Vilnius Poker Page 2

One sits across from me, another paces along the wall; his neck is thin and he’s severely adamappled. His nostrils are thin, they quiver frequently; he wants something. He peers at you sullenly, with fish eyes: maybe he doesn’t like it that you are lying naked and spread-eagled like that. They themselves laid you down, they themselves tied you up. Plaits appear on the wall, they shiver and distort themselves. You sprawl at the bottom of a stone pit, all you see is a mustachioed Sralinish little piece of crackedsky. The plaits climb toward the sky, toward the mustache; they glimmer, twinkle, and blink, like little eyes. He gazes from the frame as serene as a god. This stone pit is his altar. But everything’s backwards here—you’re crucified, and he’s praying to you. Backwards: first he says Amen. Amen to you. The holy spiritsralin smiles Georgianly; the tiny chewed bones of infants stick out from under his mustache. Why have they put you here? After all, you didn’t have the time to do anything. They didn’t even give you a pistonmachine; they were saving you for other work.

  “Beat him some more,” says quivernostrils. “I’m soaked already.”

  Steeling lamp gets up, waves a hose, there’s lead poured into it, to gentlycaress.

  “Oh you, devil’s spawn, yob tvoyu mat.”

  By now you know what that means: to screw your mother. They can, they can do anything; the mustachioedgod Sralin screws all of your mothers. They hit you on the head, and your kidneys and groin and the soles of your feet hurt. Then they punch you in the void—the back of your head hurts. There are circles all about the stone pit and around the portrait, like cobwebs or bars. There are cobwebs like bars on the window too, or the reverse—you don’t know anything anymore, you’re hit on the head, you’re tied up and there’s nothing you can do. There’s absolutely, absolutely, absolutely nothing you can do. You never could. You didn’t have the time to do anything; they didn’t even give you a pistonmachine.

  “My hand’s tired. Lively bastard.”

  The pain is white and blinding, like a lamp. Painlamp stands on the table and pokes the eyes with its flashing.

  “What a stink,” says the unseen one. “The bottoms of his feet are all scorched.”

  “Burn his pecker,” say the quivering nostrils. “Maybe that’ll scare him. Just throw some water on him, he’s not all there.”

  The nostrilly face flies around you. There’s smirking and sighing from the frame. Stadniukas is his name, shitty Russian NKVD.

  “Aw, go on, burn him yourself,” says the white blinding pain. “The hell he’ll get scared. If he’d say something at least, the little bastard.”

  And Lithuania will be free again,

  When we drive out the last Russkie,

  Machine guns will soon howl bullets . . .

  The door slams—it’s over already? No, there’s water yet, icecold, and tremblenostrils, he still wants something, he holds a flame and smiles. What is he going to do?

  “You need your eyes burned out,” say the plaits and circles on the wall.

  The water soaked into you; you soak up the water like parched earth. It’s spring now; grass will grow out of you. Narrowneck stands next to you, smiles and twitches his nostrils; suddenly he unbuttons his fly and pulls out a limp sausage of manhood. What is he going to do? He was supposed to burn yours. His is slimy, like some strange slug; the hole in the end, like an eye, looks at you. Like it’s alive. And Stalin on the wall. Both of them are alive and looking at you. What will he do now, what will he do? The flame lowers into your crotch, the pain as even and shiny as a needle. Then it curves, touches the heart, kidneys, liver; but you still see, you see everything. The slimy slug slowly coils, raises its head, looks at you with its one skewed eye. Looks at you and relishes it; the little flame between your legs has turned into the flame of hell. You’re an old castle, the Crusaders are burning you. It hurts, oh Lord, how it hurts. The slug devours your pain; it quivers with bliss, its stumpy head upreared. Can it hurt more, can it? Where’s the end, you ask of the slimy fetidstench slug’s eye, and it suddenly spits in your face, a sticky white spittle. The little flame slowly rises from your crotch, you see nothing more: the slug’s sticky spittle sealed your eyes. You hear quivernostrils breathing heavily, everything in your crotch is probably scorched, quivernostrils buttons his fly, hides his slug; it feeds on others’ pain, and you’re probably gone by now. Stadniukas is his name, remember, Stadniukas.

