Vilnius Poker

by Ricardas Gavelis

  “Hello there!” she wheezed. “I’m waiting for Robertėlis. He’ll save Vytelis. I’m going to testify in court.”

  All of VV’s female acquaintances have decided to testify at his trial, which most likely won’t ever happen. However, this one didn’t appear to be brimming with resolution; rather, she seemed confused. In the meantime, a sullen, gray-haired little guy who resembled an alcoholic carpenter darted out the side door of the KGB building. I had seen this guy before. Alas, I had seen him before.

  Colonel Giedraitis got terribly frightened. It seemed he simply couldn’t think of how to escape. Lord knows what a particularly elegant meeting between a mother and her son that was. The conversation didn’t last long, maybe a minute. In the end, Colonel Giedraitis gave his mother a rather hard shove and instantly disappeared into the opening of the door. Giedraitienė, rubbing her injured side, smiled widely and muttered in a low voice:

  “He’ll listen to his mommy. Robertėlis is a good son. He was always an obedient child.”

  The detective stopped zooming around the library, but I run into him suspiciously often in the street. He’s dressed differently every time. It’s rather strange—a normal Vilnius male simply doesn’t have that many different clothes.

  A ridiculous idea came into my head: you’d think he was copying a character in Teodoras Žilys’s painting—the one that was always dressed differently, staring out of a bunch of identical little frames.

  Who knows if it’s at all possible to help VV. Without Lolita he won’t last a month. I can swear that there won’t be any trial—he’ll pine and fade away much earlier. It’s a shame you can’t write in our jails and leave the world your last opus.

  Son of a bitch—that would be some opus!

  Unfortunately, for the time being I have to make do with my mlog and my collection. Incidentally, the latter is rarely replenished anymore. Here’s the latest record:

  I went to the clinic to fix my teeth and listened to the conversation of two old coat check ladies. Both of them were Russian—that’s why their chatter attracted me.

  They discussed Brezhnev’s health. They concurred that he had no more than a year or two to live. They discussed his possible heirs.

  “Poor old man,” one lamented. “And he’ll be replaced with another old man.”

  “No, no,” the other one disagreed. “This time it’ll be a younger one.”

  “It won’t, it won’t,” the first one glumly replied. “Now all those old men have to be in power for a while. Just think about it: they killed so many people, they were literally bathing in blood. So now they have to rule at least!”

  What would a homo lithuanicus have to say on this topic? He wouldn’t discuss it in the first place. It’s absolutely the same to him who from the ROF will die or which leader will replace another.

  There’s only one area in which homo lithuanicus expresses his true feelings. That’s in athletic contests.

  From my collection:

  An international basketball contest was held in Vilnius. There were several strong teams playing: U.S. students, the Spanish I believe, and some others besides. Plus a USSR team and—lord love a duck—a separate Lithuanian team. Someone from the central Sports Committee overshot himself terribly.

  Truly beautiful things were going on inside the Hall of Sports. When the USSR team played, the crowd unanimously cheered for their opponents, whoever they might be. There was thunderous cheering when the Russians missed. Quite understandably, this didn’t last long. Militiamen started guarding the entrances to the Hall of Sports. They dealt with it quite simply: they’d take the ticket away from anyone whose expression they didn’t like. Anyone who tried to protest was taken straight to jail. I myself paid a ten-ruble fine. See, I tried grumbling that they didn’t have the right.

  The free spaces that opened up were filled by workers chosen for that purpose, Russians, of course. They supported the USSR team quite harmoniously.

  Sincerity can still be found at sporting competitions. Less and less often.

  Lord knows VV should have played basketball. That’s the only chance for a Lithuanian.

  They’re fond of passionately telling us that a Harlem black’s best chance is basketball or boxing. In this respect, all Lithuanians are black. Lithuanians aren’t allowed to occupy high posts in the hierarchy of the Ass of the Universe. They aren’t allowed to rule themselves, much less others. Basketball is all that’s left.

