Vilnius Poker

by Ricardas Gavelis

  In the meantime, that gray-haired figure kept staring at me, pressed up against the graveyard fence.

  He meant something to me sometime in my life, but I couldn’t place him.

  I’ll trap Vasilis in his cabin in the swamps yet; I’ll get myself there straight through the mire. He’ll answer all my questions yet.

  At the time I practically didn’t notice how or when he disappeared. I didn’t see what was going on outside myself; I was only wandering around inside. The period of guessing and suspicions ended that day. The fateful performance, which will drive me out of my mind sooner or later, had begun. Up until then I could still hope everything that was going on was not really for real; I could convince myself that it was my excessive sensitivity, my predilection for fantasizing and making strange comparisons, that was to blame. Now everything was finally clear. Before it was too late, I had to do what I had not thought of doing until then. I had to thoroughly inspect Gedis’s apartment. The six-month period after his death was coming to an end; in a few weeks some mathematician, rejoicing that he would at last have his own home, would take it over. The apartment would go to a stranger—Gedis didn’t have any relatives and didn’t leave a will.

  Suddenly I asked myself: did he really not leave one?

  They cannot bear a spiritual legacy. They tried in every possible way to destroy Lenin’s political legacy.

  They fear any kind of spiritual inheritance. They strive to have a person disappear without leaving a trace upon this earth. They honor and support a material inheritance by all means possible.

  I broke into Gedis’s sealed apartment without the least apprehension; I felt no danger. The rooms met me with an oppressive smell of dust; they were ill-disposed and foreign. Nothing there was the same as what it once was. Gedis’s spirit didn’t hover there; They hadn’t just taken him away from me—they had taken him away from the entire world. I couldn’t even come across any memories there. All that met me was the oppressive smell of dust and a dead silence. My hope—that I would be visiting Gedis—was in vain. He was gone, only a portrait, not at all similar to the original, gazed from the blue wallpaper. My hope—that I would find his secret testament here—was in vain. Neither Gedis’s spirit, nor his scent, nor his memory were there anymore. There was only a labyrinth of things, which memory told me to call his things. But it seemed even the things were different. I found no sign of Gedis, neither in the office between the books nor in the drawers between the pages of formulas. Despite myself, I remembered how he died. Only They could erase a person from the world like that. Gedis vanished without a trace. With trembling fingers I stroked his piano, but even in its depths no memory of the music that had been remained. It was gloomily, irreparably dead. The dark polished surface was covered with a wanton layer of dust; I suddenly decided the dust was to blame for everything. I started angrily brushing it off—with my hands, my handkerchief, my sleeves. Hysterically, I cleaned the piano, the books, the windowsills. I crawled around the room on my knees, trying to bring it back to life. The dust I had raised came down again like gray sand. It stuck to my clothes and skin; after a minute or two I was just as drab as the dead things in the room. I realized that They had lured me here, probably wanting to warn me of what happens to those who are not submissive to Them: a dusty heap of dead things. I was no more than one of those things myself. Something snapped in my chest, under my heart; I cried like a small child, sorry for what, I didn’t know, not for Gediminas, not even for myself—for something for which there is no name. Every tear would instantly soak into the carpet of dust without leaving so much as a darker spot—only a tiny indentation. Those indentations in the dust were all that was left of Gediminas. Still not understanding what had driven me here, I looked around the bedroom and the office for the last time, then turned into the living room to say goodbye to Gedis’s piano, silenced for the ages. I sadly opened the door and froze on the threshold.

  In the very middle of the living room, sprawled in the leather armchair, sat a tall, gray old woman in dirty clothes, the queen of dust. The thick fabric of her skirt didn’t even cover her knees; her scruffy sweater was tied together with strings. She sat there comfortably, as if she were sitting at home, and pulled at the stuck-together ends of her hair with chewed-up fingernails. She looked at me without blinking and said nothing. She waited for me to recognize her and say something first. I looked attentively at the repulsive, wrinkled face; I sensed the stench of a long unwashed body growing stronger all the time. I wasn’t surprised that she had suddenly shown up here, where no one should have been. I vaguely sensed that, not finding Gedis, I was obliged to find at least her. I went right up to her; she smiled wryly, suddenly let go of the ends of her hair, stretched out her hand and insolently, shamelessly, grabbed me by the very crotch.

