Vilnius Poker

  Fumbling, I unwound the rolls and weighed down the corners with some clay animals. The field of the paintings slowly stopped rippling before my eyes. Now I saw.

  From the left, not directly at me, but somewhat to the side, gazed the pale green face of a woman, taking up the entire painting, squeezed within the borders of the canvas. The woman’s eyes were large and lifeless; no soul, no personality hid behind them. And from the pupils, like the thorns of some poisonous plant, vague gray cones protruded—calm and indifferent, but not hunting for a victim, because every last thing was to be their victim.

  Out of the right painting—this time straight at me, at all of us—stared a legion of little faces—each one out of its own cage or frame. A legion of little faces, all arranged in much too orderly a fashion, all piercing me with identically insolent eyes. They were seemingly different—with beards and mustaches and without; with hats, caps, and bareheaded; bald, disheveled, and plastered down. But I immediately realized that the face was always the same—a weak-willed, but at the same time insolent face, repeated over and over. Changing its makeup, disguising itself—but always identical: the horrifying, flat as a pancake face of a kanukas.

  I didn’t sling the paintings aside. I didn’t get dizzy, and I didn’t lose my breath. I didn’t fly home like mad, and I didn’t lock myself in with seven locks. I simply turned to Lolita—and only then was I really petrified.

  She sat leaning forward somewhat, her legs spread apart awkwardly, as if she were just about to stand up or was already beginning to stand up, and had suddenly stiffened. Her lips were opened unevenly; in their right corner hung a thread of spit. Her face was crooked, her fingers twisted unnaturally. It looked as if she’d been paralyzed. And it wasn’t just her: the cigarette smoke was frozen too, and the flame in the fireplace had turned to stone. I first thought it was a vision, a momentary illusion, but everything stayed that way. Only I alone could move. I worked my fingers and looked around. I don’t know how long this took. The raindrops outside the window hung suspended next to the glass. A filthy Vilnius pigeon, maneuvering between the church towers, hung leaning to one side, right by the cross.

  I wasn’t afraid of anything anymore. It was all the same to me. I sensed how They had pervaded everything, penetrated all of our brains like a virus, shackled even Vilnius itself. Vilnius loomed outside the window, surrounded me from all sides, its power lost, deprived of the slightest will to resist, renouncing everything—even motion, even time itself. Its own soul, that which drove and moved everything. That frozen moment reminded me of something—maybe a wicked fairy tale, maybe a dream, a vision, or a nightmare. It didn’t take long; suddenly everything moved again. Even then I didn’t believe my senses. I tried to convince myself that nothing had happened; I looked at Lolita slowly rising from the chair, at the filthy Vilnius pigeon disappearing from sight, sensing a acrid bitterness in my mouth. They had encompassed everything. It was impossible to hide.

  “So, what did you find out?” Lolita asked hoarsely.

  The sun shines, that’s the worst of it. Darkness would save you. But a streak of light falls through the barracks window and caresses your beaten knees. Your entire body aches. If you could manage to close your eyes, if you closed your eyes and forgot everything, you’d think you were sitting on a bench at home. The sun is the same everywhere. The sun heals wounds. The sun invites you to live.

  “Well,” says the one who sits on the bunk like a king, “shall we try again?”

  His Russian bandit’s eyes look at you gently, gently. Again a darkened, dented bucket appears before your eyes. The bitter stench of urine spreads from it; it worms its way into your nostrils, into your throat. It would turn your guts inside out, but you don’t have any guts. They have beaten the guts out of you.

  “Drink, my child,” a gravelly, lame little voice says to you. “You drink it—it’s over. Don’t tell me you don’t want to live?”

  This one, as tall as a pole, sticks the bucket under your nose, pours the tepid, reeking liquid over your chin.

  “He won’t drink it, Vaska,” says a voice that sounds like it’s coming out of a barrel.

