Ricardas Gavelis - Vilnius Poker

I wasn’t afraid of anything anymore. It was all the same to me. I sensed how They had pervaded everything, penetrated all of our brains like a virus, shackled even Vilnius itself. Vilnius loomed outside the window, surrounded me from all sides, its power lost, deprived of the slightest will to resist, renouncing everything — even motion, even time itself. Its own soul, that which drove and moved everything. That frozen moment reminded me of something — maybe a wicked fairy tale, maybe a dream, a vision, or a nightmare. It didn’t take long; suddenly everything moved again. Even then I didn’t believe my senses. I tried to convince myself that nothing had happened; I looked at Lolita slowly rising from the chair, at the filthy Vilnius pigeon disappearing from sight, sensing a acrid bitterness in my mouth. They had encompassed everything. It was impossible to hide.

“So, what did you find out?” Lolita asked hoarsely.

The sun shines, that’s the worst of it. Darkness would save you. But a streak of light falls through the barracks window and caresses your beaten knees. Your entire body aches. If you could manage to close your eyes, if you closed your eyes and forgot everything, you’d think you were sitting on a bench at home. The sun is the same everywhere. The sun heals wounds. The sun invites you to live.

“Well,” says the one who sits on the bunk like a king, “shall we try again?”

His Russian bandit’s eyes look at you gently, gently. Again a darkened, dented bucket appears before your eyes. The bitter stench of urine spreads from it; it worms its way into your nostrils, into your throat. It would turn your guts inside out, but you don’t have any guts. They have beaten the guts out of you.

“Drink, my child,” a gravelly, lame little voice says to you. “You drink it — it’s over. Don’t tell me you don’t want to live?”

This one, as tall as a pole, sticks the bucket under your nose, pours the tepid, reeking liquid over your chin.

“He won’t drink it, Vaska,” says a voice that sounds like it’s coming out of a barrel.

“He’ll drink it with pleasure,” the king on the bunk lifts his eyebrows. “Is he made of iron? He’ll drink piss, and suck all of our little pricks too. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

And immediately it starts up again. For the second day they no longer beat you. Now they’ve found themselves a cross-eyed Korean. He presses a bit somewhere under the heart with his fingers and smiles. That’s the face of pain: a smiling Korean with cross-eyed slits. It’s not just you that hurts — it’s the entire world. If you had a voice, you’d scream, but they’ve torn out your voice. The Korean suddenly releases his fingers; that’s the worst moment. You don’t hurt anymore, you’re all right. You only need to drink — and the torture would be over. If you don’t drink — this will go on forever. Should you drink?

“I’m tired of this,” says the voice out of a barrel. “He’s iron. What do you need this for, Vaska? If you don’t like his mug — let’s slice him up and be done with it.”

The king on the bunk scowls, picks his words without hurrying.

“He walks around with his head up. And he looks proud. Whether he’s beaten or not. And what does he have to look proud about? Because he’s a political? Because he’s a shitty Lithuanian? He has to understand. He has to bow. Bow to us.”

“So, he walks around with his head up. Goga has it right — chop off that head — he won’t walk around that way anymore. Do you want to see your own chopped-off head?”

You can’t understand. After all, you’re sitting in the same camp. You walk behind the same barbed wire. Why are they torturing you? True, they’re criminals, they’re Russians — but why? And furthermore you don’t understand: why don’t you give in? All that’s needed is one little instant. Why are you holding out for the third day? Or the fourth? Or the fifth?

Their king, the famous Vaska Jebachik, climbs down from his throne and comes closer. He looks at you with his large, beautiful eyes and chews on his lips. The Korean will soon press other spots in his particular way, then still others. There is an entire galaxy of painful spots in you. Should you drink?

“I need to understand this shitbag,” says the king quietly, as if to himself. “I want to climb into his kidneys and liver. And see what sort of little things are lying there. What’s assembled there. But what could be assembled there? There’s nothing there out of the ordinary. After all, he’ll drink the pee, he’ll lick us in front and in back too. I like it when Lithuanians lick. Their tongues are softer.”

He knows his place in this world order. In every camp there is another camp, and in that camp another little camp. And in that little camp there is another tiny camp. And so on forever. Everyone has to choose which little camp of camps he will command. Otherwise you’ll just be a prisoner everywhere. If you don’t choose anything, you’ll be the prisoner of all of those little camps of camps simultaneously.

Is it at all possible to escape from the very largest camp’s fences, or is the entire world a camp, and you’ll never escape it?

“Let’s try once more,” says the king, sitting on his throne again.

“Drink, you puppy, lap it up,” the beanpole roars.

“He’s iron,” says Goga.

“You see how much I love you,” says the Korean with the tips of his fingers.

“Let’s try once more,” says the king.

“It’s like some endless piece of gum,” says Goga.

The beanpole, angered, splashes the bucket in your face. The salty liquid burns your eyes, drips off your nose. You stink all over.

“Ass!” says the king. “He has to drink it himself. Himself, get it? He has to drink it like the finest wine. And thank us too.”

“This is some kind of idiocy,” says the beanpole. “It’d be better if we showed him his chopped-off head.”

The king chews his lips again, chews them for a long time and unexpectedly smiles. His smile is handsome; he could be a movie star.

“He can’t see his own chopped-off head. But he can see something else. Come on, take his pants off! Beanpole, you tossed it out, now piss some more yourself.”

“But I can’t anymore.”

“For this cause,” says Goga, lighting up unexpectedly, “for this cause I can make an effort.”

He takes the dented bucket, unbuttons himself, and assiduously lets a thin stream inside. The beanpole fumbles around inside your fly and pulls out the musty, sweaty thing.

“Not an ordinary one,” he says, “But it kind of looks like it’s been chewed.”

“The girls chewed on it,” Goga smiles sweetly and pulls out his famous razor. “Now you’ll drink anything for me, bro. Now I’ll be able to piss straight into your mouth.”

“Understand?” the king asks. “Do you understand, finally, that we can do anything? Do you understand who has the upper hand?”

The razor approaches like a little glinting beast. Below, you feel cold and the prick of the blade.

“You’ll be left with nothing. Your beard won’t grow. You’ll be as fat as a pig and you’ll speak with a woman’s voice. You’ll be a big, fat, disgusting old woman. Okay, let’s cut. Drink!”

Taking aim, you kick the bucket with your foot. They won’t piss anymore today. They won’t have anything to make it from.

The king leaps from his throne like a beast, shoves Goga aside. The razor catches anyway; you feel warm blood below. King Vaska Jebachik looks at you insistently.