Ricardas Gavelis - Vilnius Poker

“I’m like that dog,” says Lolita, slowly descending the slope, “I follow you and wag my tail. You see how good you have it: you’ll never need to buy a dog.”

The river flows slowly and indifferently, like a gigantic vein; the blood of us all flows with it. The river of our forgotten blood. Vilnele, run to the Vilija, and Vilija to the Nemunas. So, say we love freedom more than life. Where is it, that freedom? Where is it, that life? The city swallows the river and poisons it with its sewage. The fish that are still alive stink of tar. And what do we, unable to smell ourselves, stink of? The Shit of All Shits?

Lolita’s irregular face smiles sadly; wet strands of hair cling to her cheeks. Her body is gone; it’s disappeared under the drenched coat. A dream must be intangible.

The river emerges straight out of the fog, flows in from who knows where — maybe from hell. Even the dog got depressed, stopped sniffing at the wet grass and stiffened, his long snout turned in the direction of the dumbfounded willows on the shore. What can I say to Lolita? We’ve long since exhausted the permissible subjects, and I don’t have the right to invite her on The Way — for her own good.

I need an assistant who could tell her what I cannot say myself, things I probably don’t even know myself. A mysterious go-between, maybe some Vasilis, a ruler of the swamps who knows the language of birds. Unfortunately, all of the people who are close to me are far away; all of them are in the other world. I can only hope to summon spirits, but they are, after all, bodiless and speechless.

But what spirits could I summon? Save perhaps that lonely figure: you’d think he’d emerged right out of the river, a damp being in a crookedly buttoned coat coughing damply. The edges of his hat collapsed from the dampness, streams of water cover his face like cobwebs, there’s no eyes peering out of it — just the shattered lenses of round glasses. Where did he pop up from? Maybe he climbed down from the old roofs of Vilnius?

“Goot day!” that old Jew sniffles, smiles wryly, tries to pull off his limp hat, throws up his hands, and finally fixes his gaze on me.

He has eyes all the same; they’re wise and kind.

“Your face tells an old Jew a great deal. Vhere have I seen you?. . Maybe in da time of Grand Duke Vytautas or Grand Duke Gedhiminas? Or maybe in Spain in da time of Torkvemada? You invited me?”

Maybe I really can summon spirits? It’s been a long time since anything surprised me: all things are possible in Vilnius. It’ll turn out I called him here myself. What will he say?

“I’m an old, old Jew of Vilnius. . my great-great-grandparents served Gedhiminas and Vytautas. My great-grandparents lent Zygimantas money. . Ja, ja. . My grandparents suffered under da Russian pogroms, and my parents fooled da Poles. . Oi, how dey used to fool da Poles!. . I myself lived and died in da ghetto! Ja, ja! I know everyting about Vilnius! Ja, ja. . Listen to me, an old Jew knows everyting. An old Jew knows more dan all da Lituanians. . but I can say to a Lituanian, Lituanians didn’t hit da Jew, didn’t make pogroms, didn’t drive him into da ghetto. .”

He walks unsteadily; the brim of his hat has collapsed entirely and covers his ears, from which long gray hairs stick out. Dressed in worn-out clothes, his shoes squelch water and mud. But none of this engenders scorn — it seems this is the only way this ghost of the rain could look. He turns to the dog and politely nods a greeting to him. Did I really summon him? Are his stories interesting to me at the moment?

“Vhy is it vortvhile to listen to an old Jew? Because Jews are a special people! Every civilizashion only sees vhat it IS, it never plans vat it should turn into. Ja, ja. . Dey can only long for der past, but Jews long for der future. . Only Jews invented demselves a future. . Dey alvays had two great ideas: Messiah and da Promised Land. Look over da history of da vorld and you’ll see dat only Jews long for da FUTURE. . Only da Jew Marx could tink up communism. . Listen to an old Jew. . He sees da vorld differently!”

He talks and all the while entwines himself further into his many-folded clothes, as if he wanted to disappear into them completely. The mist slowly disperses. Only the river is always the same black; it flows past us apathetically, and probably listens secretly. A river of words — how many words has it swallowed by now? If you stuck your ear into the current, you’d hear them, floating up from forgotten ages.

“How strange,” says Lolita. “A gloomy river, the fog’s covering everything. We don’t know where we’re going or why. . And an old Jew rattling on about the Messiah and the Promised Land. It’s all like a dream. .”

“But I am a dream!” he confirms willingly. “Don’t be afraid, I vill not interrupt your love.”

“It’s nice that at least you didn’t call her my daughter.”

“Am I blind? Am I insane?” His eyes suddenly widen, it seems even his wrinkles smooth out. “Maybe you tink you can tell an old Jew about love? It’s da old Jew can tell you about love.”

He even got angry; Lolita calms him with a gentle voice:

“Tell us. .”

“About love? You don’t need to talk about love, you need to love it,” he smacks his lips, picking the words. “Everyone asks — vat is da meaning of life. Da meaning of life is to live. And to live is to love. Love drives everyting. Da world moves because tings love one anoter. Fire burns, because da coal falls in love vit da fire. Da river flows, because it loves da sea. . If der vere no love, da vorld vould stiffen and stop. It’s awful to tink vat vould happen if der was no love left. . People don’t have a name until dey find der love. If you vant to ask a person’s name, ask him whom he loves. People don’t have oder names, only der love name. Love is everyting. . Grain vouldn’t sprout, if it didn’t love da sun. Da sun vouldn’t rise, if it didn’t love da eart. . Everyting is love. .”

He falls silent, moving only his lips; tasting the words he’s uttered, it seems. The fog is lifting, crawling back into the water of the river. Something has cleansed my brain — like a school blackboard with a damp sponge. Jews, love, and Marx — everything in its place.

But Lolita for some reason turned pale; this Ahasuerus of Vilnius drove all the blood from her face.

“And if you love a person,” she suddenly asks in a weak, barely audible voice, “do you have to tell him everything? Absolutely everything?”

“Everyting!” he answers and screws up his dark eyeballs again. “If dere’s someting you don’t say — you have to trow it out of yourself too. If you can live vitout dat and be yourself — you don’t have to say it. But if you hide someting deep vitin yourself, if you dream of it at night, if it doesn’t leave you — you have to tell your lover. . or else love dries up like a poisoned flower. . Ja, ja. . like it’s been poisoned. .”

He unexpectedly escapes from our midst, turns towards Žvėrynas and in the old-fashioned manner puts his fingers to the sagging brim of his hat:

“Ja, ja. . only love!”

He shuffles off, but I no longer see him. Lolita’s face is in a state I’ve never seen before. Her eyes are bloodshot; her lips compressed, even white. He did something to her! And I didn’t defend her! What will happen now?

“Let’s go to Teodoras’s studio! We have to! Right now!”

I automatically swallow my saliva and think I haven’t heard her right. Only after a few seconds do I understand why the old Jew, the soggy Ahasuerus of Vilnius, showed up here. He shoved me into a world that had been closed to me until now and then he disappeared, vanished in the fog again; he was probably wandering the rooftops of Žvėrynas, remembering the fires and the plagues, and the floods, and foreign armies, and the din of church bells. . Who sent him?