‘And today you don’t need anything?’ Grigalaviciene said, following me, slurping her hot tea noisily.
‘It’s just after eight, I haven’t had the chance to get out yet.’
She grunted derisively. I watched as she pottered around the room, tidying it. She picked up items of clothing and hung them neatly over the backs of chairs. She straightened the carpets and took a small dustpan and brush and collected the fragments of glass from the bottle I had broken two nights earlier. All this she did clicking her tongue angrily and muttering to herself. A little irritated I said, ‘If you’re talking to me, you’d better speak up because I can’t hear you.’
She turned angrily, brandishing the dustpan full of glass. ‘It’s not enough that I have to clear up my own apartment, I have to come up and clear up after your drunken orgies.’
‘I never asked you to,’ I said belligerently, my head sore.
‘I’m just supposed to watch you killing yourself, am I?’ she shot back. ‘That would be a good Christian attitude, wouldn’t it!’ She marched off into the kitchen and emptied the glass into some newspaper, which she folded carefully before putting it into a plastic bag. ‘You’re going to have to wait till tomorrow for the rubbish,’ she called from the kitchen.
‘I know when the rubbish van comes,’ I said.
She wandered back out of the kitchen rubbing her hands. ‘Well, it’s a bit tidier now. That’ll have to do for the moment. I’m busy, I can’t go chasing round after you all day long. I’ll pop down to the shops later to get a few groceries.’
‘You don’t need to,’ I said.
She grunted derisively again, as though I was an imbecile. She poked about on my desk, rooting among the papers.
‘What are you after there?’ I asked.
‘Where do you keep your money?’
‘I’m not telling you where I keep my money.’
‘Suit yourself, you can pay me when I come back.’
I sighed, irritated, and pulled out my wallet. I took a creased five Litas note out and tossed it to her. ‘Here. Just buy some bread and milk.’
She picked up the note and poked it into her pocket. As she turned to leave she noticed the pictures of the women on the wall.
‘What’s all this then?’ she asked, her voice alive with the expectation of gossip.
‘Nothing for you,’ I said angrily.
‘Nuh!’ she said, nose in the air, and shuffled off to the door not looking back.
‘Grigalaviciene!’ I called as she disappeared through the door.
‘What is it?’ she shouted back, not reappearing.
‘Thank you,’ I called testily. She grunted.
Chapter 10
As I sat in my chair by the window, watching the build-up of clouds, the hours passed slowly. The thought of the missing manuscript gnawed at me. I had arranged to meet Jolanta for lunch at the Filharmonija café on Thursday. That gave me two days.
Hour after hour I paced the floor of my apartment. I half thought about sending Grigalaviciene out to the café, but in the end decided not to. By early evening I could stand it no longer. Despite the shaking of my hands I pulled on a thick coat, buttoned it up to my chin and left the apartment. The stairs seemed unusually steep and perilous and I had difficulty descending them. I clung tightly to the banister, my eyes straining at the steps in the dim light of the stairwell. Hearing my door, Grigalaviciene poked her head out.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked.
‘Mind your own business,’ I told her.
‘You trying to kill yourself or what?’
‘I’m just going for a walk.’
‘You’re not in any fit state to go wandering around in the darkness,’ she said. I noticed something akin to concern in her rough voice. I sighed and carried on down the stairs.
‘Don’t blame me if you kill yourself,’ she shouted, slamming the door behind her.
The night was not cold but I could not stop shivering. My legs felt weak and my head ached. I pressed slowly on through the dark narrow streets of the ghetto towards the café at the corner of Pilies Street, where I had been drinking. The streets were quiet. The café, though, when I got there, was quite busy. Mainly young students drinking beer. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of coffee and cakes. I pushed through the chairs to the counter where a harassed young woman dashed from the coffee machine to the cake stand and back.
‘Yes?’ she said as I got to the front of the queue, displaying none of the new manners the West had brought. I hesitated a moment. Behind me the queue had grown longer, stretching back to the door. I felt a hand against my back.
