Vilnius Poker

by Ricardas Gavelis

  But over time my delight with the theory of pure reason faded. It explained a portion of Their pathologic, but did absolutely nothing to reveal the purpose. Who needs all that? Plato proclaims the kingdom of kanukai until he’s hoarse, drives the dreamers and poets out of his state, deceives the throngs without ever feeling a pang of conscience—but why? In whose name, to whose advantage? To the advantage of those who are called “philosophers,” that is, the caste who assert that it’s proper to live in just exactly this way? But what are the criteria for the caste? What binds and unites them? Maybe those “philosophers” are the smartest, or the most handsome, or the tallest, or must be brunettes, or have a mole on the right shoulder blade? There are no criteria; They aren’t united by either government or reason. All I needed was to read Kafka carefully to understand there’s no reason in Their system. Both Kafka’s The Trial and The Castle are a priori senseless and pointless—actually, Their purpose hides beyond the boundaries of ordinary logic. I understood that the germ of Their system, the source of Their gray magic, must be looked for at an extreme depth—beyond logic and reason, beyond the understanding of ethics and beauty, perhaps in the depths of time and mythology. Only there can you find the crossroads where Their development turned in an entirely different direction than human development.

  The biological aspect is extremely important here. Their biological origin obscures even racial differences: just look at how similar Brezhnev and Mao Tse-tung became in their kanukish faces. The depths of time must hide a hideous biological branching of species: They and humans. What’s to blame for that? Radiation? Emanations from outer space? The finger of God?

  The Arabian Gnostics mention a vague power, Satar, which turned people against the word of God; even though they heard it, they immediately forgot it. Ancient Japanese sources mention a handless god of the plague, a strange plague that killed only certain select people—most often poets and wise men. That’s just where Their roots are hiding. Humanity wasn’t entirely blind; they recorded Their traces on many occasions, and They are not so entirely omnipotent—they didn’t manage to erase all of the traces. But where did They emerge from, when did they weave their cobwebs over Europe and Asia? There are simpler questions too, questions that are closer to me. For example, this one: from where and when did some kind of Lithuanians show up on the shores of the Baltic Sea, speaking a language extremely close to Sanskrit, but without any nomadic traits? Did they hatch out of a cosmic egg rotting in the Lithuanian swamps, or did they at one time, for just an instant, know how to overcome enormous distances, and then forget that knowledge? Did the Lithuanians escape Them this way, or conversely—were they a secret unit, a landing-party thrown into Their expanding sphere? A question from more recent times, connected with the first: by what means did Lithuania in the 13th century become the only state in Europe that wasn’t christened, that didn’t give in to the kanukish dictates of the popes of the Middle Ages? And why did an unappeasable desire arise in that state to penetrate into Russia and attempt to conquer it? Was this Their satanic influence, or did the Lithuanians simply have a sacred mission to get to Their center?

  Kafka, understandably, couldn’t write about what Joseph K. was accused of. In his will he ordered that all of his writings should be destroyed, fearing Their revenge even after death. (Could he have foreseen Nietzsche’s tragedy?)

  None of us know what we’re accused of. Their purpose can’t be described logically; only metaphors and presentiments, absurd associations, or poetic juxtapositions can be of assistance here. The majority of all definitions and terms are dictated by Them. (They really love creating terms and slogans.) Only poetic intuition can lead to The Way; it’s the only thing that penetrates through their pathological armor like smell through solid rock. The thought that asserts that a river and a snake have a common soul because both of them wind, that all of the world’s sounds hide in silence, accomplishes more than the most rational theories in the world.

  Oh no, it’s no accident that the champions of kanukism—starting with Plato, ending with Stalin—so hate and fear fantasies and poetics, that they tried so hard to make everything pragmatic, to explain it, to substantiate it.

  Poetry kills Them, gives Them convulsions, wrings Their guts—like boric acid does to cockroaches!

