Vilnius Poker Page 3

  Completely stupefied, Gediminas carried her out in his arms. Without a sound she invited me, begged me, to come along. But I remained in the room, remained alone with breasts inclined to the sides, these and the others. And with her second gaze. No, the gaze didn’t re-materialize; rather I seemed to imagine those dreamy breasts, black hair, long legs, and slightly wry smile. Perhaps everything about her was invented; however, the barbed gaze was real. I remembered it—no, not that; something nameless, perhaps even senseless: the gray emptiness of the abyss, an obscure picture, an invisible light. People are accustomed to ignoring indistinct accumulations of memory like that. They are horrendously mistaken.

  The most important episodes in life aren’t lit up by the rays of the sun; fate does its dreary work in twilight, in a murderous clarity, in a sooty dusk—out of it, bats come flying; the eyes of meaningless nonexistence lurk within it. Our fate is measured out there, where owls hoot gloomily. Only the gray, dirty pigeons of Vilnius escape it into the light of day.

  I felt the black-haired woman’s second gaze spreading through the room like an invisible will-o’-the-wisp. In vain, I tried to hide from it. I drank the cognac left on the table and looked around with growing suspicion. I had been led into an invisible labyrinth where roving eyes followed me from its identical corridors. Her second gaze reminded me of my mother’s gaze as she stroked my head, of the grim stare of the camp barracks’s broken windows, of the stare of the colorless river pool—numerous spines piercing straight through, but most significantly—it reminded me of eyes I had never seen before. It reminded me of the narrow little snouts of rats and dilated pupils. Reminded me of reddish foam on painfully compressed lips, of the eyes of the yellowish, vine-entangled old house. I didn’t try to understand anything, otherwise I would have run out of Gedis’s room, to wherever my feet took me. A person who starts remembering the future shouldn’t expect anything good of it. But I still didn’t know my “future,” I hadn’t realized that only the one huge ALL exists. I was blind, I was a headless stuffed dummy, a doll drowsing on a bed of dreamy breasts; no signals could arouse me. I swigged cognac and stared moronically at the window. No, not out the window—there were neither buildings nor lights outside it, Gedis’s windows looked out straight into the void. Perhaps that was why frightening memories slowly encompassed me. A strange presentiment would flow over me in gusts and then retreat, the way a headache sometimes momentarily comes and goes again. I looked around at Gedis’s pedantically arranged living room; I even counted the leaves of a spreading, flowerless plant. It seems to me that this counting determined everything.

  The memory stood in front of my eyes like a large, old painting. Only the dust needed to be brushed off. It was hidden in between the real things, inside them themselves, in the ghostly forms of Gedis’s living room, quietly playing a melody heard once upon a time: the melody of some other room, some other space.

  On the right a mahogany dresser, submerged in an indistinct sha­dow, some other gloomy low furniture. On the left, a mirror and a wall with torn wallpaper. A pale-colored runner on the floor and a window—most significant of all—a window, outside which yawns a gray void. It’s dim in the room, but it’s brighter there than it is on the other side of the grimy glass; through it, the interior is lit up by the darkness, by the drab rays of the pallid sun. Just exactly that: the darkness lights up the dimness; the blackish rays suck the last remains of the day out of the room. This picture didn’t so much as breathe; it cowered in a boundless silence, grimly waiting for me to guess its secret. On the right an old dresser and some other low furniture . . . on the left a mirror, a full-sized mirror with a carved frame; an empty glass left by father . . . And all of it is looking at you. All of it is looking at you. Looking without eyes. There are no eyes in the picture; there is nothing that would remind you of eyes, nothing that would even let you think of eyes. There’s nothing there; however, the picture stubbornly, annoyingly, is looking at you with the biting stare of the spiritless void. The stare of a maw entangled in yellowish vines. I do not remember who saved me from it at other times.

