Ricardas Gavelis - Vilnius Poker

And suddenly Gedis straightens up, lowers his arms and freezes like a statue. That very instant everyone goes quiet, at that very moment, all at the same time — that’s impossible, it’s unnatural. It seems as if Gedis unplugged them. They wander off quietly, as if they had never stood there, as if that nightmare never happened, as if nothing at all ever happened. Not a single person remains below the altar, only scattered instruments, debris, and silence, in which the ears ring sharply. My hands are shaking, I’m short of breath, my heart splutters like a failing pump; it’s not driving blood into my temples — it’s driving lead. It’s horrible, glum and depressing: I want to cry like a little child, because there is no hope and never will be. Gedis sensed that first and mercilessly convinced me of it. That wasn’t music anymore, or at least not only music — that was a séance of black magic, an eye-opening ritual, a moment of truth, the Spanish momento de verdad.

I had already dreamed this music; I knew Gedis well. It was somewhat easier for me. That hideous, inhuman world crashed upon the others without any warning. I understood why Gedis didn’t want to invite anyone. He was merciful; he knew what the consequences could be. Now there was a crowd of dead people sitting in the church. With his music Gedis turned them into what they already really were. The distorted, darkened faces didn’t move; everyone’s eyes were like glass. They all sat transfixed. They were sitting too long; I panicked momentarily, when I thought of what would happen if we had to revive them. After all, Gedis surely wasn’t going to play lively wake-up music.

The seconds passed by mercilessly; they were all done for by now. A petite brown-haired girl saved them. She suddenly thrashed like a captured bird and cried out. That was a sign that it was still possible to live. As long as a person is able to cry, he still exists. All of them slowly came to, quietly stood up, and immediately started dispersing. No one applauded, everyone was dying to get out of there as quickly as possible: not a one of the thoughtful ones took their folding chairs along. Many staggered as if they were stunned; some were led by the hand by their neighbors.

“What kind of poker is this!” a sad, bent-shouldered young man next to me muttered, “It’s the nuclear explosion of Vilnius. We’ve all gotten a dose of radiation. Our hair and teeth will fall out.”

“The insanity of Vilnius!” his girl answered fearfully.

Only then did I look at the musicians. They were alive, but incredibly worn out. They glanced at one another with stunned gazes; apparently they couldn’t believe they had really played all that. Gedis was sitting in a side nave, naked to the waist, having thrown his sweat-drenched shirt aside. I wanted to tell him everything at once, I wanted to fall down on my knees in front of him; I was overflowing with despair and lament, but not a word would come out of my mouth. I could no longer return to the ordinary, normal world, but, like always, Gedis rescued me. He had understood long ago that music is just music, and people are just people. He shrugged his shoulders and muttered in an brusque voice:

“It’s not my fault. They’re just not used to it. Besides, I didn’t invite them.”

Alongside Gedis, leaning on the wall, sat the pale lame drummer, a bit further away the bassist Tonis was massaging his colleague’s hand.

“I told them!” he grumbled angrily. “I warned them! Just be happy everyone’s alive.”

They looked as if they had just been rescued from a sinking ship. The saxophonist, filthy and covered with cobwebs, climbed down from the altar like a ghost and stared straight at me with the gaze of a madman. The singer, wrapped in the flaps of her blouse, staggered over from somewhere and looked everyone over with watery eyes:

“I can’t find the buttons. Maybe someone has a needle and thread?”

“Just imagine, despite the entire forty-three minutes, one person, at the very least, didn’t get it,” complained Gedis in a dead voice. “This tousled guy came up to me and very politely asked what it was I wanted to say by it.”

“What a Herod!” muttered Tonis, lighting a cigarette. “You practically finish off eight people, just to say a few unspeakable words to your friend. And for God’s sake, explain why on earth you needed a title.”

“There wasn’t any title,” Gedis answered. “It came into my head after I had already opened my mouth. I shouldn’t have said anything at all. But no one is safe from stupidity.”

“I broke my saxophone,” the alto player complained, carefully picking the cobwebs off his jacket. “I was almost. . almost climbing out of that hellhole already. . but suddenly someone grabbed me by my coattails and pulled me back. . and I couldn’t play a single intelligent note anymore. . nothing but holes around me, and no notes. . horrors. .”

“Let’s get out of here,” Gedis suddenly jumped up. “You can’t hear this. If you’ve listened to the music, you can’t hear how it was done. They’ll recover in a minute and one after the other start sharing their impressions. Come on! We’ll go out into the street, and then we’ll walk and walk, right up to the river.”

The old street had a difficult time penetrating the fog. Fall leaves rolled underfoot — fragments of Gedis’s vision. No one was ever as close to me as Gedis was that night. I had no idea what I should do: console him or console myself, tell him about the camp, about the people with no brains, or ask him something. I couldn’t remain silent, but I didn’t know what to say. Any words seemed meager compared to the scream welling up inside me. I was no longer alone; I felt that Gedis would always be next to me. Our closeness was real: people aren’t united by common victories or joys — only a common loss, a common despair, can unite them.

“You’re really not sorry for them?” I asked.

“Which ones? Those who played, or those who listened?”

“All of them.”

“I’m not sorry,” Gedis answered without wavering. “To waken someone isn’t a crime, it’s a service.”

That was all he said about his playing. The two of us went down the street (I will walk here with Lolita), smoking cigarette after cigarette (Lolita will tell me about her mother and innocence manias).

“An abandoned church!” Gedis finally spoke. “A true metaphor. The place where a dead God is laid to rest. Not Christ, of course, and not the bearded Sabaoth with the holy doves under his arm. The dead God of Lithuania. Every Lithuanian should go to an abandoned, desecrated church on a daily basis. After all, it’s a reflection of our spirit: the remains of former majesty, along with trash, debris, dust. We need to see every day that all of our gods are dead. So that even in complete despair we won’t have anywhere to turn. After all, we stopped believing in anything a long time ago. Only idiots can believe in the Kremlin these days; fanatics — in Christ; paranoids who consider the current state of affairs desirable — in the spirit of the Lithuanian people. Only fools, unfortunately, believe in the power of intellect. We’re not even destined to believe in the power of money, because our money is shit. You won’t buy yourself anything with it — not even freedom. . Maybe some Englishman or Frenchman doesn’t believe in anything, either, but that’s something totally different. . Other enslaved peoples at least believe in their liberation, Lithuanians stopped believing in anything a long time ago. Not even in that absolute lack of belief of theirs. They don’t even know how to be genuine cynics. Lithuania is a void, stuffed with rotting memories. . there’s nothing, nothing, nothing left — only the language. But a language can’t be an object of faith. A thousand intelligent men all over the world analyze the Lithuanian language because it’s incredibly interesting, practically unique. But who analyzes Lithuanians? It’d be better if one of those thousand analyzed Lithuanian’s spiritual history, all that drivel, that nameless heartache and hopeless, grotesque attempts at living . I swear — they’d understand where humanity has been and where it’s going!. . Oh! I don’t know what to do. Shoot at the political commentators on the TV screen? Listen, Vyt, let’s start our own sect, huh? The soul searchers’ sect. For sermons we’ll read music or mathematical formulas. And you’ll tell stories about the camp, about your father and grandfather. . And when everyone asks what’s our purpose, what our sect is after, where is it leading to, we’ll answer: look, listen, smell — we’ve already told you everything; played it, wrote it, drew it. All that’s left is for you to feel and understand it. . and believe. .”