  “Come closer, Vytuk,” she croaked in a low voice, “Don’t be afraid, it’s me. Come closer!”

  Even by the creek it’s hellishly hot, although it’s still only the end of spring. Grandfather is right: the summer of the apocalypse is coming—and what will be left standing? The sun hungers to burn everything up; dust hangs over the fields, threatening to swallow everything; but your mouth is parched for other reasons too. You stand on the scorched grass next to the black ravine and look at Madam Giedraitienė lying on a sky-blue blanket. Everyone else from the two villas is gone, the two of you are alone today. She came down to the water, although the heat probably doesn’t bother her—it’s enough for her to wave her hand and even the weather would obey her. She’s as majestic as a queen, or maybe even a goddess. You’ve always hungered to touch her, but you don’t dare—that would be sacrilege, your arms would wither away. She slowly opens her eyes—she felt your presence. She’ll drive you away immediately, put you to shame for secretly admiring her. But no, she looks at you kindly, her head gracefully turned.

  “Come closer,” she says in a deep queen’s voice. “We’ll chat about something. It’s so hot and boring.”

  Her deep, dewy eyes pull you like a magnet, they scorch more fiercely than the apocalyptic sun. You approach carefully, looking only at her legs. You’ve never seen such long and slender legs. When you and your friends crawled under the stairs at school and stared greedily with your heads upturned, you saw thousands upon thousands of them. But none of them were so long and slender, none of them could be: Madam Giedraitienė is special; she’s a queen, or maybe even a goddess.

  “We’ve been left by ourselves, Vytuk . . . Giedraitis is in Kaunas; he’s in meetings all the time. Robertas ran out to the Nationalist Youth gathering . . . The two of us are all alone, like on a deserted island . . . Well, come on, why did you stop?”

  An intoxicating scent, the scent of enchantment, emanates from her; you dive into its lush waves. Can a human being smell that way? You should close your eyes and stop looking at her long, slender legs. You’re sinful and disgusting, you’re not fit to even stand next to her, next to a goddess.

  “Sit down!”

  “I’m wet, I’ll dirty the blanket.”

  She laughs unexpectedly, stretches out her hand and touches your knee, then even higher up. It’s so unexpected that you go numb all over, and then shudder like all the electricity in the world is shaking you.

  “You little wet thing! You’re even shivering. It isn’t healthy to have wet pants on.”

  The irises of her eyes are crooked; she looks at you: not at your face—at your belly, your legs and somewhere else too. Her gaze burns, the places where she glances even hurt. Your thin white shorts are soaked through; you’re completely transparent, you’re more naked than naked. You stand right next to her face, she sees all of you. It’s torture: her glance and her white-toothed smile will kill you.

  “Just the two of us . . .” she says pensively.

  Her voice intoxicates even more so than her scent. You shouldn’t look at her legs; you close your eyes and try to hide in the reddish-brown fog of your eyelids. Once more you see yesterday’s scene: the window of their villa,
Giedraitis with your grandfather; in place of her intoxicating voice you hear their angry argument; thank God you can save yourself from her for at least a little while. “We’ve gotten in touch with Estonia and Latvia—it’s the same thing there,” Giedraitis thunders. “Their market is flooded with counterfeit money too. There’s millions of counterfeit litai circulating here.” “The Russians?” Grandfather asks impatiently. “Yes, it’s Moscow’s work. It’s an absolute state secret, Mr. Vargalys . . .” “Is it still worth talking about a state?” Grandfather says bitingly. “Europe will spit in our beards and mind their own business.” “You’re a pessimist, Mr. Vargalys. It’s an old trick, they want to provoke our financial ruin, but they won’t succeed. Lithuania’s currency is one of the most stable in the world.” “If the Russian dragon has opened its maw, everything will go to hell!” Grandfather angrily cuts him off. “The English will suffer a bit without Lithuanian hogs, but they won’t tangle with the Russkies. Remember Czechoslovakia . . . That Georgian will swallow us whole. He feeds on infants and snacks on states . . . Pack your bags, Mr. Giedraitis. Or drink champagne.” “There’s no point in declaring the apocalypse, Mr. Vargalys. The government is taking very serious measures . . .” “Shit!” Grandfather throws back, “It’s all shit! When the end of the world is nigh, it isn’t the time to sit in meetings.” “Mr. Vargalys, the Cabinet has decided to ask you . . .” “My thanks to the Cabinet!” Grandfather bellows, “Thank you for the warning. At least I’ll buy up some champagne while it’s still to be had. Pretty soon Russian vodka will be all that’s left.” “But Mr. Vargalys . . .” “And there won’t be any misters, everyone will be comrades! Where’s the Russian army, I ask you? Who let it in? You let it in yourselves, you blithering idiots!” “Mr. Vargalys, all civilized countries . . .” “Those countries of yours have hidden themselves under the bed! The Führer and the Georgian have sliced up Europe like a cake. That’s it! Bring on the champagne! We’ll hold a wake for Lithuania!”