  That evening Gediminas did the saving. He crept into the room like a thief, or perhaps like the victim of a theft—he kept glancing backwards, as if an apparition were following him. I didn’t recognize him. I couldn’t believe that indistinctly babbling figure with sunken eyes was The Great Gedis. It was some other person, frightened and enfeebled. No stray dog would rub up against a person like that. I didn’t recognize Gediminas. Someone else looked at me with a stare full of horror: “Go on, go on in yourself, you’ll see.” Lost between the dreamy breasts and the barbed eyes, everything seemed clear and inevitable. I had to get up and go into the bedroom. There I had to slowly undress and feel a strange, damp warmth rising from the bed. As if from a heap of rotting leaves. Only the smell, sugary and voluptuous, was different, entirely different. Everything was ordinary and inevitable, like the grass turning green in the spring, like the dragon’s fiery breath. The scene was satanically real, but entirely unreal—a dusky shot from a Buñuel film. In the swath of bleak light sprawled the intoxicating body of a woman, inviting me, waiting for me. She lay naked and not naked (doubly, triply naked), wrapped in strands of black hair, in a frame of shiny black snakes. The legs were outlined in long taupe stockings (those stockings hid treachery, I know that now). The breasts fell completely to the sides and looked at me with the large, dark brown eyes of the nipples. But her eyes were even bigger, brimming with intoxicating voluptuousness and a mute invitation. Her look seductively and despairingly whispered that she is waiting for me alone, that she lives for me alone, that she surrenders all of her essence, to the very end and beyond. Just for me alone. Slightly bent knees spread open like a flower bud, enticing and brooking no delay: she had waited for me for so long. I kneeled between her legs, put my hands on her breasts (they were somewhat limp, like those others). My fingers, it seemed, would instantly melt, disappear within her, meld with her breasts, her shoulders, her thick black hair. Her intoxicatingly scented body even rose up in the air to meet me; it clung to me, the silk of the stockings gently stroked my sides and back. In astonishment I dived into her, it instantly dived into a damp, sugary heaven; it was at once caressed, fondled, embraced by myriad tiny little hands and mouths. Her breasts thrashed and nibbled at me, the hair snakes wound about my elbows, and it constantly reveled in sweet heaven, continually climbing, climbing to a boundless height. In her body the bodies of all women intertwined, the bodies of women who could or could not possibly be, everything that could be the best in them. She was created for this alone.

  I came to completely sucked dry. I wanted to flee as quickly as possible, but she didn’t let go of me; even the limp breasts rose, following my receding body, and the black hair snakes shackled my elbows and pulled me back. A single thought throbbed in my head: it can’t be this good, in this world it isn’t this good. I got up, even though a thousand gentle little hands held me back. I didn’t look at her; I knew that if I looked back I would instantly end up next to her again, inside of her, inside the damp, sugary heaven. I returned to the living room naked and sat down across from Gedis, probably repeating out loud: it can’t be that good, it’s a lie, in this world it isn’t that good. Gediminas looked at me with sad, stray dog eyes; it seemed at any moment he would lick my hand. I knew he had experienced the same thing. “Vytas, what will we do?” he mumbled quietly. “If she stays here, the two of us won’t be able to do anything else. It’s all we’ll be able to do.” “Yes,” I answered, “it can’t be that good in this world.” “She’s like a cosmic black hole, she’ll swallow us both, Vytas.” “Yes, there’s no point in useless discussion. I’m going to her.” “Who sent her, who sent her, Vytas?” “Just one more time, one little time, the last . . .” “Get hold of yourself, Vytas, get hold of yourself. It’ll be the end of us!” “Yes. I’m going now . . . We’re not dreaming?” I was blind, I was on the verge of falling into a trap, but Gedis saved us both. I believe he knew
even then. He shoved me into a corner and blocked my way. It’s a rare person who can block my way by force. Gedis could. I was left to squat stark naked in the corner and I cried genuine tears. I cried that it could be that good, and that it could no longer be that good. Her entirely real breasts, legs, belly, damp, warm vagina (particularly that, particularly that) probably came from the Other Side, from the threefold cosmos of Nirvana, where thoughts aren’t necessary to understand the world. That had not been just a perfect act of lovemaking, that had been . . .

