Ricardas Gavelis - Vilnius Poker

Stefanija couldn’t be like Irena; she couldn’t outfit VV with a deserted island. However, she did what she could too. She isolated VV from everyday worries.

If someone thinks that’s not such a big deal, then they’ve never lived in the Ass of the Universe.

I can’t imagine VV shoving in line for a bite of bread or washing out worn underwear. It was only thanks to Stefa’s efforts that he was bathed, cleanly dressed, nicely outfitted, and tastefully fed, without even suspecting what supernatural efforts this required. She even spent her own money on his needs. Fact: VV would get maybe one hundred fifty per month. In the Ass of the Universe, wages are paid on the assumption that everyone procures another three times that much from the underground economy. Incidentally, a genuine homo lithuanicus isn’t the least concerned about this. Homo lithuanicus , in the depths of his heart, has absolutely no faith in this government, so he doesn’t expect anything from it. However, VV or Stefanija weren’t even associated with the underground economy. Poor souls. Poor, poor souls. It’s really tough for intellectuals in the Ass of the Universe — even economically. They have nothing to pinch from the state.

It may seem that I’m making a hubbub over nothing, that I’m whining about trifles. Unfortunately, the shortage of absolutely everything and the complete lack of order isn’t just a physical phenomenon. It’s a terrible hindrance to the soul. When you spend hour after hour hunting food and clothing and putting enormous efforts into creating a normal home, you get so tired that you can’t do anything else. All of your thoughts die off like unfledged birds.

VV’s thoughts were protected from this. VV wasn’t a man of this world. And since he also had no other, he was a person without any world at all.

He merely attempted, in vain, to construct that world for himself.

Another thing I don’t understand: Stefa accepted Lolita’s appearance on the scene as if it were her fate. She went on serving VV as home economist and house maid — without getting any wages. In fact, it was quite the opposite; she was always supporting her master. You’ll find that the families of declining Italian princes also operated under this kind of economy.

VV would bring Lolita home even when Stefanija would be sitting — or rather doing the laundry or scouring the rooms — in his apartment. Earlier, he at least slept with her occasionally, but when he fell in love with Lolita. .

Lord knows, if I were a mystic, I’d believe VV has supernatural powers over women. I’m sorry for Stefa. I’m horribly sorry for Irena. On the other hand, they themselves are perfectly happy with their situation.

I often wonder: maybe a hunger to slave for someone really does lurk somewhere deep inside people? There’s something Dostoyevskian in this desire, and at the same time something horrifying.

I swear: I, Martynas Poška, do not want to slave for anyone.

I believe it was Goethe who wrote that we must most beware the fancies of our youth. If they aren’t fulfilled in youth, they crash down on you like a ton of bricks when you’re already mature.

The great love that VV never experienced in the camps crashed down on him when he had already attained his second half-century. Once he took me to a remote bar and confessed his love for Lolita. He thought he was giving away a great secret, but the entire library was already buzzing about it. I listened to that lunatic, considering whether his story suited my collection. He explained his love for Lolita to me.

“She’s the otherworldly gift of the sunset of my life,” he gloomily disclosed. “It’s like a fairy tale, or a poem. I fell in love with her in a dream, twenty-two years ago.”

The bar was filthy and reeked of vomit. It was mostly alcoholic teachers and journalists who hung out there: there were two schools and three editorial offices close by. A great place for metaphysical confessions.

“She’s like a sister to me, or maybe a daughter,” VV complained. “I feel like a King Lear who’s suddenly slept with his daughter.”

VV is thoroughly poisoned by mythological associations. His erudite abbot, The Professor of the Gulag, stuffed his head full of legendary names and stories.

“I feel like King Lear,” VV repeated grimly.

What could I say to King Lear? That he should down his cocktails with more restraint, because we’ll be out of money in a minute? That he’s no king, he’s called Vytautas Vargalys, and he doesn’t have any daughters? It’s horrifying when a person merges with the sullied, stinking walls and becomes a nameless detail of the Ass of the Universe. But it’s even more horrifying when an inhabitant of the Ass of the Universe drowns in cosmic visions.

Wouldn’t you find it frightening at first, and then simply disgusting, if some worm wriggling through a puddle started discussing Heidegger with you?

In the meantime, VV, cowering in fear, without looking at me, continued unraveling the worst allusions:

“Lolita isn’t her real name. She hid one letter. She should be called Lilita: Lilu, Lilitu, or Ardat Lili. She should be hairy and have wings. She shaved the hair off her body and tore off her wings, but only temporarily.”

Suddenly I remembered how Lolita (or Lilita?) looked at the drowning Gediminas. I should have told VV about that look of hers, but I kept quiet. We’re all no-account sneaks; not a single one of us is worth trusting. If I were to mention it, I’d first have to admit I was there and saw the whole thing.

“Every day I look for hair on her body,” VV muttered. “Every day I look for scars between her shoulder blades, where the wings used to be. . The Talmud advises men not to sleep alone in a house, because sooner or later Lilita will fly in to visit them.”

It really is appropriate to give some thought to a woman whose husband burned alive, whose lover drowned, and whose latest eternal love raves Kabbalistic nonsense. But, as I’ve already said, I’ve grown unaccustomed to thinking a long time ago. I merely gave VV a nudge towards his Lithuanian heritage:

“Don’t go rummaging through the Holy Scriptures,” I said. “We Lithuanians should be afraid of Lithuanian succubi.”

“I’m not afraid of her,” VV said in an unexpectedly sober voice, “I’m not afraid, whatever she is. I’m afraid she’ll fly away, that’s why I check to see she’s not hatching new wings.”

She didn’t fly off anywhere; she was slaughtered and disemboweled.

The investigator prowls around the library sniffing in every corner — it seems any minute he’ll lift his leg and leave his doggy mark. Anything is possible — I’m not so naïve as to suppose a detective’s psychology and physiology are analogous to a human’s.

I really lucked out: I was summoned for questioning, so I saw VV’s hideaway with my own eyes; I don’t need to rely on legends and rumors. The detective burst into my little room and took me with him. I was flustered at first, because he didn’t explain anything. I supposed they knew everything. But in any case, he led me to the library collections. He deftly marched through labyrinths where even I would get lost. We probably walked several kilometers.

At first I had no idea where he had brought me. It resembled a night guard’s corner. A broken-down couch, shamelessly supported by books from the shelves, a crooked desk, on it an electric teapot and two ashtrays full of reeking cigarette butts. Both corner walls were covered with drawings and portraits.

The detective asked hoarsely what I thought of all this. I answered quite sincerely that the rules for fire prevention had been maliciously broken.

“Cut the crap!” the detective bellowed crudely. “I didn’t ask if you knew about this hangout. You didn’t. No one’s been here for a couple of weeks at least. If you’d known about it, you would have been poking around here long ago and left traces. So, what do you think?”