‘Two nights ago,’ I began. ‘I was drinking here.’
‘What do you want?’ the young woman cut in.
‘I left something here,’ I tried to continue. ‘I left a bag here, a plastic bag. It had papers in it.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know anything about that,’ she said annoyed. ‘Do you want something or not?’
The hand against my back had become more persistent in its pressure. From farther back in the queue I heard a young male voice calling, ‘Come on, granddad.’
‘It’s very important,’ I said.
‘I’m sorry,’ the young woman said again. ‘I don’t know anything about it.’ Her eyes had already started to wander to the customers behind me. Feeling helpless, I quickly ordered a coffee. As she stood at the machine making it, I continued, ‘I think the bag was blue. It is very important, it didn’t actually belong to me.’ But she could not hear anyway above the explosive splutters of the coffee machine. She slopped the coffee down in front of me.
‘Litas,’ she said, and while I fumbled for my wallet she had already turned to the couple behind me with an apology. I laid the crumpled note on the counter and took my coffee. In the corner there was a seat and I made my way over there. A sweat had broken out on my face and I felt faint and sick. My hands shook so much, as I crossed the crowded room, that still more of the drink slopped over the side of the small cup into the saucer. At the table I slumped into the metal chair and rested my head in my hands. I closed my eyes and tried to stop my head swimming. After a couple of minutes the nausea began to subside. I felt exhausted.
It had been a mistake to come to the café at this hour; it was crowded. As one group left, another pushed in loudly through the doors. I glanced at my watch. It was eight o’clock. I sipped the coffee slowly, hoping that the crowd might thin out, taking some strain off the girl behind the counter.
By nine business in the café seemed no less hectic and I was beginning to despair. I knew that it would be sensible to go back home and come again in the morning, when things would be quieter. My eyes had been on the young woman behind the counter continually. She did not stop. Her long hair was tied back neatly, but as time wore on, strands came loose and flapped across her face. Perspiration shone on her forehead. Occasionally she forced a smile for a customer but otherwise her expression was strictly businesslike. It was a bit of a surprise therefore to see a real broad smile cross her face when the door pushed open just after nine, setting the small bell tinkling once more. Following her gaze my eyes jumped over to the doorway. A young man entered, his dark hair swept back, a scarf flung around his neck. He waved to the girl across the heads of the customers. It took me a few moments to recognise him.
He made his way to the back of the café and disappeared through a doorway. The girl called out to him as he disappeared and he shouted something back I could not hear above the noise of the chatter. My heart jumped with a spasm of joy and relief. I got up and pushed through the chairs and tables, excusing myself. Passing the counter I made for the door through which the young man had disappeared.
‘Hey!’ the girl called after me. ‘You can’t go in there.’ She leapt out and grabbed me before I managed to push through the door. I tried to shrug myself free, but she held my sleeve tightly.
‘Where do you want to go?’ she asked. Recognition flickered across her fa
ce as she looked at me. A wearied, intolerant tone inflected her voice. ‘That door is for staff only. If it’s the toilet you want, it’s out through there.’ She indicated the direction with an impatient sweep of her hand. ‘I’ll get you the key.’
‘It’s not the toilet I want,’ I said, equally impatiently. ‘I need to speak to that young man.’
‘What young man?’ She frowned. The perspiration on her forehead glittered in the harsh light. She was so close I could feel the heat of her body.
‘The young man that just walked through these doors,’ I said. ‘I must speak with him.’
‘Gintas?’
At that moment Gintas appeared, looking clean and fresh in a white shirt. He stopped short seeing the two of us, there, in the small passageway. The young woman looked at him relieved.
‘Everything OK?’ Gintas asked.
‘He says that he wants to speak to you,’ the young woman said, rolling her eyes, not caring that I saw.
‘Really?’ he said, puzzled.
