Vilnius Poker

by Ricardas Gavelis

  “Listen, Roza,” Žilvinas calmly lectures, “so, you go catch yourself some local bimbo, fuck her—and what of it? She’s a little fool, she’s powerless. And this is a mature woman, old enough to be your mother, and you . . . Don’t you get what the thrill is? Use your brains! Think about it!”

  He shuts up, because suddenly I get my voice back:

  “Boys, come to your senses . . . Boys . . . Boys . . . I can’t . . . I have my period . . . Really, really . . . It’s my period, I can’t . . . I bought gauze, see, gauze—there, in my purse . . .”

  Žilvinas’ face twists up unpleasantly, probably it’s a smile; even Stadniukas didn’t know how to toss off grimaces like that.

  “Aunt Stefanija, what do you take us for!?” he snarls, his voice not at all velvety anymore. “What kind of childish excuse is that, what kind of lie? You know we’ll check.”

  He snaps his fingers, I try to resist, but that’s naïve and in vain, the gangsters in training know how to hold on, and it’s Žilvinas who checks, who else; he really does look, I’ve never experienced a feeling like that before, it’s indescribable, after that all that’s left is to die, while Žilvinas calmly raises his finger to the light, he even sniffs at it—what’s going on here, maybe it’s a dream—I stand there a mess, my skirt turned up, my underwear pulled down and there’s nothing, nothing, I can do against this impossible villainy: this is a dream, this kind of helplessness is possible only in a dream.

  “It’s true,” Žilvinas says with a strange gaiety. “And here I was thinking: why is that dog sticking to her? Aunt Stefanija isn’t lying. The tampon’s bloody too, and it stinks to high heaven.”

  “The old lady won’t suck. Probably doesn’t even know how,” says Roza disappointedly, he’s called Roza, I’ll remember that nickname all my life. “It’s useless.”

  “So what, if she doesn’t suck. We’ll get one on anyway—what’s the difference. Don’t tell me you’re going to go out looking again?” This one was quiet up until now; don’t tell me they’re going to, after all, it hurts me, it hurts, boys, it hurts me, you can’t during my period, the first day, I’ll die; have pity on me, boys.

  ”Come on, it’s not that bad,” Žilvinas firmly contradicts me. “But it’s a subtle thing—the blood could get infected, then she’ll die. Are we some kind of murderers?”

  I start laughing out loud, hysterically, everything is mixed up inside me: death, menstruation, gang rapes and the massacres after the war, the churches of Vilnius and wads of gauze, the fog of the swamp, Lolka’s little finger in Martis’s pocket. I laugh uproariously, they pull back, talk among themselves, paying no attention to me, and I laugh: screw me, yes, I was the earth and I belonged to everyone, but I won’t belong to you, screw me, shit on me, try and force me—I’ll bite you, I’ll taste fresh blood; too bad I have my period: I’d surrender my whole body to you, torture you, put you to sleep, and then I’d trample your wretched balls, I’d take revenge for Martis, and Gedka, and Tedis, and Vargalys, and for myself. For myself.

  Probably they’ll just scare me and throw me out, I need to remember the apartment number, maybe something can be done to them, but what—I no longer have anyone to advise or help me: I look closely at Žilvinas’s face, Žilvinas was the king of the snakes, this one’s a snake too, his face is calm and pretty again, elegant men like that always give women their seat on the trolleybus, his buddies would scare you to death in a dark alley, and you’d run to him looking for help, I’ve long since stopped laughing because his gaze stops my heart—what have they thought up now, what else can you think up?

  “I don’t know . . .” Roza breaks off doubtfully.

  But Dolby even licks his lips, that one’s really insane, he could do anything; for the moment I don’t believe my ears; this is unreal, this doesn’t happen, it’s really not me they grab, force face down onto the couch stinking of sour sperm; it isn’t me whose clothes they’re taking off, my body’s totally limp, but I still resist, I can’t scream anymore, I’ve probably torn my vocal cords, I resist again, my shoulder really hurts, they must have sprained the joint, but now it makes no difference, now it makes no difference at all, I’m not here or I won’t be soon—what’s the difference.

  “Hand me the cream,” Žilvinas mutters, “And hold her.”

