Four of them went out into the freezing weather. The doctor was carrying some bandages, torn up from filthy underwear soaked with sweat. Formerly he was called Andreas, but for several days now he had ordered them to call him by some other name. Sometimes he would secretly admit to having several heads. Zenka from Kaunas and Alexis went with them. Zenka said he’d seen everything there was to see in life and therefore he had to see this too. Besides, once upon a time he had worked as an orderly. Alexis came along just in case. If Handless should happen to faint, he promised to carry him back in his arms like a baby. Alexis knew well that now he was the strongest of them all – while the others had been starving, he had kept eating Elena’s nonexistent sausage. They hurried along so that the axe, which they had heated in the fire, wouldn’t get cold and crumble. They thought that they were going along at a good pace in an orderly fashion, though in reality they were only crawling waywardly and staggering at their own pace and direction, like gigantic snails, groaning every now and then. The doctor wouldn’t stop repeating out loud that this kind of frost kills off all germs. Zenka from Kaunas kept telling the same anecdote, to which no one was listening.
They went behind a small hill so that they couldn’t see the dilapidated shed, which was enveloped in puffs of steam. Handless wanted it this way. He was silent even when he had approached the large stump, which resembled a bull’s head. He only pointed to it with his hand. He flourished the axe three times, but each time he didn’t chop. Zenka from Kaunas muttered that the axe would freeze and offered to hold down the hand stretched out on the stump so that Handless wouldn’t pull it back involuntarily.
‘I’m not going to wait for others to take it away from me, Grandpa,’ said Handless to the empty space. ‘I’m going to do it myself.’
The axe bounced back from the stump without a sound. Alexis caught Handless, who was falling, while Zenka from Kaunas grabbed the axe and slipped it inside his coat. The doctor finally shut up, quickly holding the bleeding limb tight and bandaging it. Separated from the body, the hand moved its fingers as if in surprise, then fell on its side and froze. There was almost no blood dripping from it.
The linden trees in Vilnius had finished blooming. The pavement gave off an almost imperceptible unhealthy steam. He fetched the letters, which a woman in the neighbourhood had collected, and counted them diligently, even though he could not remember how many he had sent. His home seemed totally alien to him. He didn’t go to visit his daughters and he only went to the store and back for some fresh potatoes and to fill his refrigerator full of canned meat and eggs. He locked himself in, opening the door to no one and ignoring telephone calls.
Vytautas Handless had to think. He had to get used to himself, a quite different Vytautas Handless, a man who had dared to open the forbidden door, to descend into hell and return, a man who had gotten the urge to experience for a second time that which it is possible to endure only once, a man who was carrying twenty-six souls. He found it strange that he wanted to eat and drink, and later urinated and defecated. He found it strange that he fell asleep and dreamed of himself without a hand. Throughout his life, he had dreamed of himself having both hands. Hopelessly, he tried to get a sense of whether his victory really was such, and if so, over whom it came. His mind was of no use now, it had long ago forbidden him to leave Vilnius. It could explain neither the incomprehensible desire, nor the journey, nor the return. Vytautas Handless couldn’t understand what forced him on the ill-fated journey and what he expected to find or experience. Yes, twenty-five men mournfully invited him, the last of their group, but he didn’t have to go – it wouldn’t have been a betrayal. He could feel nothing with his heart; all the feelings he had experienced during those two weeks didn’t belong to him, they were someone else’s. Yes, he had won the battle, he could calmly recall any moment of those days, the memories long imprisoned had broken free, but they had no power over him. The stretch of life that had been torn from him once upon a time had been put in its place. Everything was in place, but Vytautas Handless himself had disappeared somewhere, he didn’t exist and had to be found, or perhaps created anew.
For four days he read his letters – the letters of that other Vytautas Handless – and forced his way through the tangle of words, wanting to understand, at least a little, the other Vytautas Handless, the one who had never broken away from that freezing land, who had remained there for all time, who sat on the banks of the river that didn’t freeze solid as he waited for the log raft to appear with the sign, who kept hoping that his hand would come slowly floating back on the black waters. He read and kept asking the paper out loud why all that he had experienced and forgotten had to be experienced one more time. Was it because a man can’t live without a memory? But how can he go on living now that he has become the living memory of twenty-six men?
On the fifth morning he placed the letters in a neat pile and tied them with a ribbon. The day dawned bright and clear, the near-deserted city hummed quietly, several times the phone rang irritably. Vytautas Handless put some water on to make tea and carefully ate his breakfast. He wasn’t terribly hungry, but the tea seemed excellent. Shutting himself in the bathroom, he rinsed his mouth and returned to the kitchen because he had forgotten the matches. The phone rang endlessly and obstinately – this was the last sound that Vytautas Handless was to hear.
If his soul had been able to see into his home and his dead body from the outside, a few days later it would have seen how the neighbour with the fat lips sidled in, together with the men who had broken down the door, and curiously, showing no disgust, looked over the blue, bloated face, the black tongue hanging out, the greasy, shiny rope, scarcely to be made out on the swollen neck, the bathroom full of ashes from burnt paper. With sincere sorrow she said: ‘Well look at that! And I would have bet anything that Vaciukas from number forty-six would go first.’