‘You were working here two nights ago,’ I told him. ‘I was in here having a drink or two.’ I recalled, as I said this, his politeness in the face of my abuse. I felt a blush of shame pass up across my face. I pressed on. There was no indication in his eyes that he remembered me. ‘I left something very important here, in a bag. It was a blue bag, plastic. Inside there was a manuscript. You see, it wasn’t mine. It’s very important that I get it back. A young girl gave it to me to read.’ I tailed off, seeing the confused look in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t recall there being anything left.’
I grabbed his arm desperately. He was a little taken aback by this but remained polite. He gently removed my arm. I let it drop.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Only this means so much to me.’ Suddenly, feeling the hopelessness of it all, I turned to leave.
‘Wait,’ the young man stopped me. ‘Last night, you said?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Two nights ago.’ I paused. The young man obviously wanted to help and was searching around fruitlessly in his memory.
‘I had too much to drink,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘A lot of people have too much to drink here.’
‘You told me I had had enough. I told you that I would tell you when I had had enough. I was unpleasant. I’m sorry about that.’
The young man’s face suddenly lit up. Then he frowned. ‘I remember,’ he said, clapping me on the shoulder. ‘You’re right, you were a bit unpleasant.’ He laughed.
‘And do you remember the bag?’ I asked quickly.
He thought. But then he shook his head again. ‘No, I’m sorry. I don’t remember any bag.’ But he caught my arm. ‘Listen, I’m not really the person you should be speaking to. I don’t really do any cleaning up here after hours. You should speak to the cleaning staff.’
‘Are they here now?’ I asked.
He shook his head. ‘Jonas comes in the morning. Come here at about eight in the morning and you’re bound to catch him. If anybody knows, he will.’
‘Jonas? Do you have an address?’
The young man began to look a little impatient.
‘Or just a telephone number?’ I said, desperately. ‘This is important.’
He thought for a moment, and then sighed. ‘Fine, wait a moment, I will get his number for you.’ He walked over to the counter. I saw the young woman address him, nodding her head in my direction. He pulled out a small book from under the counter and wrote a number down on a menu pad.
‘Thank you,’ I said as he pressed it into my hand.
Chapter 11
When I dialled the number, later that evening, from my apartment, nobody answered. I stared at the large black receiver, willing a response, but after listening to it ringing for minutes on end I finally dropped it back into its cradle. I went to bed early and tossed around before falling into a deep sleep. In the morning I awoke feeling much better.
At eight Grigalaviciene banged on the door again. I opened it and let her in. She had a parcel of goods in her hands that she bustled through to the kitchen.
‘I was at the market this morning,’ she explained. ‘I thought I would get you one or two things to save you the bother.’
‘It’s no bother for me,’ I said, but, feeling brighter, added, ‘thank you.’
She clicked her tongue at this uncalled-for pleasantry. Not acknowledging my thanks, she turned and appraised me with her sharp old eyes. ‘Well, you’re certainly looking a bit better this morning.’
‘I feel it,’ I said, thumping my chest.
‘Nu, well, you don’t deserve it,’ she said, making her way to the door.
‘What do I owe you for the vegetables?’ I asked. ‘Ten,’ she said.
I fished in my wallet and gave her a note.
‘Oh,’ she said as she left. ‘You had a visitor last night, while you were out.’
‘I did?’
‘A woman,’ she said pointedly.
My heart faltered. ‘A woman?’ I asked. Jolanta. Could it have been? How could it have been? I thought. My mind raced as Grigalaviciene stood there coyly holding back her information. What other woman would come to visit me? Was it so hard, after all, to find out where I lived? I was in the telephone book.
‘A young woman?’ I asked.
Grigalaviciene pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. ‘Young? You wanting young women to come visit, are you?’ she said. ‘Well, she was younger than me, but, nu, most are.’
‘For goodness’ sake,’ I said impatiently.
‘She wasn’t so young you should be getting so excited about it,’ Grigalaviciene said disdainfully. ‘Svetlana, she said her name was.’ She shook her head and wiped her hands against the faded apron she wore, as if wiping the dirt of my business from her.
