Vilnius Poker

by Ricardas Gavelis

  The inside of the church was virtually unchanged: the same dirty walls, painted-over frescoes, broken benches, and unimaginably grubby floor. Gedis didn’t allow anything to be tidied. He invited only me, but apparently didn’t forbid the others from inviting people. The church was practically crammed to the gills; everyone sat wherever they could: on dirty boxes, bags of fiberglass, rotten benches. Some thoughtfully brought folding chairs along. An eerie silence reigned; a couple of lively girls who tried to chatter and giggle instantly quieted down. You really had no inclination to raise a racket. A dusty dimness hung over the church; it was somber, harsh, and depressing. Every cough was echoed by gloomy rumbles in the vaults. The grand piano stood right below the altar; big drums and little drums, boxes, pots of all sizes, sticks and rods were stacked around it. Wooden bells had been assembled and gongs set up. All of it stood against a backdrop of crumbling walls, debris, broken parts of some sort, and ruined holy sculptures. Gedis had picked an ideal spot: sitting there, beholding that grimace of chaos, you automatically expected something even more morose. At last, Gedis sat down at the piano and announced in a tired, detached voice:

  “This evening I play for my friend Vytautas. We’ll play one thing. It’s called ‘Vilnius Poker’.”

  Now I sit cowering in the middle of the church of garbage and wine, now I hear the first chords, they aim straight at the heart, still quivering from the strange name. For the time being, Gedis plays alone, testing himself and me, his hands and my ears. I still don’t know what he wants, I still don’t hear the sharp rhythmic blows, even though a lame drummer, with the pained face of a jester, stands at the foot of the altar, by now he’s selecting drumsticks, by now he’s striking the tightened hide of the drum, he widens his eyes and turns his pupils to the sky, flashing the whites, waving the drumsticks right by Gedis’s head, thundering a dozen rhythms together, while Gedis flings me an inexplicable warning, his hands run up and down like crazy, the alto roars angrily, and Gedis distorts the melody, escapes through modal improvisation, through the free, he’s flying into the realm of pure spirit, weaving a vision, and I suddenly feel the first gaze: only Gedis can create an illusion of such strength; the music itself is looking at me, it’s staring sullenly, with the stare of my childhood years, with the enervating stare of Vilnius’s streets; this music is truly meant for me, it looks, pries, stares, and leers at me, but not just at me—the others’ faces also darken and contort, some of them look around in fright, but quickly stiffen and hang their heads: they have deadened and faded, the way their lives fade and die, but the music does not cease, the bassist is furiously driving nails straight into my temples, now three are playing, now four, now five, the alto saxophonist and a stout girl are shrieking, they scream over one another, the two of them are grappling in all seriousness, apparently they must fight, I look at them, I hear them: this isn’t music anymore; they are fighting for real, a fight to the death that never ends, that no one wins and everyone loses: two or three whack the little drums, the big drums, the pots, it’s a real rattling racket; I follow Gedis’s hands, I don’t hear the melody so much as I guess it, it’s the nonbeing melody of our nonbeing lives: Gedis is dreaming now; a thunderous, raging dream, vague echoing towers (perhaps Čiurlionis?), confusing corridors, bookcases, plank beds, barracks, eyes of horror looking out from everywhere; cold spreads through my chest because it’s the void, it’s nonexistence looking at me, my fear looks at me, my past, the barbed wire of the camp, it’s naked Bolius gobbling down grass, he keeps gobbling it down, again and again he gobbles—grass, grass, grass, Gedis stubbornly repeats the same phrase over and over, there’s a mass of musicians beneath the altar by now, they all shriek, scream, wail, it’s a wail over a human being (Bolius? My father? My grandfather?); they wail so loudly because they can no longer do anything else, the music grows, seizes the entire space, it wants to drown out the world, it won’t let you think of anything, it imperiously stops time: everything takes only a second, an endless, timeless second, a second of penetration—I calm myself, I convince myself it’s just music, it’s just a concert, but the faces around me grow darker still, the debris under my feet trembles and rises from the floor, visions and dreams explode inside me, they glitter horribly with fragments of evil, I won’t let them, I won’t, I don’t want to remember anything, it’s a vision of death, it’s a dream of death, I won’t let them, I won’t—but they don’t listen, they, the musicians, they aren’t listening to anything anymore, they’ve caught us all in a trap; the vaults send back horrible sounds in different echoes, they’re playing a new phrase, but the vaults keep repeating the old—I concentrate, I concentrate even more, this is a nothing more than a concert, there they are: Gedis is practically poking the keyboard with his