  But there is no poetry around; everything is familiar and deathly boring. The post covered with peeling announcements (next to it should perch two stupefied, lame pigeons), then the wide steps to the library (and there—a degenerate dog, sniffing at the ground that’s been torn up by the construction workers, drawing strange hieroglyphics with its tail). All of this has already been or will be. And I must pay absolutely no attention to it all. I must not feel the world outside, not even my own body. Only by these means is it possible to guard against Their attack: to be a complete void, to be imbued with readiness to fend off an attack at any moment. Nothing concerns me and nothing can concern me. I am a tensed string; I am a compressed spring. I am nothing, so I am invincible.

  But Martynas keeps waving his arms, flinging cigarette ashes to the sides. What does he want from me? I don’t want to see this faded movie with third-rate actors. I have more important goals; I cannot waste time uselessly. I have to protect myself from Them; I need to hoard my black knowledge. I am no longer of this world; I am long since dead.

  These thoughts are always inspired by Them. Thank God, once more a bright light flashes in my head, once more I feel I love this painfully blathering little man, I even love the women in our section, I love Stefa, constantly getting underfoot. I love this entire accursed city, because without it, without these women, without Martynas and Stefa, I wouldn’t be, either. If I were to forget the others, I would be destroyed in the blink of an eye. After all, I have set out on The Way; I torture myself and go out of my mind not for my own amusement, but in their name, in the name of all the kanuked and those who still resist, however pathetic that may sound. They’re all that supports me. They and everyday life, in which you sometimes, at least briefly, succeed in forgetting the horrors and the secrets, in turning into an ordinary little person looking for a breather and amusement.

  “Listen, Vytautas,” says Martynas, “Let’s go somewhere and get a drink, huh? Some place where no one will find us.”

  You must not just decline, not regret in advance the time you’ll lose. You must obediently agree—when you’re balancing on a razor edge above the abyss, every meager little pleasure could be your last. You must go everywhere, wherever you’re asked: amuse yourself a bit, swim in a lake, or go mushroom hunting. You barely manage to nod, and Martynas has already reviewed the map of obscure bars in his head and unerringly picks Erfurtas: during the day it’s absolutely empty in Lazdynai. If someone like us were to show up there, they would be looking for solitude too. All that’s left is to find transportation.

  With Martynas I feel more or less safe (like I do with Stefa): he’s been carefully checked out. At one time I was convinced that Martynas was a dangerous spy of Theirs. I discovered that he had filled half of our computer’s disk with some sort of text of his, which I couldn’t read. The writing was encrypted, and if that wasn’t enough, you couldn’t get near it without going through a special procedure. It was like those books in special collections—it existed, but you couldn’t get at it. If you tried to break into it directly, the writing would have been entirely erased—we’d rather die than give our information up.

  An evil thought immediately began gnawing at me: They destroy every speck of our trust in other people. It’s horrible to live without trust, but it’s even more horrible when trusting no one most often turns out to be correct. That’s the sad experience of the kanukaworld. I didn’t count on Martynas a bit. I was almost convinced that he was hiding my kanukish dossier. It must exist; this is easy to prove. They keep me alive only because they aren’t omniscient. They can’t do away with me because they suspect I know too much. That’s the paradox of The Way: as long as I’m alive, I’m forced to be silent; h
owever, it’s possible to find the means to proclaim your findings after your death. They can’t destroy me as long as they haven’t precisely ascertained how much I know and how I hid my information. My dossier in Their files is really worth a fortune. I decided Martynas was gathering data about me. I observed him and became all the more convinced he was Their agent: he touched upon dangerous themes without being punished; with Elena listening, he denigrated the most sacred topics of the Soviet religion. You must always be most on your guard around the quiet ones and their antipodes—the chatterboxes that speak boldly and insolently. These types fear nothing because They protect them. The poor guy thought he had guarded his writing by encryption, codes, and triple safeguards. He forgot the fundamental law: that which can be written can also be read. All it takes is time and intelligence.