  “He’ll drink it with pleasure,” the king on the bunk lifts his eyebrows. “Is he made of iron? He’ll drink piss, and suck all of our little pricks too. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

  And immediately it starts up again. For the second day they no longer beat you. Now they’ve found themselves a cross-eyed Korean. He presses a bit somewhere under the heart with his fingers and smiles. That’s the face of pain: a smiling Korean with cross-eyed slits. It’s not just you that hurts—it’s the entire world. If you had a voice, you’d scream, but they’ve torn out your voice. The Korean suddenly releases his fingers; that’s the worst moment. You don’t hurt anymore, you’re all right. You only need to drink—and the torture would be over. If you don’t drink—this will go on forever. Should you drink?

  “I’m tired of this,” says the voice out of a barrel. “He’s iron. What do you need this for, Vaska? If you don’t like his mug—let’s slice him up and be done with it.”

  The king on the bunk scowls, picks his words without hurrying.

  “He walks around with his head up. And he looks proud. Whether he’s beaten or not. And what does he have to look proud about? Because he’s a political? Because he’s a shitty Lithuanian? He has to understand. He has to bow. Bow to us.”

  “So, he walks around with his head up. Goga has it right—chop off that head—he won’t walk around that way anymore. Do you want to see your own chopped-off head?”

  You can’t understand. After all, you’re sitting in the same camp. You walk behind the same barbed wire. Why are they torturing you? True, they’re criminals, they’re Russians—but why? And furthermore you don’t understand: why don’t you give in? All that’s needed is one little instant. Why are you holding out for the third day? Or the fourth? Or the fifth?

  Their king, the famous Vaska Jebachik, climbs down from his throne and comes closer. He looks at you with his large, beautiful eyes and chews on his lips. The Korean will soon press other spots in his particular way, then still others. There is an entire galaxy of painful spots in you. Should you drink?

  “I need to understand this shitbag,” says the king quietly, as if to himself. “I want to climb into his kidneys and liver. And see what sort of little things are lying there. What’s assembled there. But what could be assembled there? There’s nothing there out of the ordinary. After all, he’ll drink the pee, he’ll lick us in front and in back too. I like it when Lithuanians lick. Their tongues are softer.”

  He knows his place in this world order. In every camp there is another camp, and in that camp another little camp. And in that little camp there is another tiny camp. And so on forever. Everyone has to choose which little camp of camps he will command. Otherwise you’ll just be a prisoner everywhere. If you don’t choose anything, you’ll be the prisoner of all of those little camps of camps simultaneously.

  Is it at all possible to escape from the very largest camp’s fences, or is the entire world a camp, and you’ll never escape it?

  “Let’s try once more,” says the king, sitting on his throne again.

  “Drink, you puppy, lap it up,” the beanpole roars.

  “He’s iron,” says Goga.

  “You see how much I love you,” says the Korean with the tips of his fingers.

  “Let’s try once more,” says the king.

  “It’s like some endless piece of gum,” says Goga.

  The beanpole, angered, splashes the bucket in your face. The salty liquid burns your eyes, drips off your nose. You stink all over.

  “Ass!” says the king. “He has to drink it himself. Himself, get it? He has to drink it like the finest wine. And thank us too.”

  “This is some kind of idiocy,” says the beanpole. “It’d be better if we showed him his chopped-off head.”

  The king chews his lips again, chews them for a long time and unexpectedly s
miles. His smile is handsome; he could be a movie star.

  “He can’t see his own chopped-off head. But he can see something else. Come on, take his pants off! Beanpole, you tossed it out, now piss some more yourself.”

  “But I can’t anymore.”

  “For this cause,” says Goga, lighting up unexpectedly, “for this cause I can make an effort.”

  He takes the dented bucket, unbuttons himself, and assiduously lets a thin stream inside. The beanpole fumbles around inside your fly and pulls out the musty, sweaty thing.

  “Not an ordinary one,” he says, “But it kind of looks like it’s been chewed.”

  “The girls chewed on it,” Goga smiles sweetly and pulls out his famous razor. “Now you’ll drink anything for me, bro. Now I’ll be able to piss straight into your mouth.”

  “Understand?” the king asks. “Do you understand, finally, that we can do anything? Do you understand who has the upper hand?”

  The razor approaches like a little glinting beast. Below, you feel cold and the prick of the blade.