nose, the drummer tires and falls silent; at last, they let me catch my breath a bit, the saxophonists look at one another and converse gracefully in heavy, damp notes, I almost hear the melody again (some kind of blues?), the music shoves and thrusts itself inside of me, takes my breath away, it’s sad, terribly, terribly sad, I’ve lost something and I’ll never get it back, I’ll never be the same as I was, the saxophonists still sling lazy, indulgent notes, slower, still slower—that’s not allowed, that’s impossible, the music chokes and suffocates, the notes stumble over one another, save, save the music! Now Gedis is playing solitude, a sodden, slow Vilnius solitude, he plays so sadly, softly, sadly, almost Chopin, but the others don’t want to allow it; after an instant of rest, they join in again, the sounds push, squabble, shove their way in out of turn, the vaults send them back, the dirty walls, the ravaged stained-glass windows resonate, the fragments of chaos on the floor tremble and jump about, the church itself is playing—that’s what’s I find so horrible: if they rouse the church of garbage wine, it could play music that would drive us all insane, that’s mortally dangerous, but they don’t pay attention to anything, they play louder and louder still, all of them at the same time, the dusty dimness howls, all of my bones resonate—if you’d cover your ears, you’d hear with all of your body, every pore of your skin, your eyes and the tips of your fingers; they’re determined to break down all the doors, knock down all the walls, to show the nightmare that solitude turns into: it’s impossible to play any louder, but they keep getting louder, louder, and louder, in accord like a single instrument; Gedis truly has taught them miracles: the unified, constantly growing sound slowly pushes everything aside, it pushes me out of myself, it sucks out my blood, it extracts my brains (is this what Gedis was after?), I recognize Vilnius’s oppressive, destructive power, it appears you can play it, but it’s dangerous: the menace is strangling, a universal menace, around me I see frightened faces distorted by pain, apparently by now they’re sorry they came here, while those others keep getting louder, even though there’s no way they can, the lame jester bashes pots on the floor, splinters scatter to the sides (perhaps that’s how our dreams shatter, our love, our spirit?), sweat pours down Gedis’s face (they keep getting louder, still louder!), the thunder destroys me, I’m losing my mind because it’s impossible to run from it, it’s everywhere, like Vilnius itself, I start to turn into something else: an imbecile, a naked crawling Bolius, a bat, a cockroach, while insane Gediminas angrily rips away all the covers, tears the skin off me, there are maws everywhere about, devouring the light and happiness, devouring the world, devouring people alive, me first of all, and then all who have gathered here, before I come undone I grin with bloody fangs, I beat repulsive wings, I must stop them, shut them up, break their instruments, but I can’t budge: the sounds have collapsed on me, overpowered me, pressed me to the floor, they can’t go on anymore either, they ooze sweat and tears, they’re wracked by spasms, they’ve lost sight of the world, the theme, harmony, everything—this cannot go on forever, they no longer have the strength, but Gedis suddenly grows a third hand, it plays that which no person with two hands could ever play: my pain and the despair of Vilnius, and Lithuania’s ruin, and my endless waiting, and the barbs poking out of Their
eyes, and the ruins of a soul, and that which I know has not yet been, but inevitably will be, and love, and even Lolita, whom I have not laid eyes on yet. Gedis has stretched himself out on the sacrificial altar, he’s playing the real secret about the stares, about the stumpy phallus of Vilnius, about dangers, dangers, I’m probably weeping, because I’ve understood: I have to save everyone—from the stares, from doom, from the cockroaches (there they run between Gedis’s fingers: a mass of hoarse, unharmonious notes): Gedis has played it, he has shown how the soul vanishes, how it is no more—only screeches, screams, insanity, soulless ecstasy, chaos remain—that’s how Gedis imagines the eternal poker game of Vilnius. The two singers are no longer screeching—they’re roaring, one can’t stand it, she’s unbuttoned her blouse to the waist, the alto has crammed two saxophones and a clarinet into his mouth, the veins in his temples will burst at any moment, the jester is no longer of this earth, he jerks about as if he has St. Vitus’s dance, the bassist’s hand has cramped, he’s fallen out of the general fury, dazed, he looks around, while Gedis, that insane demiurge, rises from the keyboard, snatches at the piano strings and listens intently. He still hears everything, every note; he’s doing everything deliberately. The others have probably gone deaf, because the sound has reached its culmination, neither the instruments nor the voices can bear more, neither the ears nor the church’s walls can stand more. Wherever he swims to—there’s nowhere to swim to, as far as the eyes can see there is no solid ground—save him, save him, he’ll drown!