  We’re all basketball players, resignedly plotting mind-boggling plays, gracefully tossing balls into a dead-end, tied-up basketball hoop.

  Lolita never loved VV. That’s the kind of conclusion you invariably come to when you find yourself in a dentist’s chair. It’s impossible to explain to a civilized human being what a Soviet dentist’s chair is like. It’s impossible to explain what Soviet medicine is like.

  It’s not just our life, our wants, and our minds that the ROF seeks to control. They have to control our life and death too. The medicines ROF representatives get are absolutely off-limits to a normal person. You’re left to quietly die of something that special medicines cure in two weeks.

  From my collection:

  The wife of a friend of mine had a raging temperature; death, as they say, was staring her in the face. By mistake, her frantic husband dialed the number of a special hospital. A doctor came over immediately, quickly looked the patient over and declared the situation critical. Only then did it become clear that the doctor had driven over through a mistake, and that my friend’s wife didn’t belong to the special hospital class. The doctor packed her already prepared syringe away and headed for the door. My friend begged her on his knees, even suddenly invoking the Hippocratic oath. The doctor, fittingly, looked at him like he was nuts, and calmly left.

  Hippocrates with all of his oaths, and even more so all of his followers, are particularly dangerous dissidents. We must wage a fierce battle against them!

  When they’re putting in a filling for you that will fall out in two weeks, knowing perfectly well that it will fall out, there’s nothing left to do but decide that Lolita didn’t love VV.

  The arguments: If she loved him, why did she drag her father into this? Why did she turn poor VV’s head, why didn’t she marry him? Why didn’t she have a baby with just about anyone and then announce that it was VV’s child? He would have been delighted. Why . . .

  The whole thing bores me to death. I’m afraid. I don’t know what of, but I’m terribly afraid. I am as alone as the finger of God in the Ass of the Universe. Even Stefa refused to comfort me—physically at least.

  Lolita didn’t love VV. She was egotistically striving for something. VV was striving to comprehend mankind, to defend it from the encroachments of the Ass of the Universe. And what of it? I’m striving for that too. And what of it? I’m not going to hand out proclamations on Broadway; I’m not going to publish my own newspaper. Even if I were to find the philosopher’s stone, no one would find out about it, because I live in the Ass of the Universe.

  It’s a place where you cannot have any hope, because all hopes here are in vain. It’s a place where you won’t do anything, because it’s impossible to do anything here. It’s a place where it’s dangerous to even think, because you could suddenly hit on something good. And that’s the worst of all: you could know an important secret and you couldn’t tell anyone about it. No news can escape into the world from the Ass of the Universe. We’re sealed up inside. Better to not know anything. At least your conscience won’t gnaw at you.

  I don’t know any VV, I’ve never heard of any Lolita. I haven’t the slightest idea what the word “Colonel” means. Amen.

  I’ve had it with that dog already. He’s hanging around under the windows all the time. I could swear it’s the same dog I saw by Teodoras’s studio.

  Suddenly I feel like writing my will. This means I must decide two things: what I will leave behind and whom I will leave it to. The first part of the answer is obvious: I’ll leave my mlog and my collecti
on.

  But to whom?

  To my son? He’s not interested in it and never will be interested. He’s generally not interested in anything. I’ll confess to a terrible secret: my son isn’t even a homo lithuanicus. He’s long since been a typical homo sovieticus.

  Of course, I could have left the results of my lifetime efforts to VV, but even that’s no longer possible. I look out the window at my shitty neighborhood. The street is just the same as anywhere else. Everything’s exactly the same as it is anywhere else. This isn’t even Vilnius, who the hell knows what this is. At least the color of the buildings could be different in each neighborhood, or at least some minor detail. But oh, no! The Ass of the Universe doesn’t need any differences, much less my legacy.

  Anywhere else, absolutely anywhere else, I would find someone to bequeath my legacy to. Just not here. Just not in Vilnius. Just not in the Ass of the Universe. Damn it, and I’m an atheist to boot, so I can’t expect to be judged and rewarded even after death, in the other world.