  “You’ll be left with nothing. Your beard won’t grow. You’ll be as fat as a pig and you’ll speak with a woman’s voice. You’ll be a big, fat, disgusting old woman. Okay, let’s cut. Drink!”

  Taking aim, you kick the bucket with your foot. They won’t piss anymore today. They won’t have anything to make it from.

  The king leaps from his throne like a beast, shoves Goga aside. The razor catches anyway; you feel warm blood below. King Vaska Jebachik looks at you insistently.

  “Don’t you understand? You’re not sorry?”

  “It’s just flesh,” says your voice, appearing out of nowhere.

  “Just listen to him! Listen! His prick is just flesh! Do you understand what you’re saying? Are you in your right mind?”

  “Let’s chop off his head and throw it in the politicals’ barracks. Now, that would be a laugh!” says the beanpole.

  “Flesh? Flesh, you say? And what else might you be?” says the king. “All right, I’ll cut off your prick. I’ll poke out your eyes. I’ll chop off your arms and legs. Tear out your tongue. And what will be left, what more will be left of you?”

  “Me. I, myself. Who hasn’t drunk piss.”

  “He’s a psycho,” says the beanpole in his lame little voice. “Let’s cement him into the foundation and be done with it.”

  Goga’s unhappy; he’s getting unhappier all the time. He snaps the razor: now folding it, now unfolding it. The sun is shining, that’s the worst. Through the barracks window you see a little tree. A puny, little green tree. If they cement you into the foundation, maybe you’ll be a little tree.

  I found out quite a bit:

  1. Teodoras went down The Way and was burnt to death;

  2. Gediminas went down The Way and was crushed to death;

  3. The Basilisk of Vilnius is still hiding in its lair;

  4. I am going down The True Way and I am the closest target for its murderous gaze.

  The only thing I didn’t know was how They would take me on. I look at Stefanija with pity—she kept trying to help me, but mostly she just got in the way and was underfoot. I look at Lolita with horror—she doesn’t even realize that she’s become a hostage.

  I didn’t have children on purpose, so They couldn’t take them hostage. But now I have Lolita.

  I looked at Gediminas in hope—he was the only one who could have helped me. Gediminas saw a great deal and knew a great deal. Innumerable cities, hordes of people, were tucked away inside him. He cruised the streets of Greenwich Village and drank beer with farmers in Montana. Caught shrimp with Japanese fishermen. Clambered around the Mayan pyramids. Gediminas was my eyes; he saw things I will never lay eyes on. I have only Vilnius, while he wanted to take in all the continents. The borders of his camp were much wider than those of mine. Paris and Amsterdam fit inside them, the world’s tallest towers jutted up in them—not just the stumpy, powerless phallus of Vilnius. People swarmed and teemed inside of him, people whom he had met far away and spoken to—in hope of finding an El Dorado of the human spirit, a place where Their proboscises don’t reach. It’s terrible, but he never did find those people or that miraculous place. People are the same everywhere, he would say after every trip; they aren’t safe anywhere. At the time I didn’t understand what he had in mind. People are the same everywhere. There are no chosen nations that are safe from Them. It’s actually even worse for people who live in free countries than it is for us. Our very life, our very surroundings force us to search for answers, because it’s so obviously bad here—nauseatingly bad. It’s very easy, Gedis kept saying, for the others to blissfully snooze off.

  I will never fully understand who he was—that jazzman mathematician plowman. Who was this Gediminas? A lone warrior, or the leader of a legion? A fearless investigator, or a novice barely taking his first steps on The Way? Sometimes he’d be so much like his father, the patriarch of a Lithuanian village who had become one with his farm and his land. Gedis wandered a great deal through the world, but he kept returning to the shabby, ulcerated Iron Wolf. Apparently, it’s only in Vilnius that you can uncover the great secrets. In a city turned into a province of provinces by force, in a city on the edge between Russia and Western Europe and infused with both one and the other spirit. Only in Vilnius, in the farthest bastion of the Catholic church, the city of the many-headed, multilingual dragon, of the oppressive Basilisk, of the fog of oblivion.