The men who had broken down the door prudently flipped through the document with the woman’s name and the picture of Vytautas Handless pasted in and asked the neighbour if recently he had started acting a little strange. For instance, had he shown any desire to turn into someone else, or had he commented that life was better in the world of the dead? The woman proudly shook her head and said that Vytautas Handless had been the calmest and most sober of all her neighbours and had never talked any nonsense. He had cared for nothing, she added, except for his daughters and the cat of the man next door.
Winter in that land lasted eight months. Four were left for the other seasons.
The frost overcame everything – that which was alive and that which was inanimate. Only the river never froze completely. Its current was invincible, like the common current of the lives of all the people who had been relocated on its banks. Tens, hundreds, thousands could perish. But there was no power that could destroy every single one of them.
A solitary little raft of rough logs floated down the river. It was empty. Only by looking extremely carefully could you make out something pale and crooked on its middle log. A man’s hand had been attached to the icy bark with a rusty nail. It was white all the way through, not even the contours of the veins could be seen through the dull skin. This hand was the sign that every man had to understand.
The raft made its way forward slowly, yet obstinately. And still there were no people.
1987
First published in Come into my time: Lithuania in prose fiction, 1970-90, Urbana; Chicago: University of Illinois Press (1992).
Translated by Violeta Kelertas from Ricardas Gavelis, Nubaustieji, Vilnius: Vaga (1987).
Ricardas Gavelis (1950–2002) studied theoretical physics at Vilnius University and worked for several years as a researcher before becoming a full time writer. In his trilogy of Vilnius novels, Vilnius Poker (Vilniaus pokeris, 1989), Vilnius Jazz (Vilniaus dziazas, 1993), and The Last Generation of People on Earth (Paskutine zemes zmoniu karta, 1995), he delved into the core of totalitarian coercion and the perversions engendered by social change. He is the founder of Li
thuanian post-modernism, having created complicated and multi-layered narratives that did not shy away from themes such as illness, exile, murder and sexual coercion. In his work he uses images of sexual coercion to help lay bare the elements of power and the desire to manage and control impulses. He uses irony to recreate the ideas that were fashionable in the first decade after the fall of Communism as part of his focus on the ‘birth of the elite’ and the suffering experienced during that time.
* * *
1* Artel is a general term for various co-operative associations that existed in the Russian Empire and the Soviet Union between the 1860s and through the 1950s. Historically, artels were semi-formal associations for various enterprises including fishing, mining, logging, commerce and manual labour; the term is also used to refer to associations of thieves and beggars.
Year of the Lily of the Valley
Jurga Ivanauskaite
The lilies of the valley withered
From the yellow northern wind.
A glowing red hull
Passed through the sky three times.
An old, blind seagull
Whispered his prayer to me –
Saulius recited while mincing down the road in graceful pantomime-trained steps. A whole host of the most unbelievable expressions wafted across the cold features of his handsome face. Saulius removed his glasses and his glance became extraordinarily sharp such that it seemed odd that when it fixed upon something, the object of his gaze was not rendered in two. Saulius was the ideological leader of our group. We worshipped him unconditionally and didn’t bother to question why we were so attracted to him. Fifteen-year-old Danas tramped along beside Saulius. He was the youngest among us and therefore had certain privileges. He was allowed to admire Jack Kerouac, while the rest of us delved into the apologetics of Zen Buddhism and Dostoevsky. Danas even gained the privilege of talking about what he would do if he became a millionaire or a rock star.
The only ‘Miss’ in our group, Vilija, walked with her eyes fixed on Saulius – no explanation is necessary – and for this reason she often tripped. Now, I kept my eyes fixed on Vilija. If you saw her you’d behave this way too. Of course, if you prefer Hollywood starlets or the women of Renoir or Kustodiev, you might think I’m crazy. Though it must be said that Vilija was great bait for drivers. When she stood in the middle of the road, her red garment, black hair and tiny glittering beads flapping, she looked like a plant cut out of a Max Ernst painting, and not one car would drive by without stopping. The rising and receding of the tide of her soul was visible in her face, her movements and her speech – they changed in a heartbeat and one could stare at them almost unblinkingly. By contrast, I was a terror to motorists. For some reason, my shaven head had acquired a sickly, grey hue and my old green riding breeches – I found them in my uncle’s attic – were always getting torn. Vilija had to mend them constantly.
No doubt you’ve already gathered that we were hitchhiking. The journey was a great success. We left Vilnius early in the previous morning, spent the night in the bus station in Daugavpils, and now, around noon, we were only ten or twenty kilometres from Pskov. Yes, we were headed for Pskov and Novgorod, the kingdom of the pealing bells and a million white Russian orthodox churches.
Saulius continued his recitation:
When that bird sang
The lily petals fluttered –
I concluded and bit my tongue:
And a horrifying ghost
Suddenly appeared –
‘Romas, you ridicule everything,’ muttered Vilija.
We, or rather Saulius, decided to walk the final ten kilometres. It was a wonderful time of year – the beginning of June, when the first thunder explodes from the clouds and pours mad greenery upon the ground. That greenery filled the space around us and entered the tips of our being.