  I’m not going to throw a stone at that horrible dog. He’s just the one I’ll going to leave my collection and my mlog to.

  I threw him a piece of sausage, but he didn’t even deign to sniff at it. I felt ashamed, no less. Lord knows that’s not the kind of dog you should throw slop to. That’s a completely different kind of dog.

  That’s my heir.

  Son of a bitch, it should be possible to at least save the children. It takes my breath away to see what’s being made out of them.

  The ideology of the Ass of the Universe declares that no human can oppose the inevitable progress of history. If that’s the way it really is, then Lord knows it’s best not to bring children into the world at all. And even better not to be born yourself.

  But what can you do, if you’ve already been born?

  I’m going to go get drunk.

  After two shots: it’s still the same.

  After four shots: it’s absolutely the same.

  After six shots: I remember I sat here once with VV. On a day of incredible miracles, when our store was visited by the great emissary of the ROF, Suslov.

  Have you noticed how I never even mention any Lithuanian masters? They mean nothing. They’re zeroes.

  That’s why I keep on talking about all sorts of Molotovs, Suslovs, and other similar Leodead Brezhnevs.

  We don’t even have our own masters!

  It was at this very bar, the Erfurtas, that this disheveled little guy with a pistol under his jacket glommed on to us. He kept intruding; probably he’d noticed right away that we didn’t give a shit. In turn, he let us know it meant nothing to him to fill the two of us full of lead.

  “Just try to escape!” he emphasized, waving a crooked, drunken finger.

  He badly wanted to make a deep impression on us.

  ”Yes, Suslov is as scared as a rabbit,” he mused, commanding his tongue with difficulty. “Do you know why? He’s visited you here twice and kept having to run for it. The first time, in Kaunas, there was a boxing championship, your guy beat ours up, but the judges of course declared ours the winner. Your guys got angry and sent the militia packing. The boss had to flee in a special airplane. He came calling a second time—that guy of yours poured gasoline on himself and burnt himself up. Another riot. Now he’s sticking his neck out for the third time. He’s shaking like an aspen leaf, but he’s still sticking his neck out. Why?”

  “Criminals always return to the scene of the crime,” VV snarled, but the guy didn’t understand him, he only understood Russian.

  “Hey guys!” he roared, “I’m all right, believe me. I’m a sharpshooter and I love to hunt. I up and shot a forester. So, what came of it? Five years of hard labor, or you’re welcome to come work for us. Now I’m a gorilla. And so be it! I’ll eat caviar and drink champagne for breakfast. What other choice do I have?”

  The gallant agent downed a glass of champagne in one gulp and instantly passed out. He was hit by an alcoholic stupor. VV suddenly got up and hurried down the stairs. I followed behind. I follow behind someone way too often. We got into the store without a hitch. Inside, Suslov really was shuffling around with his entourage. VV unexpectedly dived into the workroom and returned with a giant, maybe two-foot-long knife. I saw a murderous gleam in his eyes. I jumped in front of him without hesitating. You’ll laugh, but I used to play rugby. I smacked him in the stomach with my head and pushed him back into the workroom. VV lost his breath momentarily, however, he could have recovered at any instant. There was a pile of pineapples standing next to us; I grabbed the biggest one and smacked him on the head. I’ve never hit anyone on the head with a pineapple before. I’d never even tasted them. VV was more astonished than stunned. I grabbed the knife away from him, threw it into the refrigerator, and blocked the door with my body.

  “Wake up!” was all I managed to say.

  “Maybe you’re right,” VV unexpectedly agreed. “If there’s no dragon, there’s nothing for the brave prince to fight. Let’s go down to the river. Let’s go down to the river.”

  We hurried past all the guards who were posted near the store without anyone stopping us. It was only then that I saw I was still holding the pineapple in my hands. Apparently, it had become our authorization.