  And yet there’s more—in the city of the river of mystery.

  Gediminas loved to sit on the bank of the Neris and wordlessly speak with the murky flow. The river names its city, he liked to say; it floats secret knowledge to the city and washes away the dirt of the soul. Now I, too, frequently sit on the bank and stare aimlessly at the wet bushes. The hung-over fishermen of Vilnius offer me fish that stink of tar. Gediminas is right: this river really does absorb words that are spoken in secret. It floats them away, and later, unexpectedly, brings them back from obscurity.

  ”Look at the Neris,” Gedis would say, “There are rivers of the dead and rivers of oblivion in the world. There are rivers of history and the river of all rivers . . . But the Neris is the river of memory. Our spilled blood flows with it, our lost memory . . .”

  On the banks of the Neris, if you listen carefully, you can hear the names of all of the lost Lithuanians. Those who fell at the hands of the Teutonic Knights six hundred years ago, and those the Russians took to Siberia thirty years ago. It’s the only place the chronicle of Vilnius survives . . . The gods only know what it told Gediminas. Only the gods know what Gedis wanted to say with his “Neris Blues,” which was by no means blues. Gedis played only avant-garde jazz—if that really can be called avant-garde jazz. But it was music. I carefully researched how They went about destroying contemporary music; nowadays jazz is perhaps the closest to real music. Real music was always improvised one way or the other; both the East and the West recognized this. You cannot write the human spirit into a musical staff and play it the same way every time. Earlier everyone knew this. Johann Sebastian Bach played swing like a born jazz musician; he felt the pulsation of the spirit. However, They cleverly locked spirit into staffs, measures, and beats. It was no accident They so persecuted the jazz musicians who longed to escape those restrictions. It was no accident so many jazzmen were butchered by persons unknown or went out of their minds. Jazz is enormously dangerous to Them, the ones who thrust the idea on the world that music is the careful repetition of rules and worn-out melodies heard a hundred times, and that to play is to get identical sounds out of identical instruments via identical means. Gedis wanted to play everything, whatever is possible. And even more so whatever is not possible.

  But besides jazz he delighted in the strictness of mathematics. More and more often I think he was digging closer to Their pathologic through mathematics. In his mathematical work he was just as unruly and insane as he was playing music. I am almost sure it was in this fashion he attempted to break through
the wall of logic and enter the domain of the pathologic. He wanted to grasp the entire mechanism of Their activities. And who knows if he hadn’t succeeded—otherwise why would they have needed to make all of his papers disappear? Some KGB could confiscate the manuscript of a novel, but why steal mathematical work?

  I miss Gediminas very much. Vilnius itself misses him, that eternal third one, about whom Gediminas used to say:

  “In Vilnius there can never be just the two of you. If you sit with a friend or a woman, Vilnius will, without fail, sneak up on you like some odd third one. You can’t get away from Vilnius. There isn’t another city like it in the world . . . America’s blacks know this sensation well. Their Vilnius, that third one, is called the blues. Not a song, not the music . . . I don’t know . . . a mood, or God fluttering in the air . . . In a word—the blues. One old man in Harlem explained it to me this way: when some other old negro talks, and I listen, it ain’t just the two of us, there’s always a third, and his name is the blues . . . And our blues is called Vilnius. Horrible, beloved Vilnius.”

  Filthy, dazed Vilnius, where you get up every day and think you didn’t go to bed there last night. Where you go to bed, thinking that tomorrow you won’t be getting up there. A soulless blues, of which only a rhythm and a melody are left, even the blue notes don’t sound anymore, because music has irremediably lost its spirit. Blues without a soul is always horrifying—it’s like a dead man walking. Gediminas is the dead soul of Vilnius’s blues.

  I cannot go it alone anymore. I never could look at others from on high, I never could turn into a demiurge indifferent to God. I always felt that those others are part of me; their weakness is my weakness, their kanuked brains a reflection of my own dissolving brain. I never tried to stand above others and talk to God about my own private matters. Who knows if it’s worth talking to God at all. It seems to me God has also been kanuked.