Vilnius Poker

by Ricardas Gavelis

  I was supposed to find a strange country here, one called Lithuania; it really is here, but is this how it’s supposed to be: at least a quarter of the city’s inhabitants are Russians brought here from who knows where, and the Poles of Vilnius—the poor Poles—graduate from the Russian schools and don’t speak Lithuanian; break the spell on Vilnius, Vasilis, boil up a potion of bats, crows’ feathers, and wolf-berry, break Vilnius’s spell, Vasilis, if you still can, if it’s at all possible anyone still can. I was to find the spirit of the ages here, it actually does linger here, but will it last much longer: Gediminas, the dour brainiac of Vilnius who went by the name of a Grand Duke, lies somewhere on the glaciers of Tian Shan, Vargalys, the other one with the name of a Grand Duke, is neither dead nor alive, even plain old Martynas lay down in front of a roaring truck—the soul of Vilnius is fading by the day, you aren’t needed here, Stefanija. Don’t think that way, don’t; you’re needed, Vasilis will break the spell on Vilnius yet, he’ll pull the pink, violet, rose-colored mists of our swamps out from under his arm and he’ll show everyone; he’ll dig the sunken village of Užubaliai out of the ground too; he’ll summon the forest brothers, slowly drowning in the muck of the swamp but rising again to the surface every night, out of oblivion, and if he doesn’t do it, if he is no more, it’s destined that you, Stefanija, do it: you really are needed. The ladies are buying onions, there aren’t any in the stores again; it’s time to get out of this market, the veterinary pharmacy will close for lunch any minute, I go across the street and there’s a long-bodied little dog with short little legs traipsing around by the pharmacy, some kind of perverted dachshund, exactly the same as the one I saw by the Tallinn, it can’t be the same one, it couldn’t have scurried this far—that’s just the way it is in Vilnius: the people here are all alike, and the dogs too, and the buildings in the new districts, even Old Town’s vain efforts to remind you of the real Vilnius don’t help. Shoo, shoo, you clumsy thing, you’re all I need, don’t tell me menstruation really does smell like a bitch; the door creaks stupidly, there’s a bit of a line: salve for fleas, fish oil, and this one doesn’t know what he wants at all. Lolka feared her fate, but she feared old age most, even a mature age, she foolishly tried to stay young forever; when she had a bit to drink she complained that she was slowly losing her body, I didn’t know what she was talking about, but she kept repeating it to me, it turned into her mania. Earlier, her favorite pursuit had been abusing Vargalys: what a wimp he is, how old, how hopelessly in love. Lolka tormented him, she’d make him tell her about the camp, drag him to discotheques, threatening to one day force him to shave his head bald for the fun of it—Vargalys, the great Vargalys, would complain to me, or maybe not to me, but rather to himself: he’d sit down in the room and talk out loud; the really horrible part was that he didn’t say a single bad word about Lolita, he’d only complain about himself, about how old and wimpy he is, and undeserving of Lolita’s love—I’d be overwhelmed with horror: it was Lolka who wasn’t worthy of licking his boots, and this was how she’d brought him down: Lord knows, if she’d demanded it, he would have shaved himself bald. I’d console him like a little child, stroke him and hug him, and he’d lie there naked, feeble, with that childish, helpless little thing of his, but he really wasn’t either old or wimpy, he was worth the love of all the women in the world, it was just that slut Lolka who destroyed him. And suddenly she started complaining that she was losing her body: she kept showing me her fingers, which were supposedly distorted, bent at the joints, she’d get completely undressed to prove to me that supposedly there were fat lumps of flesh gathering on her hips, her thighs, under her breasts, Lord knows, I didn’t see anything, I got really tired of her, although that mania had its good points: Lolka stopped torturing Vargalys, became more attentive and more loving, she even told me secretly that she was afraid to get undressed in front of him, for a moment I even had hope that maybe she’d leave him alone. Lolka lived just for the myth of her perfect body; suddenly that body started going downhill, or maybe, for all the good it did, she got scared that sooner or later it’d start going downhill and that would be it; she lost her crutch, she started acting like a fool, lost the meaning of her life: everyone’s that way, they hang on to a house, or a car, or a job, or some other trifle, and if it vanishes unexpectedly they don’t see any sense in living . . . I’ve off and philosophized, it’s not just the clerk giving me dirty looks, it’s the line behind my back too: why doesn’t that dolt ask for something; and the dolt, that is to say me, just stammers: if maybe, by chance, even just one package; they have it, they have it, I stuff the roll of gauze into my purse, I don’t even take the change, I slip out to the street, take a deep breath of air—oh, how happy I am, I want to sing or turn somersaults, all the people are so good-looking and smart. I got some gauze, I got some gauze—do you hear, I got some gauze to plug up my stinking, dripping little hole! It’s time to go back to work, I smile like some kind of a fool, even my cramps have stopped: look here, how nicely that girl has tied on a scarf, I could learn from her, I follow her with my eyes, my glance falls on a tall young man’s figure, he turns and I recognize Žilvinas, Martis’s son—how old is he now? Seventeen? Eighteen? All decked out and slicked down by his mama, brown corduroy pants, a jacket with at least six appliquéd pockets, gracefully tied with a belt, the ends hanging loose, the expression on his face proud and a bit insolent, a real Communist Youth leader, an exemplary youth; apparently I wasn’t destined to be happy for long, my heart stirs with a sad, sad longing: Martynas is gone, Teodoras and Gediminas are gone too, Vargalys is neither dead nor alive; Vilnius is emptying, the real people, the real Lithuanians are dying, and who will replace them, who will come in their place, what will their children do, their one and only child, Martis’s son? Žilvinas saw me, he’s walking towards me, another two young men follow after him, they don’t look like Communist Youth leaders at all, more like gangsters in the making.

