Ricardas Gavelis - Vilnius Poker

“We don’t need Lithuanians, we need Lithuania. For the good of the Empire we must teach them only on the basis of the Russian language.”

This is what General Muravyov, the famous Hangman Muravyov, the most horrible character in school history textbooks, wrote in a report to the Tsar. Two hundred people, I believe, were hung at his command. Any single colonel in the NKVD, even the most inconsequential, destroyed the same number.

And I’m not talking about Colonel Banys.

Someone could get the idea that I really don’t like Russians. That’s ridiculous. There’s quite a number of Russians living in Moscow and Leningrad whom I consider my friends. I believe they consider me a friend too. They proved to me that Russian culture is alive, just that it’s not to be found in official art spheres. They honor that culture, they cherish it. Why should I dislike them? I envy them.

It’s simply that there are Russians, and then there are Russians. I’ve already described the one, and as for the other. . They dragged themselves into Lithuania after the war, frequently on foot, with bundles on their backs, hungry and rude, not even very well aware that this country is called Lithuania. Another category of this gang arrived in Party automobiles, still another — in tanks. These Russians don’t honor or cherish anything; they just spit phlegm on the sidewalks and pretend not to understand Lithuanian. The bad part is, they’re constantly showing their ass, while the others, the real ones, live far away. So, you get furious with the Russians, and then you get underground books from the others, the real ones, and fume as you read only in Russian, because Lithuanians don’t have those kinds of books. Only Teodoras Žilys organized underground exhibits in his studio. But he burned up alive. Underground concerts, whatever their merits, were organized only by Gediminas Riauba. But Lolita drowned him. I’ve never held a single underground Lithuanian novel in my hand; I’ve never heard of any. Undoubtedly there’s no shortage of graphomaniacs and other ignoramuses — I’m talking about a real novel.

The Lithuanian artist inevitably sells out and submits. He swears, moans, drinks vodka by the bucketful, or a three-liter jar at a minimum, but sure enough, he submits and sells out to the ROF.

This is a fundamental characteristic of homo lithuanicus.

I respect the Russians just because that characteristic isn’t universal among them. But once more, I repeat: there are Russians, and then there are Russians. Worse yet, the first kind are constantly in your face, while the others are far away and busy with their own matters.

Maybe they’re simply two different nations?

I’ve gone on way too much about myself. Mea culpa ; however, without the Iron Ass my mlog would lose its skeleton. There simply must be something made of iron in it.

That’s all, that’s all, that’s all. So, VV fell in love with Lolita. It looked ridiculous. There is no sight more hideous than mature people who are like teenagers in love. You want to vomit when you see them. Lord knows, it’s sickening, seeing them holding each other’s little hands and gazing into each other’s eyes like calves.

Thank God, at least VV and Lolita didn’t sigh, drivel, or hang around on park benches. On the surface, they behaved normally, naïvely thinking no one noticed their love.

As if you really needed to see it.

You’d notice the smell of that love from ten steps away. You’d handle that love when you shook VV’s hand. You’d hear their marvelous words of love even though they were silent. The tastiest food would turn bitter in your mouth as soon as they sat down next to you. I suppose from envy.

The women in our office were terribly jealous of them. VV was showered with anonymous letters denouncing Lolita as a paid prostitute and an all-around syphilitic. I suppose every woman in our office secretly dreamed of sleeping with VV. However, that luck fell only to Stefanija.

Stefanija was VV’s good fairy. Self-sacrificing women surrounded him all his life. Most men only dream of this, but VV had it without lifting a finger. Maybe he didn’t even imagine it could be otherwise. Self-sacrificing women created the illusion of a better life for him — each as best they could. Irena, his former wife, managed to outfit a deserted island in the middle of glum Vilnius, where just the two of them lived. It seemed to me she herself didn’t live at all; she would serve him up a piece of herself every day, without being in the least concerned about what would come later. VV swallowed her whole.

VV always was a cannibal. He was almost devoured by the Ass of the Universe himself — perhaps he was simply trying to recover his lost flesh. He devoured everyone, even me, sucking up my thoughts like a sponge.

But I could retreat at any moment, whereas Irena had long since become part of him, his organ, his third hand. The more submissively she crawled at his feet, the more VV scorned her and tortured her in refined ways.

Villain! Fiend! Pervert! I’d scream something stronger still, but an mlog is not the proper place for emotions. Only the facts are necessary.

Inside VV, two famous aristocrats were constantly at war: the Marquis de Sade and Baron von Sacher-Masoch. He was deathly afraid that Irena was secretly deceiving him. He was more jealous than Othello. But he would offer his wife to any man who came along. Whenever he went out of town, he would force some friend to look after Irena, and then he would plague her with his suspicions.

I find it unpleasant to go into this. He pushed and shoved Irena into the arms of a man who coveted her. This guy was called Justinas. VV hated him with all his heart, but that was exactly who he fixed Irena up with. I couldn’t even say Irena was aware of what she was doing. Speaking picturesquely, VV himself undressed her, got her drunk, and shoved her into that Justinas’s arms. The poor thing didn’t even grasp what was going on; he forced Irena to make love to that guy practically in front of his eyes. Then he would call her a traitor, a pervert, his ruin, and the next day he again. .

I don’t understand these things and never will. But they don’t stop existing on my account. The facts are what matter to me: in the end, after almost killing her, he drove Irena out of his house.

I visit her from time to time, even though it’s more and more horrifying every time I go. She lives in a crumbling building on Gorky Street, right next to the Narutis. She slaves with a decrepit mother who doesn’t get out of bed, washing and boiling her soiled sheets every day. Her whole world is stinking sheets and memories. And cognac. She buys herself a bottle of cognac every day and downs it all alone. Frequently she falls asleep right at the table. No one has the slightest idea about her real life. Irena is still beautiful. She looks like a suffering Madonna.

The worst of it is that she talks about VV as if she were talking about God; she absolutely doesn’t blame him, doesn’t even reproach him. Most of all she likes to tell stories about their nights of love, their entire days, even weeks, of love. Those stories are brimming with such divine poetry that even I listen to them as if I were mesmerized. I usually can’t stand any talk of erotica. The fashion inspired by Daddy Freud of undressing in public is disgusting.

But I listen to Irena as if I were mesmerized. She goes on and on, always slower, always quieter, until finally she falls asleep right on the table. Her mother screeches harshly, chasing away some ghosts or another, and calls me the spawn of the devil.

That’s the kind of scene left behind whenever the great Vytautas Vargalys goes by. But that fiend enthralls them somehow anyway!

I have no idea where Irena gets the money. The cognac alone comes to half again as much as her pay. Maybe VV’s father sends it or brings it to her. In the Ass of the Universe, restaurant doormen make good money.