  “You’ll shiver to death,” you come to your senses and instantly feel how the muscle in your thigh is trembling, as if it wanted to jump away from her fiery fingers. “What shall we think up? . . . Listen, you take off that wet stuff, those shorts. What’s the big deal? We’re like family, after all. Don’t be afraid, no one will see us here . . .”

  You don’t believe your ears, maybe you’re imagining her voice speaking of impossible things—you quickly open your eyes and again you see her legs, then the contour of her belly under the smooth fabric, then her bosom. Then the neck of a swan, then the eyes; they scorch your masculinity with the thin, wet cloth stretched over it. She really said that. Doesn’t she realize you’re already grown, that there’s nothing that could make you do that?

  “Listen, Vytuk,” she coos, and keeps pressing you with her fiery fingers. “You’ll get sick like this . . . Don’t be afraid, no one will come by. It’s just the two of us. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of me?”

  Doesn’t she understand? You look sadly into her eyes, but you can’t see anything through the tears. How much you’ve dreamt of her! How you’ll dress up in a new French suit, and she’ll say in surprise: how handsome you are, Vytuk! How you’ll save her from drowning, she’ll press her wet hair to your shoulder and say: you’re my hero, Vytuk! Is she teasing? You stand opposite her face more naked than naked and as hot as if scalded by fire.

  “Now, what’s to be done with you?” she bites her lip and lowers her voice. “All right, if that’s the way it is, I’ll get undressed too. We’ll be like two Robinson Crusoes on a deserted isle . . . After all, we’re like family, aren’t we?”

  You don’t have the time to either be surprised or to cry out, and she’s already undressing. Her swimming suit catches on her breasts, it doesn’t want to come down, but finally they squeeze out; thrashing, they roll down her chest as if they were alive. You can go crazy from such beauty, you try not to see them, while she looks at you and says commandingly:

  “Well, help then, what are you waiting for?”

  You can’t disobey the queen; she kneels, her hands pressed on her naked hips, and transfixes you with her eyes. You kneel next to her and pull the suit all the way down to the ground—roughly, with your face turned away, but your face turns on its own, on their own your eyes look at her belly button, then farther down, at the hair, from which spreads an even more intoxicating scent of enchantment. She laughs hoarsely, gracefully wriggles out of the collapsed material.

  “And you? Can I help?”

  You jump up like you’ve been scalded and quickly take off your dripping shorts. She keeps smiling, and you stand there like a blockhead.

  “Well, see now . . . nothing to it . . . We’re simply Robinson Crusoes, floating to hell with all of Lithuania, and what is there to do, if not . . .”

  You feel weak in the knees and ashamed, hopelessly ashamed. Your masculinity hangs frightened and shriveled. Even now it’s bigger and more handsome than her husband’s, even if he is a minister—but you know what it can be like! Suddenly you realize that you have long since wanted to stand in front of her as naked as can be—big and strong, a real, wild Crusoe, so she would see all of you, so she would be charmed and say: I didn’t think you were such a man, Vytuk!

  “Well, lie down, you’ll warm up.”

  You stretch out carefully, not touching her. You insanely want to caress her breast or her slender leg. You want it to the point of pain—and what would she do? But after all, she won’t kill you. You slowly move your hand closer, infinitely slowly, it’ll move that way for weeks and months. But afterwards, after those weeks and months, you’ll touch her at last—and what will happen then? She’ll draw back and cry out, and you’ll crush, squeeze, squeeze her breasts, squeeze . . . She sighs aloud, moves strangely, you get scared and close your eyes again. She probably sensed your horrible desires.