The lilies of the valley withered
And the church bells tolled!
I didn’t interrupt the poetic mood of our group any more because there really were a great number of lilies of the valley around us. They grew along both sides of the road: the marble white blossoms gleamed, while the sturdy green leaves were almost invisible.
Vilija was the first to dive into the lilies of the valley, and she began to pull them out of the ground, willy-nilly. Danas followed, ever faithful to the traditions of the ‘flower children’. Saulius hesitated a bit (he was probably wondering how it all related to Zen aesthetics), but then he took off his shoes and waded in as though it were a well of milk. The lilies of the valley were perfect and the coolness wafting from them was so seductive that even I swam into the fragrant flora. We frolicked like ponies let out into the pasture.
Vilija let out a scream and dived into the very thick of the white flowers. It looked like bathing in champagne, I thought disdainfully. Nevertheless, when Saulius and Danas sat down among the lilies of the valley, I, of course, followed suit. The fragrance floated around us like a lost angel.
Saulius lay down and Vilija picked the flowers, placing them on his face. I watched as the blossoms moved on top of his quivering eyelids and expanding smile.
‘Why didn’t your wife come with us? She would have liked it here,’ said Vilija as she brushed the flowers from Saulius’s face and placed the palm of her hand on his forehead.
‘I think I’ve explained it many times. She’s working, writing her dissertation. And besides, just because she’s physically not here doesn’t mean that she is not here with us.’
No doubt I’ve forgotten to mention the most important thing! Saulius’s wife! When he was in the eleventh form Saulius read in some brochure that there were Buddhists in the Buryat ASSR (Autonomous Soviet Socialist Republic). He borrowed money from all of us just before exams began and travelled to see the holy mountain of Alhanai and the miraculous spring of Arshan. And then he returned – with a wife who was ten years older than him. But her parents, grandparents and great-grandparents were real Buddhists! Her name was Cagansara, which meant ‘white moon’. She was beautiful, exotic, spirited, eccentric and temperamental but she wasn’t interested in Buddhism. We all thought Saulius had made a grave mistake. Her intellect was boundless: she was interested in semantics, politics, parapsychology and exobiology; she painted placards and wrote poems, songs and plays campaigning for peace. Saulius, who was completely apolitical, a child ‘angry with the world’, before our very eyes became a man within a few months. He championed love for humanity, pacifism and decried the events in South Africa and Ulster. He began playing political songs in our school band. He was thoroughly familiar with the situation in El Salvador and Kuwait. He chose journalism as a course of study, even though he had always dreamed of being a painter.
Everyone was stunned, but it’s not all that easy to remove the glorified Saulius from the altar! Instead, we concentrated our anger on Cagansara (she would sometimes pick up Saulius after class on her motorcycle). Nevertheless, the anger turned to fascination and Cagansara soon became an object of our veneration, just like Saulius. Now she’s writing her dissertation, shockingly titled ‘The Cultural Crisis and the Philosopher’s Total Responsibility’.
Saulius and Cagansara have lived together for four years and their love for each other is boundless. Two years ago they had a son whom they named Marcel, in honour of Proust.
‘You love each other so much, how can you stand to be apart?’ Vilija asked in a strangely artificial voice.
‘We’re together all the time… she, myself and Marcel,’ said Saulius, biting a lily of the valley. ‘It is not important that our exterior shells are not always next to one another. I feel that her love floats over, like gusts of warm air from some yellow distance and caresses me with long strokes frozen in time…’
‘But, judging from your wife’s accounts, the physical is not totally meaningless. I’ve heard her say that an absolute communion between two people is possible only in the physical realm,’ said Vilija. (Cagansara really did recount some very intimate details about herself and Saulius –
and not always in a very dignified manner.)
‘Spiritual forces and soul games have very little meaning in your fantastic love story,’ Vilija continued. ‘Talk to Freud and he’ll tell you it’s nothing more than frustrated libido. Everything is much simpler than you’d like to believe.’
I looked at Vilija and saw a flash of fear cross her face. I knew that she realized that rather than getting closer to Saulius, she was drifting further away – burning her bridges and constructing barriers. I knew that she did not believe a word she was saying. I saw that she was beginning to tremble with terror when she saw Saulius’s eyes fill with shining sadness instead of anger, irony, or indifference, which were our usual defensive reactions. I understood her perfectly. I remember once when Saulius talked for a long time about the war in Vietnam. I sat and tried to seem disinterested in political matters – even the world at large – but my leg swinging nervously betrayed the fact that I would much rather hear of his and Cagansara’s nightly games. And then Saulius suddenly took out a photograph. It showed an American soldier holding an infant only a few months old by the feet and smashing him into the head of a huge, stone Buddha. Several bloodied little bodies lay close by and the mother was standing there stripped naked. I remember that I grabbed the photo with a disgusting greed and uttered a few revoltingly ironic words. I looked at Saulius and it was as though I was scalded with hot water. His handsome face held so much sadness and wonder, like a small boy who has suddenly realised that he will never find a magic wand and will never be able to fly.
The Dedalus Book of Lithuianian Literature Page 15