  “Aunt Stefanija, what a pleasure!” Žilvinas greets me somewhat mock­ingly, his buddies nod their heads with unusual solemnity. “I didn’t think we’d see each other until dad’s funeral.”

  A velvet voice, large, deep eyes, a manly, handsome face; he reminds me of a young Alain Delon—really a handsome boy. It suddenly strikes me that I’ve always loved him, he’s the only one I can open up to, reveal all of my loneliness to, show myself the way I am—weak, miserable, gushing blood—and ask for comfort, he’s the only one who can understand me, surely he’ll understand; his eyes are kind and wise.

  “How are you doing, Aunt Stefanija? We haven’t seen each other in a long time.” He doesn’t change his tone, and his buddies are standing next to him without moving, not even blinking, unpleasant characters, worn-out leather jackets, patched jeans, frayed sweaters: they’re like twins.

  “At my age not much changes. And how are you doing? You’re still working on your professional Communist Youth career?”

  “Sure,” he answers calmly. “I’ve been elected to the City Committee. Maybe you’ll stop in for a minute? We’ll honor dad’s memory.”

  Suddenly I get sad, so sad—here he is, the only offspring, the offspring of them all, he’s the only one I can tell everything to and be comforted by, the future is in his hands, he’s inherited Vilnius now. I go with him like I’m under a spell, the twin gangsters in the making hold me by the arms, I go up the stairs, held commandingly. It’s a bit intimidating, but I know Žilvinas, after all, he knows me, I have the dagger, and Žilvinas is a Communist Youth leader, everything’s okay, we’re just going to stop by some apartment, the boys apparently have some wine or something, they’ll probably ask me to put in a ruble or two—that kind is always penniless, well, Žilvinėlis, I really didn’t expect it.

  “You see, it’s right nearby, Aunt Stefanija,” says Žilvinas; his velvet voice is calming, all of my fears disperse, I smile to myself: how intimidated we are, we immediately imagine robbers, or hooligans at least; when someone asks for a cigarette in the street w
e instantly smash him on the head, and then it turns out the poor thing really did just want a smoke.

  “We won’t be long, Aunt Stefanija,” Žilvinas goes on, locking the door, “We’re speedy guys. We’ve got all kinds of business. You’ll have time to get back to the library too. The lunch break is almost over, isn’t it?”