  The two of us quietly polished off the pineapple next to the Neris. We sat down on the river bank across from some construction site, the Exhibition Hall, I believe.

  VV really loved the banks of the Neris. Although, hell, he didn’t love it. The Neris drew him the way a loved one’s grave does. He would talk about something to the dirty current of the Neris. Probably the Neris seemed alive to him.

  After eight shots: I don’t care about anything, everything is shit. Well, I’ll have some hangover tomorrow!

  I was quite right: the hangover is horrible. I no longer know whether today is Sunday, or if it’s Monday already. I went over to see this alcoholic writer, got some money, and was sent out to buy some wine. I bought twelve bottles.

  Elena will fire me. But no, the KGB won’t let her. After all, I’m working at the place they chose for me.

  I’m behaving like a pure-blooded homo lithuanicus. Alcohol is a great way to hide from everything.

  Monday or Tuesday: “non stop.”

  Tuesday or Wednesday: I called Elena at the library and told her I had a dreadful cold. Elena, in the voice of an executioner, announced that even over the telephone I reeked of booze. I boldly asked her to join me; I said girls were in short supply. Apparently I hit the mark. You can never figure these communists out. She giggled and in a completely pleasant voice explained that I had better show up at work in the morning. Otherwise, it was curtains for me.

  Just think—it was already curtains for me a long time ago.

  I’ve emerged from those nightmares at last and can work at my mlog again. I perceive the world with unusual clarity. A frequent post-binge sensation irritates me intensely: the feeling that everyone’s following you. Even the basement cats. It’s a truly disgusting sensation. It seems like everyone’s counting the remaining minutes of your life.

  I shouldn’t drink so much.

  VV mentioned a dragon more than once. Maybe he really did feel that he was a prince, sent to save the princess. Was Lola really a princess?

  But oh Lord, what a prince!

  Apparently, a person can only take it up to a certain point. If you pass that, something disintegrates. Something irreplaceable.

  VV would raise essential questions much too often. Let’s take the most ordinary one: who really rules the ROF? Asking questions like that is deadly. But what an itch! No person in their right mind would believe that all sorts of Brezhnevs and Suslovs actually rule. So, who really does rule us? Who planned and created the Ass of the Universe? Who assembled the mechanism for crippling children?

  VV asked questions like that all the time.

  I’m secretly envious of him. We all envy people who do what we couldn’t do or wouldn’t dare to. I, for example, do nothing; I j
ust rattle on.

  Unfortunately, people can’t choose their path in life. They have what they’ve been given—from heaven or from hell. By the way, I suspect it’s nothing more than two different names for the same institution. So, I live a wonderful life. Like everyone else, I don’t do anything at work, and for that, like everyone else, I receive beggarly alms. I dress like everyone else. I eat what everyone else eats. In addition, I get to feel spiritually superior to others. Those others certainly don’t envy VV, write an mlog, or gather a collection.

  Lordee, I’m such a brave man!

  Someone has rummaged through my room. Everything has been left lying where it was, even the dust on the tables hasn’t been touched, but someone has obviously rummaged through my things. By the way, it’s long since time to get used to it. In Vilnius even dissertation manuscripts disappear without the slightest trace.

  I wouldn’t be the least surprised if some uninvited visitors didn’t from time to time cut off a little piece of a person’s arms or legs. Anything is possible in the Ass of the Universe. No one would be surprised by it, no one would object. They’d grumble for a week or two, then they’d get used to it and wouldn’t pay attention to it anymore.

  That’s the psychology of the inhabitants of the Ass of the Universe.

  If it were different, the Ass of the Universe itself couldn’t have been constructed. The psychology had to be altered first. Alter the children. Create new conditional reflexes.

  And so on.

  Why have they gotten interested in me just now? I know the answer, but I’m afraid to say it even in my thoughts. I’m afraid to even think about it.

  Every inhabitant of the Ass of the Universe is afraid to think. What’s more, he imagines a nimble dwarf with piles of notebooks, cameras, and tape recorders is poking around in his brain.