  Reading writings of that sort is even more disgusting than reading a stranger’s diary. When a person writes something down in black on white, he is aware, at least unconsciously, that a stranger’s eye might see it. Frequently he may even secretly desire this. Martynas’s writings were in essence designed for him alone. I mucked straight into someone else’s soul with dirty shoes, and by then it was impossible to erase the traces. Unfortunately, in the battle with Them it’s impossible to keep to moral standards. I had to read those writings. I certainly would not use my knowledge for evil. With an enormous effort of will, I forced myself to forget everything, to literally erase it from my brain. I must go down my Way cleanly, without the theft of a stranger’s soul. There was only one thing I didn’t forget, one thing I took note of with joy: I could rely on Martynas.

  Understandably, up to a certain point.

  No one can be relied upon completely. I can walk this earth only as long as They merely suspect me. If I were to tell someone everything I know—I’d be dead the same instant.

  Probably I’ll perish one way or another. Perhaps They are restrained only by mysterious kanukish rituals or the commandments of some unknown religion. Or maybe it’s quite simply because my turn has not come yet; maybe They are extremely scrupulous and pedantic.

  We were set up royally in the bar: no one flitted in front of us. A single fellow next to us was drowning himself in drink: he’d order two drinks at a time, toast himself by banging the two glasses together, and in one gulp down the right-hand one. Then he’d sit there like a ghost for a long time, and suddenly coming alive, down the second one. Then he would order two more. He was a stocky, somewhat overweight man of uncertain age with coarse black hair. His hands were thick-fingered and clumsy and overgrown with thick fur. It hardly seemed he could have been sent to spy on us: he’d already been sitting there for quite some time. Besides, he didn’t pay the least attention to us. The bartender was another story—a lively, elegant swell. His forehead, underneath his thickly curled hair, was unnaturally white. I acutely sensed him secretly squinting at us as he snuggled up behind a column. I wanted to go to a different bar, but a gulp of cognac settled me down somewhat. I looked around carefully, trying to sense what was hiding in the bar’s twilight. The mood of a bar frequently testifies to what has gone on there once upon a time, and sometimes it even gives away what is only still to be. Places designed for human gatherings speak a strange language when they’re deserted. This bar was just silent and waiting. A drunken couple made their way out of the restaurant, newcomers no doubt. From some Moscow or another: provocatively fashionable clothes, glaring make-up on the girl, and something essentially alien about them—the movements weren’t right; the expressions weren’t right; they had an unpleasant intrinsic vulgarity. People like that think they’re masters everywhere and at all times. (Gedis explained that this is characteristic of Americans too.) The guy casually looked over the bar, shooting insolent looks at both of us. The bored girl leaned against his shoulder, embracing his hips. Unexpectedly nimbly, Thickfingers jumped off the barstool and, with a lynx-like step, stalked over to the newcomers. The guy looked at him as if he were an empty spot. I observed their strange pantomime attentively: Thickfingers authoritatively explained something to them, the guy tried to argue, but suddenly the newcomers quieted down as if they’d been shut off and obediently turned back to the restaurant. The victor, with a strange smile, returned to the bar and immediately grabbed a drink.

  “You’re Lithuanians!” he declared unexpectedly, turning to the two of us and pronouncing the word as if it were a curse—I had heard that tone a million times in the camp. “I can tell right off. This is my third time in Vilnius.”

  He spoke Russian carefully, enunciating his words—the way people talk who are accustomed, even after five drinks, to doing their work and demonstrating that alcohol doesn’t affect them at all. He immediately turned away again.

  “Thank God,” the bartender accommodatingly hovered over us. “I was starting to think that you were from there too.”

  “From where?” Martynas inquired belligerently.

  “That guy over there isn’t letting anyone out of the building,” the bartender announced furtively. “He’s KGB. There’s a pistol under his arm. He’s stopping everyone going to work and checking them out. Maybe it’s one of their conventions?”

  “Stop it,” Martynas boldly shot back. “They hold their conventions in ruins and garbage dumps.”

  “Well, thank God,” the bartender smiled indulgently, “At least there’s a couple of normal people.”