  They lift me, put me down on all fours, my body’s completely limp, all of my muscles are slack, I’m as calm as a corpse, my thoughts are numb, how nice it is that they hit me on the neck, uh-oh, I’m gonna let loose in a minute, says Dolby, I see him when I turn my head, he’s sitting on a chair; Žilvinėlis presses up to me, aims at me, I feel his thighs against my thighs, his pubic hair on my fanny and—oh, it almost doesn’t hurt, how hopelessly calmly I’m thinking, or maybe I’m not thinking at all anymore, I just try to move my shoulder where it won’t hurt so badly anymore, I just hear my farting, smell the double stench—from both fore and aft; it’s not true, it can’t be true, I’ll die, this is a nightmarish dream, it almost doesn’t hurt, it’s just revoltingly unpleasant, no, this isn’t happening for real, I’m not here, I’m not, I’m not, my rear hurts, but does that matter—I’m already dead, I’m being done in by the dragon, then I’ll turn into a dragon myself too.

  “Well, guys, cool!” says the dragon in Žilvinas’s velvet voice.

  “Oh yeah, sure,” Roza doubts, “you’re all shitty.”

  “What do you know,” mutters Dolby, he’s taking off his pants; opening my eyes, I see his hairy thighs right here, I quickly close my eyes again.

  This isn’t true, this isn’t even a dream, it doesn’t exist at all, my butt stings even worse, it doesn’t just sting anymore—it seriously burns—it’s the flame of a bonfire, it’ll burn out my guts and I’ll die—that would be best.

  “Blood!” Dolby announces, charmed. “Like a hymen, huh?”

  “Bloody shit,” Roza corrects him angrily. “I’m not interested. Let her get dressed.”

  “So we managed it, and you’re clean as a whistle?” Žilvinas’s velvety voice suddenly turns into sandpaper.

  “I held her,” Roza says calmly. “I’m a co-author. I don’t want to, and that’s that. You stick yourselves into that bloody shit. I’d rather hit the needle instead.”

  “Let’s hit a needle!” Dolby agrees; that one’s insane, he can do whatever he wants. “Maybe she needs a hit too, so she can’t go and complain?”

  “It’s a waste of a dose,” Žilvinėlis is completely velvet again. “How’s she going to complain? Everything’s been thought out—figure it out yourself. Where? How? Besides, Aunt Stefanija has to go to work. She’s in a hurry. She stopped by for a bit, we sat and chatted—that’s all. Why should Aunt Stefanija complain—nothing happened, everything’s just hunky dory.”

  I clamber off the reeking couch, the bloody tampon falls to the ground from between my legs, all of it’s true, it happened, my rear burns like fire; I stagger to the bathroom, they didn’t tear my clothes, even all the buttons are in place; I am a machine, I work according to a program, that’s why I don’t need to think, what matters most is that I don’t need to think, yes, Dolby is washing up in the bathtub, he playfully splashes me with water, pinches my right breast, I have to wait until he leaves, I’m a machine, he gets out of the bathtub, I get in, Dolby stares at me, and I’m already washing up, I am a machine washing itself, he smacks his lips, licks them, sighs, and goes out, where’s my purse, a dagger with a three-sided blade impatiently waits for me there; SACRUM is written on it, but that has no meaning, because by now I know what I am going to do.

  I’ll wash up carefully, get dressed slowly, comb my hair, I’ll even put on makeup, then I’ll quietly slink into the room, they’ll be drawing the whitish fluid into a syringe, like a cat I’ll sneak up to Žilvinėlis—he’ll be sitting with his back to me—I’ll aim carefully, and stab. The blow is short, sudden; the dagger instantly flies to the ground, Roza picks it up, turns it in his hands.

  “I respect character,” says Žilvinas, rubbi
ng the wounded finger on his right hand. Jujitsu? Karate? Kung Fu? “I suspect we’ll be seeing each other again, Aunt Stefanija. I like you. When I get promoted, I’ll hire you as my secretary—by then secretaries will need to know how to use a computer.”

  “Wow, what a knife,” Roza is charmed. “I’ll take it, okay?”

  “No way,” Žilvinas lectures. “First of all, when a guy has a knife in his pocket, he really starts itching to put it into action. And second—this is a subtle thing. It’s antique. Return it to Aunt Stefanija. What are we, some kind of thieves? Robbers?”