‘Svetlana?’ For a moment I was startled.
‘I don’t know what you’re up to and I don’t want to know,’ Grigalaviciene said, standing in the hallway outside my door, looking hungry for gossip.
‘I’m not up to anything,’ I said, irritated. ‘What did she want?’
‘As I said, I’m not a one for prying into your business.’
‘Did she say what she wanted?’
‘I’ve got better things to do with my time.’
‘What did she want?’ I shouted.
A 1ook of fury crossed her old face then. The creases tightened and her mouth set in an angry straight line. ‘She didn’t say what she wanted and I didn’t ask,’ she spat out. ‘And in future don’t go loading all your dirty business on me. It’s enough having to put up with your drinking and the fear of what violence you might do, without -’
A roar of rage sprang from my own throat and Grigalaviciene, frightened, scuttled away to her own apartment. I heard the two sets of doors slam and the sound of locks turning. I slammed my own door.
When I telephoned the number again that morning, a timid woman’s voice answered. It was Jonas’ daughter. Her father, she told me, was at work and would not be back till lunch. She did not know about a bag and said I would have to talk to her father about it. She agreed hesitantly to take a message. I left my name and telephone number with her.
Slipping on my jacket I made my way once more down the stairs and across the parking lot to Jewish Street. The sun was out and the sky was a brilliant cobalt. The spires of the churches shone. The oppressive weight that had been lying on my heart lifted slightly. But a hot flush passed over my face at the mere thought of telling Jolanta I had lost the manuscript when I met her for lunch the next day.
The café was closed and there seemed little sign of activity. The streets were busy. Tradesmen were setting out their stalls of amber trinkets to sell to the tourists, and students wandered to the university. I peered into the darkness of the café. The window was dirty and I could see little through it. The doors were locked and would not shift an inch when I tried them. I sighed and pressed my nose against them, banging as loudly as I could with my fi
st.
‘There something you want?’ A voice from behind startled me. I turned. A man with a heavily scarred face stood on the pavement holding a broom in his hand.
‘I’m looking for the cleaner here,’ I explained.
‘Oh yes?’ the man grunted. He cocked his head sideways as he spoke to me, as though he had difficulty hearing me through his left ear.
‘Do you know him?’ I asked. ‘His name is Jonas.’
‘Might do,’ the man said, looking shifty. ‘Depends.’
Not wanting to explain my business to a stranger I was a little annoyed at the man’s obtuse approach.
‘What does it depend on?’ I asked sharply.
He shifted his broom from one hand to the other and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He leaned closer and I could smell his foul breath. I leaned away slightly. ‘It depends on what you’re wanting him for.’
One of his eyes strayed around a little loosely while the other pinned me suspiciously.
‘When I was here a couple of nights ago,’ I said, ‘I left a bag behind. I asked the staff last night, but they said that this Jonas would be the one who picked it up.’
He nodded. ‘Well, that’ll be me you’re wanting then.’ He looked up into the sky, thoughtfully. ‘A bag, you say.’ He rubbed a thick finger along the heavy scar across his cheek. ‘What kind of a bag might it have been?’ His eye fixed me again.
‘It was a plastic bag. Just an ordinary bag, one of these new supermarket ones. It had some papers inside. A whole lot of paper.’
The eye did not leave me now. He seemed to be considering whether I was joking. He breathed his foul breath over me, edging a little closer. ‘You’re telling me you’re looking for a plastic bag full of paper?’ he said. ‘Paper?’
‘It was important,’ I said impatiently, not wanting to have to go into a full-scale explanation. ‘They were documents,’ I said, pronouncing the word with great gravity.
‘Oh, ah,’ he said, fingering the scar again. ‘Nu, well, if they were documents, then I understand,’ he said. ‘Documents,’ he repeated to himself, savouring the word. ‘Nu, so they were documents that have gone missing, eh? Well!’
The Last Girl Page 5