  He smiles pleasantly, Žilvinėlis really is suited to be a leader, he’ll look fantastically handsome on whatever podium, a dashing boy. His friends are taking off their jackets, I throw off my coat too, step into the room, and suddenly I want to scream. A huge, messy couch wallops you with the oppressive smell of soured sperm; caked syringes and empty ampules roll around on a dirty table, there are little bottles with a whitish fluid and a bowl of dried poppy heads standing there; hanging on the walls—what children they still are!—there are pictures of Stalin, Hitler, Castro, all of them stuck with kids’ toy arrows: one dangles right out of Stalin’s eye. I’ve never seen a room like this before.

  “Wow, what a little liar you are,” I say quite calmly—it’s strange even to me. “A Communist Youth leader! When did you have the time to change so much?”

  “I’m a little liar?” It seems to me he’s sincerely astonished. “Why?”

  “Well, the Communist Youth committee, you’re building a career . . .”

  “That’s true,” his eyes are so calm, self-confident, and oppressive, that I instantly believe in him. “I’m a member of the City Committee, and this . . . it’s nothing, just a little relaxation.”

  “They’re from the Committee too?” I unsuccessfully try to joke, even though I don’t feel at all like laughing; he really wouldn’t have brought me here if not . . . if not for what?

  “Of course not. Let me introduce you, Aunt Stefanija, so you’ll know who you’re dealing with. Raimondas, otherwise known as Roza, he doesn’t know himself why. Viktoras, otherwise—the Dolby Master. He’s an awesome talent, the first in Vilnius to set up a Dolby system—it suppresses the noise of magnetic tape, maybe you’ve heard of it? They’re both unemployed at the moment—but no conflicts with the justice system, no criminal cases. I warned them—your first conviction, even if it’s probation—and I don’t say hello anymore.”

  “And what are you planning to do now?” I ask, like an idiot. Žilvin­ėlis just shrugs his shoulders.

  Suddenly I want to scream, but it’s hopeless, the old masonry walls of Vilnius won’t let any sound through, everyone’s at work, no one will be home; it was so long ago, I see Stadniukas’s eyes before me again, but I don’t feel the fury and determination I did then, I just feel awful and really depressed: here they are, here they are, my children, our future; the eyes before me aren’t Stadniukas’s, they’re completely different, bleary, with enlarged pupils; the faces are quite young, but two are already puffy, and the third, the very worst of all, is smooth and handsome, like in a painting: the most important thing is to not be afraid, or actually, not to let them see that you’re horribly afraid, to say something or ask something, or scream, or scold them, or . . .

  “Boys, have you gone completely nuts?” There you go, my voice squeaks like a mouse whose tail’s been stepped on; it trembles and breaks off. “Žilvinas, I could almost be your mama.”

  “Yeah, it ain’t worth picking up old women,” one of them agrees with me, Dolby it seems. “She’s probably worn out.”

  “What do you know, my child,” Žilvinas says to him in a dreamy voice; they’re talking over my head, not paying attention to me at all, I’m just a thing. “What are you talking about!? An old woman? She’s a woman in the prime of life. A specialist. An expert! She’ll get into it; you’ll see, she’ll knock us out! We’ll have to hide from her yet, you’ll see!”

  I can no longer get a word out: I’m just opening and shutting my mouth; Žilvinėlis’s clear eyes are already undressing me, I feel faint, but when they start undressing me with their hands I suddenly get my strength back: it seems I’m struggling, it seems I’m biting, where’s my dagger—you don’t even need to stab, it’s enough to turn its blade in the light; the blow is sudden, short, brutal—jujitsu? Karate? Kung fu? It’s even better this way: the fear subsides, I feel faint and my head spins a bit, God knows, it’s almost pleasant.

  “It’s okay for Dad, but for the son, you say no way? That’s not nice, Aunt Stefanija, it’s simply not right.”

  “It’s no fun with an old woman,” one of them muses to himself. “Once, when I was maybe sixteen, this widow glommed on to me. Phew! I tell you for real—phew!”