Those Whom I Would Like to Meet Again

Not long ago, I read in the newspaper that 250 swans had died in the Volga Federal District over the autumn. And before falling asleep I would imagine the local inhabitants, with masks and rubber boots, plodding through a tulle of swans’ wings, dragging them by their necks, leaving wide trails in the tall dead bent grass. Avian flu is considerably worse than anyone realizes. We might all die of it. But I feel like I’ve already mentioned that to someone recently. Maybe even today. Who was it? That’s the first sign that I’m losing my memory. They say hardening of the arteries can lead to dementia. Cholesterol coats the veins like frost on power lines. I knew a relatively young woman who laughed when she was diagnosed. She died four months later. She spent her last three days awake, constantly demanding, shouting, day and night, that all the people in her refrigerator be taken out at once. She wrapped a head of cabbage up like a sick child and kept it on her pillow. No medication could put her to sleep.

EPILOGUE

Vitia’s telephone number is +370 675 127 13. His apartment (on Oland Street, or else Viršulišks, next to the Church of Blessed Jurgis Matulaitis) has two exits. Just the same as in my apartment, but in my apartment the door from the kitchen to the hallway will already be bricked over; or, more accurately, it will still open inward, as it always has, but there will be a plastered wall behind it. Vitia started remodeling the following week. And, remember, I gave him my eight square meters of corridor. (For this epilogue.) The moment will come, in time, as funeral-home staff like to say, when “close friends and loved ones will be left alone in the viewing area to bid farewell to the deceased”—meaning, in this case, Vitia, you, and three of Vitia’s men, standing around my coffin. Dressed, naturally, in black. And with pasts that won’t necessarily correspond to their present. One of these men will be Petras. Petrarka. He’ll probably be the one who hangs around right inside the exit after all the staff file out. I know for a fact that my daughter won’t want to be there at that moment; she was always afraid of dead bodies, even as far back as her grandmother’s funeral. And yes, other people will undoubtedly attend the ceremony, but — perhaps it’s wicked of me — they don’t concern me in the least. Now: in “viewing areas” like this, there are almost always a few vases, a little table, a couple of chairs, multitudes of wreaths and flowers, and … another coffin. Yes, leaning against the wall; maybe even more than one; there are usually at least a few like that, just standing around, so it’s easy enough to plant one ahead of time. Of course, if there’s been a flu epidemic, there will be a lot more of them there, both open and closed. They say that if we’re really hit hard, the undertaking business will thrive, at least at first, becoming the fundamental point of commerce in Western society; but then, soon enough, everyone will start getting buried in permeable polythene bags. Anyway, the two coffins — mine and the one leaning against the wall — will be switched by Vitia’s three friends. The one I’m lying in will be shut without any farewells, and they’ll lean it up against the wall, just like the other one. Whereas the other one will now be on the coffin stand. When the funeral home staff opens the door, you, my dear, cynical friend, will be standing weeping next to the closed coffin. Vitia will hold you by the elbow. I know that this moment will be the trickiest for you. It seems critical to me too. A week ago, I went out to look over my old home town Viršulišks — I don’t think it’ll be as complicated as we imagine; I waited around for hours, saying my last farewells to two people I didn’t know. Not long ago I read in the Lietuvos Rytas newspaper that one old lady found out after the funeral that the coffin she’d seen buried didn’t actually contain her husband — despite the tiny size of the town, they were burying two people that day, and, well, these things happen.

To Vitia — you can depend on him — our little caper will seem somewhat archaic. Once upon a time, he made deals with the living, not the dead — and for far more money than the twenty-five thousand litai he saved himself by agreeing to participate in this plan. Which is exactly why his past doesn’t correspond to his present. But his profession is archaic, too. Nowadays deals are done with the dead all the time — we’re just spared the gruesome bits. Virtual or half-virtual wars are going on all over the world. Airplanes fly without pilots, or else, if you happen to get one that still has human beings aboard, they litter the ground with their bombs, they drop them on top of factories that supposedly contain centrifuges for concentrating uranium, and on cities and villages too, all the while looking at an electronic schematic glowing in the dark of their cabins. You can make a killing off of killing a thousand people without ever seeing a single tear or drop of blood. Without even looking behind you to see how prettily your explosives slide through the air to the ground below.

You will accompany my pseudo coffin to Rokantišks together with everyone else: my daughter, Rta, Margarita, her Juozas, some of my other friends … I don’t, as you know, have any close family left, daughter aside … And when “my” coffin, not weighing more than it should (inside will be the two bundles of books I stored in your basement, along with my grandmother’s Singer), descends into the pit, I know you’ll cheer up. Because you’ll be watching it all in the same way you watched the last good movie you didn’t see twenty years ago. “And the ship sails on …” you’ll think. You’ll even get the urge to have some brandy. And then, one of my most “feminine” friends, the kind of woman you particularly dislike — Rta perhaps, who’s already managed to daub her so-carefully-conserved Eden perfume behind my ears during the viewing — will say, “Excuse me, I’ve been wanting to ask … Who on earth put her in that awful dress? So short, and so very tasteless! She never wore anything like that before.” And through your clenched teeth you’ll say, “It’s Coco Sinel.”

At that very moment, Petrarka will already be in a van, driving me — and not even speeding — back to my hometown. To a pit still being dug. Vitia and two young men will remain inside the van until the grave is ready. One of the young men will doze off. The other will be constantly tapping out text messages, but not about what’s going on. (Not that he actually knows too much about what’s going on.) The irregularly dug pit, intentionally without straight edges — as if intended for nothing more than burying a stinking heap of trash — won’t be finished until evening. It’s being dug by locals, but the coffin will be buried by Petrarka’s group. In the woods by the river. Just about three kilometers from the spot where my grandfather’s house once stood. And where, now, a few wooden cottages built by Vilnius Bank skulk in its place. Before easing in my coffin, Vitia will ask to have a peek. He needs to be in control at all times. He’ll shine in a flashlight. But it’s not necessary. I really will be in the coffin. Just the same as when they put me there. My face will be fair and smooth, and there won’t be any wrinkles on my forehead. In fairy tales they would say, “skin like alabaster.” That’s the way skin should be in the fog by the river.

That evening, all three, excluding Vitalijus, will get drunk. For the time being, using their own money. Sometime around seven o’clock the following morning, Vitia will be the first at the hotel to wake up, kick away the scattered shoes and socks, boil water for tea in the dusty pot on the table, and then drive to the site of last evening’s festivities to take, as Russian professional assassins say, a “control shot,” to make sure the objective has been achieved. The ground will be cleared of yesterday’s pine needles and trash. Taking his time, watching the swift river, he will smoke a cigarette. It will be almost quiet. Anyway, Vitia won’t hear anything. Maybe just a train passing, very far away. A jay, a woodpecker. Tuk, tuk … But me — I’ll hear something else entirely.