  Had been, is, could be . . . If Gedis were alive, I could ask where it was he put that woman—one way or another, she wasn’t a spirit; blood coursed through her veins. Maybe he would tell me now. Then he was quiet. He expelled her by force. She left dismayed and sad—sorrowful in a pure, pure way. Cinderella in a princess’s gown, driven out from the king’s palace. Gediminas, that black-winged angel, cruelly separated us. After all, she was mine. I sat, shoved into a corner, completely crushed. And she obediently went out the door, throwing a longing glance at me. Throughout it all she never uttered a word. She just looked at me: not just with her eyes—but with her shoulders, her breasts, her knees, and with her incomparable vagina, the black hole, which shone through all her clothes, sucked me inside, and perhaps wanted to destroy me. I wanted nothing more than to be destroyed within it. I craved that sugary, damp annihilation. But Gedis was stronger; he locked me in, and when he returned he was alone.

  I searched for that black-haired woman—fitfully, depending on vague instincts. It seemed to me that she would, without fail, show up at twilight, on just such a damp, murky evening, in just such a labyrinth of Old Town’s streets. I stubbornly scoured the crumbling gateways and the narrow courtyards that reeked of urine. Sometimes I would go around to the nastiest of drunken dens, where unshaven lumpens guzzle cheap wine, and then, remembering her expensive clothing, I’d tumble into one or another of the expensive dives and, to the maître d’s horror, scour the private niches. At first I probably wanted only to experience the miracle’s sugary blessing once more, and later . . . Later my life was lit up in an entirely different light; I began to search for Old Town’s Circe, wanting something else. Unfortunately, she vanished like a flame. She no longer inhabited the wet streets of Vilnius, Old Town’s filthy bars, or the automobiles flying by. All that was left was Gediminas, scowling angrily, like a killer. He probably buried her underground, submerged her under water, dissolved her into the air. Or perhaps, having appeared out of nowhere, she vanished into nowhere; born of the wind, she disappeared in the wind—but here another appears, she stands in front of me, and again I want to touch her.

  Of course, Lolita is completely different: different eyes, a different body—not open, but as secretive and quiet as an abandoned lagoon. She is still standing there when the others finish jawing, start to disperse, and Martynas is saying something to me.

  My head’s in a fog—that’s forgivable in a person who was caught in the vortex the moment he woke up, who once more parted the curtains of the secret spectacle, once more remembered the script of the inevitable role. Sometimes I think the best thing for me to do would be to go out of my mind. It’s too difficult to grasp everything with a clear mind. There are things that no human can do. Almost cannot bear, no matter how strong he is or how powerful his intellect may be. It is this “almost” that is my foolish hope, my wise hope. It is this “almost” that is all of me. For the time being I still am. In this world the easiest thing is to lose yourself. Most of the time you don’t even realize you no longer are, that only a stuffed dummy crammed with blood vessels and nerves, truly not your “I,” remains. You aren’t aware that They’ve already devoured you. You aren’t aware of anything. You don’t even remember that you once were.

  It wasn’t easy to understand this, to open the door to the vague world of drab nothingness. For such exploits Their secretive system takes a cruel vengeance. I’m already almost a corpse. I’ve paid dearly for every crumb of understanding. What is the world worth, if it imposes so many tribulations and such pain without promising anything—neither paradise nor felicity on this earth? I didn’t expect requital, but I fought nevertheless. And I continue to fight. For what?

  What the hell—for you, and you, for all of you!

  I know that no one will put up monuments to me: I am a nameless soldier. But I fight every minute, even now, sitting in my office at work, repeating like a prayer: a clear head, cold logic, and caution. Those are the three whales on which my world depends. Outside the window the dirty pigeons of Vilnius are once more lazily soaring about, and once more time is throbbing in my temples. On the other side of the glass—bushes whitened by cement dust and construction scaffolding. Two figures drag themselves along slowly; one steps inside the shrubbery and unbuttons his fly. Between his spread legs I see a little stream watering the ground.