  Roza very unwillingly obeys; I stuff the knife into my purse, pull on my coat, rush out sobbing hysterically. The apartment number is eleven—and what of it, I no longer have anyone to help me or advise me, I don’t want them anymore; I don’t want anything anymore—not even Vargalys, let them all get lost, let Vargalys himself get lost, let all of Vilnius get lost, I won’t be here anymore. I go down the stairs, go out into the street and turn upwards, up the hill: I could jump in front of a car, but Martis already did that, besides, it might just injure me, not finish me off; no one will advise me how to act, no one will advise me what to do with my secret—to tell someone or to tell no one what it was I saw and did that damned evening in that damned garden?

  I saw everything: I can testify in an earthly court, even in a heavenly one, that Vargalys didn’t kill Lolita. When he ran back from the garden, she was already dead. Would testimony like that save Vargalys? But what does he need to be saved from? From a death sentence, from an insane asylum? Is it worth it? All of us would be better off in an insane asylum, all of us would be better off dead. And no one can save Vargalys from Vargalys.

  I’m not worried about any Vargalyses, I don’t know anything and I don’t want to know anything, I didn’t see anything, I can’t testify to anything. Of course, only if I testify—I can’t be the accused. I’m no longer here, that’s my ghost climbing the steep stairs, going who knows where—without a reason why, without meaning; I was in that damned garden on that wretched eighth of October, I saw everything with my own eyes. For some reason I was certain they would show up in that garden, certain that they would come to the neglected little wooden house; I wandered around the empty footpaths, stared at the little houses, some of them were like little fairy tale castles, others reminded you more of a giant doghouse. By then it had been a long time since I’d had anything to do or anything to worry about, while I was schlepping around that damned garden I thought about whether it was worth getting a dog: a scotch terrier or a cocker spaniel; better a cocker spaniel, even though they’re expensive. I believe I cried, or maybe not; in the end I snuck up to the cottage where they had been sitting for almost a half-hour already; holding my breath I settled in by the window and looked inside; I wanted to pull back at once, but I didn’t even close my eyes: the two of them were naked, caressing each other; I immediately remembered our village, the kids, who, like Indians, used to crawl around by the woods following twosomes, sometimes for hours on end—until they got what they were trying so hard for. On rare occasions they’d take me along too; I’d spy patiently, breathing hard and swallowing my spit, but the most important part would just get started and I’d close my eyes and cover my ears: that wretched October eighth, for the first time in my life, I didn’t turn away, I greedily watched them, without feeling upset, or ashamed, or angry; Lolita’s body was slim and elegant, grasping and greedy, but slowly I realized that nothing was working out for them, nothing at all, something was blocking them, neither poses nor imaginative caresses helped, absolutely nothing worked for them, apparently I had showed up there so I could see it with my own eyes, I needed to see it, that’s why I watched—for the first time in my life. Vargalys kept getting redder, Lolka got more and more furious, but all their efforts were in vain, I gnawed on my fist and waited, I even drew blood, but still nothing worked for them, absolutely nothing, the more they tried, the more horribly they failed; I don’t know whether I was glad, probably not, what was there to be glad about if Lolka suddenly kicked, that’s right, kicked Vargalys away, jumped up raving, her hair tousled, breathless out of fury or lust. Vargalys looked at her like a beaten dog; the sun was setting by now, painting that wretched scene the color of blood.

  “You’re impotent! A damned impotent!” Lolita shrieked. “You’ve got no balls! I’ll tell everyone! Tomorrow. Immediately. I’ll hang out posters. An impotent and a madman! I’ve read your writings. I’ve secretly read your blatherings. I’ll publish them too. Why are you reaching out your hands? Don’t touch me!”

