Ricardas Gavelis - Vilnius Poker

I got a good look at the attendees’ reaction. The gravediggers, acting as though nothing was the matter, closed the lid and pressed it down, even throwing themselves on top of it. There was no trace of Stadniukas left, only black steam continued to rise from the cracks in the coffin. The disguised NKVD agents pretended that absolutely nothing had happened. However, they gave themselves away; they had all, to a man, seen everything : for a brief instant their flat faces distorted, and terror flashed in their pupil-less eyes. But just for a brief moment: a second later they again stood there as if nothing was going on — full and satisfied, overflowing with self-satisfaction. Only one undersized gray-haired figure looked completely done in, but not because of Stadniukas: he kept cowering and glancing at me.

I had seen him somewhere before, but I didn’t have the time to think about him. Vasilis was all that interested me. He cleared his throat in satisfaction and immediately turned to leave the graveyard. I barely managed to keep up with him. I didn’t say anything, but my face and my eyes screamed and yelled: he couldn’t have misunderstood my question.

“You saw it all yourself,” Vasilis maintained his remarkable restraint to the end. “What more is there to say?”

In the meantime, that gray-haired figure kept staring at me, pressed up against the graveyard fence.

He meant something to me sometime in my life, but I couldn’t place him.

I’ll trap Vasilis in his cabin in the swamps yet; I’ll get myself there straight through the mire. He’ll answer all my questions yet.

At the time I practically didn’t notice how or when he disappeared. I didn’t see what was going on outside myself; I was only wandering around inside. The period of guessing and suspicions ended that day. The fateful performance, which will drive me out of my mind sooner or later, had begun. Up until then I could still hope everything that was going on was not really for real; I could convince myself that it was my excessive sensitivity, my predilection for fantasizing and making strange comparisons, that was to blame. Now everything was finally clear. Before it was too late, I had to do what I had not thought of doing until then. I had to thoroughly inspect Gedis’s apartment. The six-month period after his death was coming to an end; in a few weeks some mathematician, rejoicing that he would at last have his own home, would take it over. The apartment would go to a stranger — Gedis didn’t have any relatives and didn’t leave a will.

Suddenly I asked myself: did he really not leave one?

They cannot bear a spiritual legacy. They tried in every possible way to destroy Lenin’s political legacy.

They fear any kind of spiritual inheritance. They strive to have a person disappear without leaving a trace upon this earth. They honor and support a material inheritance by all means possible.

I broke into Gedis’s sealed apartment without the least apprehension; I felt no danger. The rooms met me with an oppressive smell of dust; they were ill-disposed and foreign. Nothing there was the same as what it once was. Gedis’s spirit didn’t hover there; They hadn’t just taken him away from me — they had taken him away from the entire world. I couldn’t even come across any memories there. All that met me was the oppressive smell of dust and a dead silence. My hope — that I would be visiting Gedis — was in vain. He was gone, only a portrait, not at all similar to the original, gazed from the blue wallpaper. My hope — that I would find his secret testament here — was in vain. Neither Gedis’s spirit, nor his scent, nor his memory were there anymore. There was only a labyrinth of things, which memory told me to call his things. But it seemed even the things were different. I found no sign of Gedis, neither in the office between the books nor in the drawers between the pages of formulas. Despite myself, I remembered how he died. Only They could erase a person from the world like that. Gedis vanished without a trace. With trembling fingers I stroked his piano, but even in its depths no memory of the music that had been remained. It was gloomily, irreparably dead. The dark polished surface was covered with a wanton layer of dust; I suddenly decided the dust was to blame for everything. I started angrily brushing it off — with my hands, my handkerchief, my sleeves. Hysterically, I cleaned the piano, the books, the windowsills. I crawled around the room on my knees, trying to bring it back to life. The dust I had raised came down again like gray sand. It stuck to my clothes and skin; after a minute or two I was just as drab as the dead things in the room. I realized that They had lured me here, probably wanting to warn me of what happens to those who are not submissive to Them : a dusty heap of dead things. I was no more than one of those things myself. Something snapped in my chest, under my heart; I cried like a small child, sorry for what, I didn’t know, not for Gediminas, not even for myself — for something for which there is no name. Every tear would instantly soak into the carpet of dust without leaving so much as a darker spot — only a tiny indentation. Those indentations in the dust were all that was left of Gediminas. Still not understanding what had driven me here, I looked around the bedroom and the office for the last time, then turned into the living room to say goodbye to Gedis’s piano, silenced for the ages. I sadly opened the door and froze on the threshold.

In the very middle of the living room, sprawled in the leather armchair, sat a tall, gray old woman in dirty clothes, the queen of dust. The thick fabric of her skirt didn’t even cover her knees; her scruffy sweater was tied together with strings. She sat there comfortably, as if she were sitting at home, and pulled at the stuck-together ends of her hair with chewed-up fingernails. She looked at me without blinking and said nothing. She waited for me to recognize her and say something first. I looked attentively at the repulsive, wrinkled face; I sensed the stench of a long unwashed body growing stronger all the time. I wasn’t surprised that she had suddenly shown up here, where no one should have been. I vaguely sensed that, not finding Gedis, I was obliged to find at least her. I went right up to her; she smiled wryly, suddenly let go of the ends of her hair, stretched out her hand and insolently, shamelessly, grabbed me by the very crotch.

“Come closer, Vytuk,” she croaked in a low voice, “Don’t be afraid, it’s me. Come closer!”

Even by the creek it’s hellishly hot, although it’s still only the end of spring. Grandfather is right: the summer of the apocalypse is coming — and what will be left standing? The sun hungers to burn everything up; dust hangs over the fields, threatening to swallow everything; but your mouth is parched for other reasons too. You stand on the scorched grass next to the black ravine and look at Madam Giedraitienė lying on a sky-blue blanket. Everyone else from the two villas is gone, the two of you are alone today. She came down to the water, although the heat probably doesn’t bother her — it’s enough for her to wave her hand and even the weather would obey her. She’s as majestic as a queen, or maybe even a goddess. You’ve always hungered to touch her, but you don’t dare — that would be sacrilege, your arms would wither away. She slowly opens her eyes — she felt your presence. She’ll drive you away immediately, put you to shame for secretly admiring her. But no, she looks at you kindly, her head gracefully turned.

“Come closer,” she says in a deep queen’s voice. “We’ll chat about something. It’s so hot and boring.”