  You don’t see anything, it’s dark, there’s nothing, although you strain to see, even your belly hurts. On the right an old dresser, on the left a mirror, they help you to see. It’s there! Really, really, it’s there, pale little faces coming up to the window.

  “Mama, they’re looking! Little chubby faces! Who are they? What do they want?”

  “Bugbears,” says mama. “They live in the forest beyond the Giedraitis house, and in the evening they look for naughty children. They search and hunt high and low.”

  “Where do they hide in the daytime? Why doesn’t anyone find them?”

  “During the day they turn into rats. Gray rats. When they catch some naughty child, they suck out his blood, so he walks around all white.”

  “Like little Giedraitis?”

  “Even more so, without even a drop of blood. The child doesn’t want anything, he doesn’t remember anything . . . but you’re a good boy, they won’t touch you.”

  You raise your head quickly, quickly—really, they’ve disappeared; it wasn’t you they were looking for.

  “I already know. They’re kanukai.”

  “What, what?” Mama’s red lips smile.

  “They’re not bugbears,” you say proudly, because you’ve thought up a new word. “They’re kanukai. When I grow up, I’ll catch them.”

  Let’s reason this out logically. The black limousine intimidated me far less than it would have once. I’ve experienced too much to be terrified by the chilly whiff of Death’s shroud. I’ve consorted with that eyeless one for a long time; on meeting, we smile at one another like old acquaintances. Death is a woman whom I once had, but cast aside. Always expect revenge and treachery from a woman who’s been cast aside; don’t allow yourself to be caught by surprise. They know this perfectly.

  Let’s reason this out logically. They couldn’t have intentions on my body. They need more, far more. True, Their plan could have been this: a broken spine, paralyzed limbs, battered brains. That’s hard to believe: They know I couldn’t be dealt with like that. And I know, but all the same I’d rather think about realistic, common sense punishments. However, every last thing—even my liver, kidneys, and lungs—is screaming and shouting that the great game has begun again, and the price is my “I.”

  Besides—where had all the birds disappeared to, anyway?

  Some other, more fundamental logic must be sought in this case. Images and moods speak more effectively and astutely than words, you just need to listen carefully. You need to listen in a particular way; after all, I’ve studied this art in my nightmares and while awake, in dreams and behind the barbed wire of the prison camp. It’s imperative to hear what the united ALL whispers to me. Now I enter the old house in the depths of a garden. Now I pass slowly between the bookshelves, shadowing the small head of a woman with closely cropped hair. Now I slowly pull back the little curtain that hides two grim paintings. Now I shake Suslov’s flaccid hand. Incidents arrange themselves into a complex tangle, announcing the great secret in a drab script.

  A clear head, cold logic, and caution! The clock shows two o’clock in the afternoon; more than anything, I w
ant to slowly die. If only someone were to know how solitary I am!

  The black bricks of the boulevard’s paving reflect a woman bent under the weight of a shopping bag, the emptiness of windows crammed with junk, the roof cornices’ ornamentations. Vilnius pants convulsively, like a dying beast. It’s close to three, prime work time, so no one is working: faceless figures keep trudging by—I don’t want to grace them with the word “faces,” those skulls with skin stretched over them. They walk along without even suspecting they no longer are. But after all, at some point they were, and could still be. Although no, they couldn’t, it’s too late. They’re all doomed already. All that’s left is to socialize with Vilnius itself—it understands me, and I have compassion for it. Vilnius suffers, oppressed by inactivity and somnolence, remembering the Iron Wolf like a dream. It should have howled through the ages, but grew decrepit long ago, sickened with throat cancer; its metastases eat away at the city’s brain too. Perhaps only we two, Vilnius and I, are still alive. The stream of the unalive constantly flows down the boulevard like a murky river. The messengers of gray nonexistence crawl over the city’s body like an invincible army of cockroaches. The history of the world is a chronicle of humanity’s futile war with cockroaches. Alas, the cockroaches always win. Vilnius sprawls helplessly, almost paralyzed, its hands shackled and its mouth gagged. However, it can still think. The two of us are still alive; for the time being still alive.