered. At that time, upon leaving the church, he stopped at a wooden pulpit, covered in red velvet. To it were pinned small, white notes. On all of them something was written, each in a different hand. But all of them started with the phrase “Please remember in your prayers,” followed by the name of a person. Deep down in his heart he didn’t believe in such help, but he picked up a pencil and wrote on a piece of paper about his son.

The next time, when his son was already better, he stopped here again. Going to light a candle, he stopped at the pinned notes and saw his own among them. He had written his request in Latvian.

Since that time he now and then stops by at the church and writes a request for someone to be remembered in prayers in a language which no one understands here.

This time he just sits in the church for a while. Maybe it’s useless to write the hundred and first note asking for prayers for his wife. Perhaps she’s on that path that doesn’t lead back, where one can only go forward.

He should go. But in the meanwhile it has started to rain. The black-skinned woman who cleans the church, leaning against the door, says to him:

“What a heavy rain ...” Yes, rain, he thinks.