The fact that our apartment had once been an important government institution would have been obvious to my husband and myself without the pharmacist. In the center of the door leading to the inside courtyard, at chest height, a small, thickly painted-over window is still clearly visible. During the Soviet years, people would hand in or receive important documents through that window. The employees on this side of the window, where my kitchen is now located — always smelling of the cat’s fish and spices (coriander and ginger) — perhaps weren’t even aware that from time to time their handling of those papers would take on the character of a judgment, steering their fellow citizens (without malice, and generally for no particular reason) toward heaven or hell. Stopping by that door, my cat would sometimes start hissing. Sniffing intently at the crack beneath the door and pulling his stomach in so far it seemed to be touching his spine, he would stand bristling in the shape of a question mark. (And now, come to think of it, perhaps my aforementioned — extremely infrequent! — disappearing houseguests also have something to do with that same door, that same little window.)
The last time my daughter went down to the mailboxes, she came back with an envelope. At first I thought it was the telephone bill, but then I saw that the envelope didn’t have the transparent window through which the customer’s name and address always peek. On the other side was handwritten “Good Friends Real Estate Agency” and the initials “B.N.” I clumsily tore the letter while trying to open the envelope and had to fit the letter back together in order to read it. Some realtor, whose name had also been split in half, was writing to inform me that a buyer had finally turned up for the “mirror” apartment on the other side of the hallway. His telephone number was included. In order to buy the apartment, it seemed, he had to get my signature, because I had first refusal of those two rooms, given that the hall in between was considered a common area for the inhabitants of those four rooms. The sale couldn’t progress without me. The realtor explained that she’d been trying to reach me at my home phone number, to no avail, and of course I had no cell number.
I immediately called the buyer, Vitalijus, who asked me to call him Vitia after we’d hardly exchanged two sentences, but I still wasn’t quite certain what I wanted to do, and wanted to consider my options before heading over to a lawyer’s with him. The signature was a formality, of course. The real decisions would come later. It would be necessary to divide up the common corridor, closing off the second entrance. Wall-over relationships. The plans of the building would need to be redrawn, since the common space would be redefined as private. And this would have to be confirmed at the registrar’s office. Which would cost money. And then, obviously, I would lose my second entrance. This was definitely a problem, and in considering my future relationship with the neighbor, it might even be considered a deal-breaker. To get to the mailboxes we’d have to snake around through the inner courtyard and out into the smog of the dusty street. And I really did prefer to go via the stairs, in tights, in my nightgown, in the morning — not yet awake, without my teeth in yet, blinking in the dawn light of Aušros Gate Street coming in from outside. I hate making decisions. It’s nearly impossible for me. And, if I remember correctly, it’s always been that way.
When I was a child, we used to play this game with a balclass="underline" throwing it up in the air, you had to scream the name of a city, like a password, before it hit the ground. The other children always had to pick my city for me, because I would freeze on the lawn, the ball pressed to my beating heart, while in my memory the name of my hometown would flash in tiny lights. (No doubt psychologists have some name for my condition.) It seemed to me that by choosing any city other than my hometown, I would be — in some way I can’t explain — betraying certain things from my past. For example, the hides my grandfather cured after the war … the eternally pregnant Rudokien
(as a child I thought that all the people in town came from her belly) in her heavy black wool coat … not to mention her white scarf, woven on a square board, almost as big as a table, rimmed with nails. Leaving my grandparent’s house in the winter, laughing, she would slide down from the hill toward the river on her rear end. Like Aidas Mar
nas wrote, “The river was simply like a vein through which my childhood flowed.” And then there was my godmother. Her father died in Canada and left her an old set of wine goblets with hunting scenes. They were made with cut glass, so that they would be easier for the men in the autumn forest to handle with leather gloves. Maybe even while sitting on horses. The set probably came from some large European city, brought all the way to Canada. And then, after a hundred years or so, it returned. To a small town.