  The elegant menagerie has assembled. Nearest, golden-toothed Graž­ina, the legendary heroine; even in a chair she writhes like a cat, crying, pleading for a soft couch, white plush, and a gigantic fat dog—the flabby philistine luxury of the period between the wars. Next, sunken-chested Martynas with yellowed teeth. Stefa—a blond-haired little angel with a spy’s eyes. And further—a veritable lineup of thick-jawed women who know everything in the world in exactly the same way. A postage stamp series, imprinted with a single cliché. Clichés everywhere: ceiling and wall clichés, the view from the window cliché, poster and slogan clichés. A book is the best of friends. Welcome to Vilnius. Regards to our most heroic women. A watery-eyed society of unusual harmony. Only Martynas and Stefa are worth even the most modest of inquiries. The others don’t interest me; I’ve heard their talk yesterday, a year ago, five years ago—time has stopped here too.

  “You know, yesterday I spent two hours looking for meat, I was already standing in line, and right in front of my nose . . .”

  “They take everything away, you know. In Kaunas some men soldered freight cars, bound for Moscow with meat, to the rails . . .”

  “Haven’t you been to Russia? You’ve seen how thing are there? Completely . . .”

  “Things have always been like that in Russia, that’s why it’s Russia. What do we have to do with it . . .”

  “Don’t worry, Moscow is choking on Lithuanian sausage . . .”

  “As if stuffing your face is what matters most . . .”

  “A Lithuanian always eats his fill . . .”

  “Like there was anything else. There isn’t anything else . . .”

  “Ladies, just wait for eighty-four.” That’s Martynas now. “Orwell’s ghost will appear, the system will disintegrate like a house of cards.”

  “Comrade Poška, think of what you’re saying!” There’s Elena’s hippopotamus alto.

  My eyes start hurting from this talk. Of bread and circuses, only bread is left today. I sneak a look at her. She doesn’t sit with the others, she stands leaning against the shelves and is the only one who is quiet. Her dress lies softly on her thighs, just hinting, just letting you know how perfect they are. Her calves are covered with high boots, but I’ve observed them carefully; in front of my eyes I see the long thin calves of summer, the skin as soft as willow buds. Strange currents, menacing fluids of beauty, flow through her legs. They rise upward, to her waist, caress her flat belly and curvaceous hips, fall downward, turn a circle around the knees, slide down the calves and pour through slender heels into the delicate feet, all the way to the toes. Her legs are a work of art. It seems to me that at night they should glow, enveloped by the fluid’s tender halo. It’s dangerous for me to look at them; I ought to lower my eyes, to cover my face with my hands, to hide from myself—but I greedily eyeballed them, nearly losing consciousness.

  She felt my look; she feels everything. At intervals she would slowly raise the cup to her lips and freeze. She didn’t glance at me even once; she didn’t glare angrily. She didn’t hide from me; I was allowed to admire the barely visible wrinkles of thin material in that place where the legs secretly join the flat, even belly. Her beauty is full, it breathes with real life. It’s dangerous. She is like a live rose in this garbage-pit of deformed bodies. That’s why an ominous doubt slowly creeps into my heart. Can it possibly be, I think involuntarily, is it at all possible? Beauty should be limited; otherwise it inevitably turns into evil. This was etched into my brain by an incident from long ago, the first bell that invited me to the great spectacle. A wretched spectacle, where all of the roles are tragic and bloody; an intricat
e and brutal performance, whose rules will sooner or later drive me out of my mind.

  Gediminas was still alive then, and I was only forty years old. Was, is, could be . . . I don’t know if Gediminas could be alive. I don’t know if I would want him to be more alive than he is now. A person’s non-being isn’t absolute: the thread of fate breaks, but after all it doesn’t burn up, it doesn’t melt in the air; it remains among us, the living. Every one of us could seat our own dead in front of the hearth: our own Gediminas, our own grandfather, constantly griping sullenly about God and all of his creation. There shouldn’t be such a feeling on earth as “lost to the ages.” Only you yourself can be lost to the ages. Loss merely freezes a person’s existence, as if in a piece of clear ice. Now Gediminas will never turn gray or be sickly; he can’t be that way anymore. Now he’ll never climb the Tibetan peak he dreamed of; he’ll always just want to climb it. Perhaps it’s for the best, that now he can’t do what he didn’t do, say what he didn’t say, turn into that which he wasn’t (now isn’t). I don’t need to be afraid he drinks too much—he will always drink and always enjoy it, now he really won’t turn into a doddering wreck who can’t hold a glass. He won’t betray me or neglect me in misfortune. He is the way he is, now he will never change. Maybe it’s better that way: it would be better, it could be better, it will be better . . . Gediminas hasn’t vanished anywhere; even now he’s standing on the corner of the sidewalk (that evening he stood). The impassive Vilnius autumn lingers about; the air smells of damp dust—like a giant whale pulled out of a sea of dust. The evening wraps itself in a barely noticeable mist and the wet glitter of lights. No one drives by, everyone has forgotten us, Vilnius has abandoned us. A gust of wind carries off the mist, the ripples in the puddles slowly settle down, the pale reflections of the lights float again. This quietly steaming broth of autumn quietly intoxicates. On evenings like this, Vilnius, with its toothless whale-mouth, whispers hoarse, mysterious words, entices and lures you, swallows you up and spits you out—appreciably the worse for wear and soaked in the smells of the whale’s guts: vapors of wine, vodka, and rum.