  “Vytuk, I’m so hot and lazy . . . My blood’s not moving at all. Be good, massage me, will you? . . . Press hard, you hear?”

  You may touch her, she said so herself! You kneel with your knees secretly nuzzling her hip, slowly stroke her stomach, knead with your fingers, and stroke in circles again. You know what a massage is; if she’d let you, you’d massage her a hundred times a day. Her eyes are closed; you can look at her as much as you want. Your masculinity swells, raises its head—what will happen if she opens her eyes and sees it? Let her just say so—you’d lick the bottoms of her feet and between her toes . . . One by one, you’d lick every one of the barely visible little hairs on her calves . . . With your fingers, no, with your lips, you’d clean out the most horrible places—if she’ll just lie with her eyes closed and smile.

  “Lower, lower,” she whispers, “Still lower . . .”

  You rub your fingers in circles, twist and turn them around as best you can, and she moves her belly strangely, raising it, maybe you’re not doing something right.

  “Lower!” she orders hoarsely.

  But there’s nowhere lower to go! Your fingers tangle in the hair; you don’t know what to do. Her long slender legs slowly spread out, the thighs separate from one another, and there, in the hair, something is showing by now, something you don’t dare look at. She opens her eyes, her glance is angry, almost furious—in a minute she’ll slap you and drive you away.

  But she doesn’t drive you away, instead, angrily, horribly, she grasps your swollen masculinity and rapaciously pulls it to herself, scarcely getting her fingers around it. It seems your insides will tear in half any minute, but she yanks at you without easing up, pulls at it and smiles wryly, horribly.

  “Enough! Come on now!” she orders in a croaking, drinker’s voice. “Just don’t pretend you haven’t tried it!”

  The old woman reeked, overwhelmingly and irredeemably. Was it possible Giedraitienė was somewhere close by all the time? Maybe I’d even run into her, looked at her without recognizing her?

  “I knew you’d come . . . I waited . . .” It seemed an old, rusty mechanism creaked out the words.
“I knew . . .”

  “You . . . you live here?”

  “What do you need here?” She didn’t listen to me; she just continued to croak her strange sing-song. “Haven’t you noticed the smell? Haven’t you seen those hands with the swollen joints?”

  I recoiled involuntarily: that live pit of offal was impossible to bear.

  “Don’t run off, this is just the beginning,” the old woman croaked patiently. “No, I don’t live here, I came just because of you. I live in the house of cheer, the cheeriest house in Vilnius . . .”

  She laughed; her laughter had survived intact: hoarse and seductive, and at the same time unconstrainedly free—like music. It sounded in the middle of Gedis’s living room in place of the dead piano. That was all I found here. When was the last time I had heard that laugh? The summer of the night trains of cattle cars, or the same one, but different already—the summer of the insolent swastikas and bored SS men? I stood in Gedis’s dusty, dead living room, while across from me in a leather armchair sat Giedraitienė, as alive as could be, mockingly staring at me with her crooked irises. A hideous, oppressively reeking old woman with sagging cheeks and matted, greasy hair was looking at me.

  ”Do you know where you’re heading, my child?” she spoke again. “Have you ever seen leeches suck out a mouse that’s been thrown into the water? Have you seen it? . . . At first they latch on by the neck and under the belly . . . The mouse struggles, it fights like mad. It tries to throw off the leeches . . . It rushes around in the water, raising a terrible spray . . . But for some reason it doesn’t go towards shore, that’s what’s odd: it thrashes, splashing terribly, but it stays in the water . . . The leeches don’t get alarmed; they’re never alarmed . . . The mouse’s struggles change nothing; the water just slowly turns reddish. And the mouse keeps getting calmer and calmer. That’s particularly beautiful—how it keeps getting calmer. It slowly realizes that’s the way it should be, that it’s the essential truth of the world . . . It’s unbearably beautiful . . . It’s like absolute knowledge . . . Or coming closer to God . . . Have you ever seen that, Vytuk?”