Once again unable to choose, as though the ball was in the air above me, about to come down, I got a bit hysterical, perhaps from over-thinking the situation. I decided that even if it wasn’t ethical, it would be best for me to end the story of the apartment division before it even began. Vitia would, without a doubt, come over to look over the inside yard from my apartment … maybe even with a bottle of champagne. Although he’ll praise the sandwiches I’ll make him, he won’t take this pretense too far; he won’t figure on seeing much of me after he moves in. Only one thing will really matter to him: is there room in the yard to park an old BMW? On weekdays, anyway. Because he had already told me during our first conversation that he didn’t have a rented space in the city. And the first thing I’ll notice about him will be his almost entirely shaved head and the scar on his left ear. (I’ll immediately think of a character in A History of Violence, which I’ve just seen.) Other than these features, however, Vitia will have a gentle look about him, a “Lenten face.” I’ll suggest he go ahead and have a look at the courtyard. Swallowing the words “what do you think?” I’ll say, instead, “have a look, Vitia.” And wave my arm at the window. (And if fear of this plan being implemented doesn’t paralyze me, I’ll attempt to make this movement appear careless, womanly, graceful.) The Hal Market is very nearby, I’ll tell him — meat, livers, kidneys … and a store with empty shelves. I’ll look at his shaved head and add that across the street is a barber who works with dull tools. And some bums. A prostitute or two. They ply their trade in cars and near the Aušros Gate, too. Closer by, in the inner courtyard, there’s smog, of course; it’s not just the pansies that wilt, it’s the dogs too. During holidays the courtyard is frequently spattered with vomit. There’s a hostel for foreigners right here, you know. We get all sorts of pilgrims … Japanese, Polish, Muslim … actually, we’re quite a high-risk zone for terrorism, given that we’re so close to the Gate. With all the tourists, sometimes there’s fourteen cars parked in the courtyard on summer evenings. And Vitia will get up from the table and head over to the window, saying, “Cool it. I was born nearby, on Tyzenhauzai Street. But, even so, there’s no way so many cars could fit in there … you’re laying it on pretty thick.” And then it would be very handy if Vitia made a mistake. Albeit one I will have “choreographed” for him in advance. A bit nervous, despite his bluster, he’ll show his pedantic streak, wanting to go out and count the cars in the courtyard, just to show me up. Right away, in fact. He’ll stand up, swallow a last bite of sandwich the way a python swallows a rabbit, and walk out into the courtyard … into the courtyard he’ll walk … through that door. “One, two, three, four, five, seven,” I’ll hear him say from below, “it’s only early evening and there are ten cars here already … damn.” After which Vitia will approach the drying laundry. He’ll walk right up to the blankets and coverlets … standing between him and the setting sun, they’ll look red instead of white or varicolored … they’ll flutter in the wind like the flames of hell … and soon, all that will be left of Vitia is a voice counting off the last few cars. Then, after looking down the stairs, I’ll close the door (with its painted-over and nailed-shut window at the height of my chest) without making a sound. The cat will greet me, a bristling question mark. Smiling forgivingly, I’ll offer him some boiled fish that I’ll have prepared ahead of time. I’ll ask my daughter if she’s done her homework. In turn she’ll ask me if the man buying the apartment seemed okay. For a week or two it’ll be quiet, or at least as much as it is in the evenings after eleven o’clock at night. Once again, Nobody will start creaking his rusty joints beyond the wall. Then the agent B.N. will call and ask if I happen to know where my future neighbor has gone. “He didn’t seem like the drinking type,” she’ll say. “A drunk wouldn’t have gotten a loan like that, or work where he works …” “Where does he work?” I’ll ask calmly, but B.N. will hang up. A week later, an announcement, written by hand, in ink, will appear in the passageway: “For one low price, we will make a monument out of Karelian granite to commemorate your loved ones — or yourself! Choose from a range of elegant astrological symbols!”