  I couldn’t intrude, I couldn’t suddenly show up and calm her down: she screamed again and again, screamed horrible words—she was stretched out, standing in a rapacious pose, she worked Vargalys over, her fingers really were twisted like a beast’s claws, disgusting globs of flesh as slimy as a jellyfish really did quiver between her thighs, under her breasts, on her hips—that was how her evil erupted, it barged and busted out of her; Vargalys stood up too, and Lolita kept screaming, I didn’t pay attention to the words anymore: Vargalys turned pale, his entire body turned white, practically transparent, then he roared like a beast and jumped out, ran off through the bushes stark naked, between the trees, leaving shreds of skin on the sharp branches. My feet calmly lead me towards the station; I’ll get into a trolleybus and ride to the library, my rear hurts, it’s burning all over, it won’t let me forget the whole thing really did happen, I’ll have to continue to live, the worst of it is that I’ll have to continue to live: Lolka stood there like a post, like a perverted monkey-man statue, she didn’t see anything around her, didn’t hear anything, didn’t sense me; she collapsed gradually, it seemed she slowly, comfortably, laid herself down, trying not to hurt herself; meanwhile, Vargalys was running around the garden naked. He returned much later, when she had already started to stiffen: he didn’t have anything to do with it, I could testify to this, even at the heavenly judgment; when Lolka collapsed, my heart didn’t race, I smoked a cigarette and carefully fastened my purse for good measure, so it wouldn’t fall out. I nearly ran right into Vargalys, he returned from the side where I had been standing, but he didn’t see me, he didn’t see anything, he didn’t smell the smoke from my cigarette, he was completely out of his mind, he collected himself only when he saw Lolita lying already dead on the floor; he probably doesn’t remember anything, it wouldn’t be hard to convince him he killed Lolka, Vargalys would believe it whole-heartedly, especially since from that moment on he acted consciously, he knew all too well what he was doing: I was condemned to see it, I had to watch everything to the end, apparently that’s the way it was written in the great Book of Life; he wasn’t at all sadistic about dismembering Lolka’s body, not at all; not at all, he did his ghastly work carefully and attentively, looking for something; he didn’t disfigure that body just any old way, he was looking for something, something he was certain was there; you’d think he was digging in the ground trying to come across something, but not a treasure—I understood that from his expression—surely not a treasure: more like a terrible bomb that could blow up all of Vilnius, maybe even the whole world—I don’t know if he found it, but he stood up slowly, looking down at the dismembered body with a wooden expression, the way he had looked once before, thirty-five years ago, on the hill next to our village, next to Bezrečjė. Only then did I retreat from the window; I went to the bus stop, just like I’m going down the station platform to the fifth track now; I don’t know anything, I can’t testify to anything, because I’m no longer here, all that remains is a burning rear and a fresh memory of the coming generation; I don’t know any Vargalys, I know now who I am and what I’m doing, I’m going home, here’s track five, my train, it’s waiting obligingly, the clock shows there’s two minutes left before it departs: I’m going home, I’m a village girl from the swamps, without a nationality and without an education, I never lived in Vilnius, I don’t have a single acquaintance here, I’m as alone as alone can be, a silly, bestial, genuine
tuteiša from the swamps—I’m calm, I’m all right, Vasilis said more than once that people like that have it easiest. The train moves, I sit down on the left side, so I won’t need to see Vilnius disappearing in the distance, that dying city I’ll never visit again; empty cars slowly move by, gloomy figures; suddenly I’m afraid Vasilis might not recognize me, very afraid, but in time I remember that I have a sign, a password he will surely remember, even lying in a coffin; I pull it out of my purse, it accomplished one great deed; I carefully stroke the three-sided blade, there are still traces of hated blood on it, three dried rust-colored spots, and that’s all—how ordinary it all is. I put it back in its place—what a fancy purse, and my clothes are strange, like some city lady’s, but it’s nothing, at home I’ll change in the blink of an eye; beyond the window the last houses of the city have already gone by, I cast a farewell glance at my past, which probably never was; for some reason it seems as if someone should see me off, wave a handkerchief, but there’s nothing behind me; only by turning all the way around—at the very last moment—does it occur to me that a long-bodied, perverted dog, hopelessly lagging behind, is scurrying after the train, but it’s just a thought—there’s really nothing there, in the entire world there hasn’t been anything real for a long time; only the three rust-colored spots on the three-sided blade of the dagger, they’ve held fast on that blade for the entire three weeks.

  PART FOUR

  VOX CANINA

  Trees have become particularly significant—each one is like a different person. Some stand there naked, only their bark smells; others still spread the scent of profuse foliage. The scent is always different: some trees are bland and a bit dry, others are as juicy as the aroma of just-opened buds. But perhaps the multifarious trees are the most significant: a part of them are luxuriantly crowned, a part dried and weakened, yet another part is as red as blood. They’re multifaceted. They’ve crumbled inside; they live like people who have lost their harmony. Like the real people of Vilnius.