  When you’ve been spat out, you see the damp, dusk-enveloped buildings of Vilnius lurking in the dark corners of the streets in an entirely different way (that evening I saw it that way). It seemed they were lying in ambush. It seemed Vilnius no longer breathed at all; it crouched and settled down, grimly waiting. The drab monuments and the dirty, smoke-ridden lindens of Vilnius waited too. Something had to happen; this the two of us, deluded into the depths of Old Town and saturated with the city’s fine rain, realized particularly well. We stood (now we stand), waiting for something to happen. For a mangy, wet dog to cling to us (all stray dogs love Gediminas; they all consider him their only leader and master). For the wind to suddenly whistle like a bird, and a vengeful moon, marked with mysterious crooked symbols, to show up in a rift in the clouds. But nothing happened; the toothless whale spat the two of us out, and forgot us.

  Gedis saw that woman first. She emerged as if from the earth, or perhaps she was born of the fall dampness—she hadn’t even managed to wipe the dew off her cheeks yet. It seemed an eddy of wind had brought her here from a gloomy side street. She swiveled to the sides, as if finding herself in this world for the first time. This can only happen in dreams or at night in Vilnius: just now, as far as you could see, the street was empty, but here a black-haired woman in an expensive elegant overcoat is standing next to you, and you aren’t in the least surprised. She’s one of yours now; she had to show up here, according to the imponderable laws of the dream of Vilnius. A gust of wind whisked the thick black hair from her face, but a shadow hid her eyes. It was the clothes I saw most clearly—the kind sewn by only the most expensive of tailors. I had no doubt she was the something we were waiting for. Vilnius’s Greek gift, immediately attracting the eye (and not just the eye). You would instantly spot a woman like that in the thickest forest or crush of people; you would see her dressed in any fashion, hidden under a dark veil, or disfigured.

  There didn’t seem to be anything special either about her oval face, or in the predatory thighs, visible even through the cloth of the coat, or in her indolent breasts. There wasn’t that mysterious harmony in her that sometimes links coarse details into a wondrous whole. However, she attracted me (attracts me) like a large, warm magnet. She wanted touching. She wanted us to think only of her. Gedis and I had just been getting ready to go somewhere, to do something, and now we stood there, forgetting all of our plans, completely stunned. The woman smiled and waited for us to come to our senses. A beautiful, long-legged, perhaps twenty-five-year-old, with dreamy breasts and hair tousled by the wind. A strange, damp warmth, like that from a heap of rotting leaves, emanated from her.

  She really did want touching. She craved this herself, she entwined us both with long, invisible arms; you wanted to obey her, but within that sweet obedience a melancholy fear flared—it seemed as if this Circe of Vilnius’s side streets could at any moment turn you into a soft, brainless being.

  An automobile, apparently lured by her, stopped next to us. Naturally and inescapably, she turned up inside it with us, naturally and inescapably, she got out at Gediminas’s building and went up to the fifth floor. She smiled the entire time. I leaned on an armchair, secretly watching her, and still she smiled; she never uttered a single word. She wasn’t made for small talk.

  In the room I finally saw her eyes. I had never seen eyes like that before: huge, enormous, velvety, inviting you closer. I had never seen hair like that before: soft black curls slid down her grayish dress all the way to her waist. Later, when I felt them, I discovered that you couldn’t squeeze them in your hand—they writhed and slipped out like a nimble black snake. Hair like that doesn’t exist in the world. Probably there was never a body like that, either: the regal clothes, supposedly designed to cover it, denied their purpose; her nakedness strained and forced its way to the surface. She couldn’t hide (maybe she didn’t want to, either) her long legs or her oval breasts that shouted for caresses. She couldn’t hide even the smallest details of her hypnotizing body. She was more naked than naked.