  He walked off to the battery of bottles and then hid himself behind the column again. I was disappointed. The bartender was an innocent bystander, and Thickfingers was just an ordinary KGB agent, the type that serves Them without even knowing who they’re serving. Vilnius thrusts total solitude on you when you don’t want it, but snatches away any hope of hiding when that’s what you’re after. It will invariably stick you with a girl who brazenly pokes you with her breasts, or a depressing citizen who insistently treats you to drinks you don’t like. And sometimes it plants a KGB agent with a pistol under his arm next to you.

  “The worst of it,” Martynas spoke up sadly, “is that the Lord God is a humorist. At one time I considered God a madman, a sadist, and a criminal. Then I decided he suffers from an inferiority complex; that’s why he tries to deride people as much as possible, so he can feel how great he is in comparison. But I’ve caught on at last. God is a global comedian. There’s no need to search for meaning or depth in the world. The world is a black comedy, whose ONLY purpose is to make God laugh.”

  I wanted, for at least a little while, to believe that all the forced labor camps are nothing more than a giant comedy, that all of Vilnius is just a giant comedy, a silly joke in honor of God. But for some reason I kept seeing the children of the camps: it seemed at any moment sickly children with shaven heads would start climbing out from under the bar, from behind the brown curtains, from underneath the carpet, begging for help with their toothless mouths.

  “Maybe that God of yours is a criminal, anyway, if he finds suffering and blood amusing?”

  “No!” Martynas kept getting sadder. “You have to understand God! It’s all just a comedy to him. A theater show! There are no victims, no blood, it’s all fictitious. God laughs his head off when he hears little people making majestic pronouncements and then acting out pure stupidity. The way they honor morality before going out to butcher one another. He knows that the blood is squeezed from beets, that the torture sessions are intentionally laid on thick and senseless so that they’d be sillier, and that those who are supposedly burned at the stake shake off the ashes and are already preparing for the next scene . . . It’s really sad to know that all of your painful work, all your aspirations have only one purpose—to make the Lord laugh . . . When you start INTENTIONALLY playing in the comedy of the absurd, it’s easier . . . Let’s drink!”

  He poured the whole drink into his mouth and made a horrible face: Martynas never knew how to drink, which you wouldn’t say about our neighbor with the pistol. He apparently was of the type that sobered up as they drank. He slowly moved over to u
s and fixed his gaze on me.

  “Calm down!” he declared, smiling wryly, “I’ve come in peace.”

  He seemed to be ready to explode from self-assurance and self-satisfaction. I saw his eyes and I was amazed. They were not at all what I had expected. The beautiful light blue irises moved enigmatically; there was most definitely no emptiness behind those eyes.

  “Lithuanians!” He rolled the word out again, practically spitting it. “And what is it you want, you Lithuanians? What do you expect? Who are you? I want to understand. To understand! I’ve always wanted to understand every variety of human, even the most pathetic.”

  He ostentatiously lit up a cigarette and carefully looked me over again, then Martynas. His jacket under his left arm really was bulging. From close up his fingers didn’t look all that thick.

  “You still believe the world’s going to help you out? You’re happy that the European Parliament, for the thousandth time, voted for a free Lithuania? That the U.S. Congress commemorates Lithuania Day? What use is it to you? It’s nothing more than a delusion . . . don’t tell me you can’t distinguish a delusion from reality? You rave about a referendum on the separation question? We could arrange that referendum for you, just for a laugh. And what of it? We’ll apply a little bit of pressure, and you’ll vote the way you should.”

  “And if we don’t?” Martynas got his back up immediately.

  “What do you mean, if you don’t? You’d be afraid. Just try it—and there won’t be anything left of you.” His hand grabbed the glass the bartender shoved at him. “And by the way, let’s say you don’t. So, what of it? We’ll make the ballots change color when they’re already in the ballot box, so what should be marked on them will mark itself. But why the complications? My God, after all, we’re the ones counting the ballots . . .”