But I can’t be free, I must devote myself to something every day, every hour, every minute — to men, to Vilnius, to the air or the stars, that’s my nature, that’s my essence, that’s the way Vasilis taught me; Lord may he gain the kingdom of heaven, or maybe he’s long since there by now — I don’t remember when I last visited Bezrečjė.
But the village is stalking me, it even gives me the shudders. Madam Giedriatienė, Vargalys’s eternal escort, his good or evil spirit, his grandfather’s like-minded friend, is slowly approaching with a dignified air; it looks like St. John’s Church is sliding down the hill right at me. Madam Giedraitienė is very close; she raises her serious, piercing eyes at me and says in an impatient voice:
“We’re going to my place, Stefanija. I’ve something serious to talk about.”
“He hung himself,” suddenly bursts out of me, “he hung himself in the solitary cell.”
“I’m just coming from there,” Giedraitienė shoots back, as cool as a cucumber. “He’s as healthy as he could be. Healthier than ever.”
She turns and walks into the gateway next to the Narutis, climbs the creaking stairs, unlocks the door, she’s already taking off her coat and stepping into her slippers, she’s dignified and noble, dresses conservatively, now she’s wearing sleeves with crinoline, her hair’s tied back with a shiny barrette, she drinks endless cups of coffee and chain-smokes Marlboros, her son Robertas is a diplomat who works in West Berlin.
“What’s this you’ve thought up, you silly thing,” Madame Giedraitis mutters angrily, “You should put a sock in it.”
“Šapira said so.”
“And you listen to a Jew’s rubbish. Some black marketeer hung himself. And he heard about it and decided it’s Vargalys. No Vargalys ever killed himself.”
The Giedraitises were never either witches or werewolves. Giedraitis Junior, they say, joined up with the stribai, his mother even disinherited him and went to Siberia to find out where Vargalys was confined; she made peace with her son only after fifty-three, when people started coming home, and Robertas, after sufficient breast-beating, went off to study at the International Relations Institute.
“I’ve mustered all my acquaintances and connections,” says Madame Giedraitis, pouring coffee out of a thermos. “He can be saved. It all needs to be thoroughly investigated. Vytautas couldn’t have done it.”
He’s alive, he’s alive — what should I do with my knowledge, what should I do with that wretched sight: Vargalys slowly stands up, straightens himself out and looks down with a wooden expression, looks at the hideously dismembered body; it’d be better to see something else. If you could look right through the walls, you’d see Tedka’s studio, it’s right nearby: gloomy, piled up with sculptures, the walls covered with my portraits: me naked and me dressed; me with black hair, blonde hair, and even bald; me, sorrowful and saintly. Lolka was terribly jealous of those portraits, but Tedis was immovable — I continued to be his painting muse, even though Lolka shoved me out in real life. Lolka, Lolka, monster Lola, disgusting Lolita, she always had to push you aside, step past you, then ruin and humiliate you; she always had to take whatever it was that belonged to you alone — not because she really needed it, but just so she could humiliate you. It wasn’t enough that things were good for her, she needed it to be bad for others too; no, she wasn’t like that at first, she turned that way slowly, it seemed she siphoned up the worst she found in everyone — from both Tedis and Gediminas, even from Vargalys. The old lady’s head shakes a bit, but her speech is clear and articulate:
“They even took his medical file, looking for mental deviations. I didn’t think there would be anything to it — after all, Vytautas was so tough. It turns out he was constantly looking for diseases — I would never have imagined it. He got checked out at the clinics and at the oncologists, looking for cancer. They didn’t find any. He even had himself checked for. . well, I can tell you. . he had his semen checked, to see if he wasn’t infertile. Everything was hunky-dory. In short, his medical file is as fat as a Lithuanian novel, but there was only one answer: Vytautas is as healthy as a horse. Mentally as well.”
Well then, Kovarskis was full of it too; all you need to do is mention Vargalys and it starts raining legends — that he hung himself, that he was ill with cancer, that he was impotent — apparently you can’t say anything definite about him.
“Do you understand what’s at stake here?” I suddenly ask. “He chopped Lola to bits. That’s a fact. If they don’t send him to prison, they’ll shut him up in an insane asylum. Forever.”
“Not forever, Stefanija, not forever.” To my surprise, Madam Giedraitienė visibly rallies. “There’s treatment, be it real or fictitious, and most of all — time for everything to at least quiet down a bit.”
“Well, what of it?”
“You don’t know what it means to have powerful connections,” Madam Giedraitienė says proudly. “Connections mean everything. They elevate and ruin. They turn black into white, and white bloody. If they don’t kill Vytautas, we’ll get him off.”
I almost start believing her, even though I’m immediately horrified: if Vargalys shows up again in this world, if he touches me again, I’ll probably go out of my mind, I’ll remember what I saw and did in that damned garden that damned day; Madam Giedraitienė shuts up, smokes maybe her tenth Marlboro, maybe; I feel stupid, even though it’s so understandable to a woman: forgive me, perhaps ma’am. . you know how these things are. . I know, it’s awkward. . Madam Giedraitienė’s best quality is that she’s never surprised at anything, doesn’t condemn anyone, and doesn’t gossip about anyone. After a minute she comes back with a nearly empty package of sanitary napkins, proudly hands it to me; it’s still something, even if it’s only enough for today.