  I completely forgot Gediminas, and he forgot me; both of us saw only her. He sat closer, but he didn’t dare touch her; he didn’t even dare to open his mouth. I didn’t, either: it seemed words would instantly break the spell. I would never have dared, but Gedis nevertheless carefully caressed her with trembling fingers, then again and again, more and more—sensing she desired that herself, desired only that. I slouched on the other side of the table, but I knew, I felt, that she was with me—it didn’t matter who caressed her or how. She was my woman that even­ing—from beginning to end. Gedis, completely forgetting himself, caressed her with my hands. My hands slowly stroked her neck and breasts, which swayed to the sides, felt them growing heavy and full, beseeching me not to pull away. Her gigantic velvet eyes asked the same thing. I couldn’t hold their gaze, I lowered my eyes; she thought I no longer saw her. Unfortunately, I always see everything. I see in the dark, when others go helplessly blind. Looking straight ahead, I see everything around me, even what’s going on behind my back. I saw everything then too: Gedis’s groping hands—by now they had pried their way to the naked body—a trembling twofold shadow in the corner of the room, cigarette ashes herded along the table top by heavy breathing. I saw her face too. She secretly fixed her gaze on me, the second gaze, the eyes of the ashen desert, which I know so well now. At the time it occurred to me that it was a hallucination, a brief nightmare that hadn’t appeared from without, but had emerged from within me. That gaze destroyed space; it seized everything for itself (it seemed that with her gigantic eye sockets she would suck in me, and the armchair, and the entire room). It seemed as if narrow cones of pale light, two steely barbs, emerged from her eyes. I flinched as if I had awoken during the night and felt cockroaches crawling on my face. I lifted my eyes, and Lord, I believed I was imagining things. I was caressed by the glossy black velvet eyes of a beauty begging m
e to approach. And breasts. Gedis peeled the pale blue lace from her shoulders and, stunned, looked at two dreamy hemispheres with dark, erect, brown nipples. “Oh Lord, Vytas, do you see?” I saw; I stared there as if entranced. Breasts strikingly inclined to the sides; each one swayed entirely separately, you could put a palm between them. I had already seen these breasts, as white as the ivory figurines in my father’s study.

  Only the nipples are dark brown. And you are red, blood rushes to your entire face. It’s red as well, it protrudes from below, and you are even more ashamed because she’s looking there too.

  “Come on, come on, don’t be afraid,” say her voluptuous swollen lips, “It’ll be nice, really nice in a minute.”

  Janė sits on the cot, leaning against the wall, bent legs spread a bit, and smiles gently. There are boxes and pieces of lumber thrown about the shed and colorful rags hung from the hooks under the ceiling. The cot by the window is hard; your knees even hurt, but you kneel, anyway. Janė smiles encouragingly; her teeth are white, white. She’s white all over, only her nipples are dark brown, and the hair below her belly. You look there and you feel faint. You’ve tried so many times to penetrate there, through the clothes, with your stare, and you would die, die, die. Now you see, and your head spins, and it’s awful. With her clothes off, she looks thinner; her legs have grown even longer. And she keeps looking at it.

  “That’s an unusual little beast you’re growing. How old are you, anyway, fourteen? My, what an early little gent you are . . .”

  You tremble when she touches it; it seems she’ll burn her hand—it’s so hot there. Her breasts are acutely inclined to the sides; you could put a palm between them. Janė lies on her side, pulls you down with her, not letting it out of her hands. She smells of bitter herbs and the steam of the kitchen. You throw back your head to catch your breath, and suddenly your heart stops. Outside the shed’s window floats a man’s head. He’s looking at you. Looking straight into your eyes and chewing a yellowish blade of grass. You want to run away, to escape, but she holds you firmly in her embrace and doesn’t let go. Don’t be afraid, little gent, she whispers, don’t be afraid. Her eyes are closed, she doesn’t see anything. And the man is still looking; he’s spat out the grass. You want to tell her, but you can’t catch your breath. You want to vanish into the earth, but you’re tied down: it’s tied down, it’s disappeared inside her. You want to die, you want it to break off, so you could run away. The man looks, his eyes huge. She gently lies on top on you, she’s going at it from above, breathing heavily. And it’s doing something inside of her, chomping and shuddering, extended like never before. Now it has become part of her. Janė has completely turned into it; she writhes and wriggles without your consent. The man’s head licks its lips, swallows its saliva. He’s looking straight into your eyes, as if he wants to suck in all of your insides, all your blood, all your brains, leaving only an empty skin . . .