  And suddenly Gedis straightens up, lowers his arms and freezes like a statue. That very instant everyone goes quiet, at that very moment, all at the same time—that’s impossible, it’s unnatural. It seems as if Gedis unplugged them. They wander off quietly, as if they had never stood there, as if that nightmare never happened, as if nothing at all ever happened. Not a single person remains below the altar, only scattered instruments, debris, and silence, in which the ears ring sharply. My hands are shaking, I’m short of breath, my heart splutters like a failing pump; it’s not driving blood into my temples—it’s driving lead. It’s horrible, glum and depressing: I want to cry like a little child, because there is no hope and never will be. Gedis sensed that first and mercilessly convinced me of it. That wasn’t music anymore, or at least not only music—that was a séance of black magic, an eye-opening ritual, a moment of truth, the Spanish momento de verdad.

  I had already dreamed this music; I knew Gedis well. It was somewhat easier for me. That hideous, inhuman world crashed upon the others without any warning. I understood why Gedis didn’t want to invite anyone. He was merciful; he knew what the consequences could be. Now there was a crowd of dead people sitting in the church. With his music Gedis turned them into what they already really were. The distorted, darkened faces didn’t move; everyone’s eyes were like glass. They all sat transfixed. They were sitting too long; I panicked momentarily, when I thought of what would happen if we had to revive them. After all, Gedis surely wasn’t going to play lively wake-up music.

  The seconds passed by mercilessly; they were all done for by now. A petite brown-haired girl saved them. She suddenly thrashed like a captured bird and cried out. That was a sign that it was still possible to live. As long as a person is able to cry, he still exists. All of them slowly came to, quietly stood up, and immediately started dispersing. No one applauded, everyone was dying to get out of there as quickly as possible: not a one of the thoughtful ones took their folding chairs along. Many staggered as if they were stunned; some were led by the hand by their neighbors.

  “What kind of poker is this!” a sad, bent-shouldered young man next to me muttered, “It’s the nuclear explosion of Vilnius. We’ve all gotten a dose of radiation. Our hair and teeth will fall out.”

  “The insanity of Vilnius!” his girl answered fearfully.

  Only then did I look at the musicians. They were alive, but incredibly worn out. They glanced at one another with stunned gazes; apparently they couldn’t believe they had really played all that. Gedis was sitting in a side nave, naked to the waist, having thrown his sweat-drenched shirt aside. I wanted to tell him everything at once, I wanted to fall down on my knees in front of him; I was overflowing with despair and lament, but not a word would come out of my mouth. I could no longer return to the ordinary, normal world, but, like always, Gedis rescued me. He had understood long ago that music is just music, and people are just people. He shrugged his shoulders and muttered in an brusque voice:

  “It’s not my fault. They’re just not used to it. Besides, I didn’t invite them.”

  Alongside Gedis, leaning on the wall, sat the pale lame drummer, a bit further away the bassist Tonis was massaging his colleague’s hand.

  “I told them!” he grumbled angrily. “I warned them! Just be happy everyone’s alive.”

  They looked as if they had just been rescued from a sinking ship. The saxophonist, filthy and covered with cobwebs, climbed down from the altar like a ghost and stared straight at me with the gaze of a madman. The singer, wrapped in the flaps of her blouse, staggered over from somewhere and looked everyone over with watery eyes:

  “I can’t find the buttons. Maybe someone has a needle and thread?”

  “Just imagine, despite the entire forty-three minutes, one person, at the very least, didn’t get it,” complained Gedis in a dead voice. “This tousled guy came up to me and very politely asked what it was I wanted to say by it.”

  “What a Herod!” muttered Tonis, lighting a cigarette. “You practically finish off eight people, just to say a few unspeakable words to your friend. And for God’s sake, explain why on earth you needed a title.”

  “There wasn’t any title,” Gedis answered. “It came into my head after I had already opened my mouth. I shouldn’t have said anything at all. But no one is safe from stupidity.”

  “I broke my saxophone,” the alto player complained, carefully picking the cobwebs off his jacket. “I was almost . . . almost climbing out of that hellhole already . . . but suddenly someone grabbed me by my coattails and pulled me back . . . and I couldn’t play a single intelligent note anymore . . . nothing but holes around me, and no notes . . . horrors . . .”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Gedis suddenly jumped up. “You can’t hear this. If you’ve listened to the music, you can’t hear how it was done. They’ll recover in a minute and one after the other start sharing their impressions. Come on! We’ll go out into the street, and then we’ll walk and walk, right up to the river.”

  The old street had a difficult time penetrating the fog. Fall leaves rolled underfoot—fragments of Gedis’s vision. No one was ever as close to me as Gedis was that night. I had no idea what I should do: console him or console myself, tell him about the camp, about the people with no brains, or ask him something. I couldn’t remain silent, but I didn’t know what to say. Any words seemed meager compared to the scream welling up inside me. I was no longer alone; I felt that Gedis would always be next to me. Our closeness was real: people aren’t united by common victories or joys—only a common loss, a common despair, can unite them.

  “You’re really not sorry for them?” I asked.