at’s called protecting the public health. There’s a crowd by Polena, I wonder what they’ve put out — of course, French eyeliner, there’s a terrible shortage: that was the only kind Lolka used, although you’d never suspect she wore makeup at all, she really did have subtlety, a peculiar elegance. I don’t know if she would have won Vargalys without my help, but anyone else really wouldn’t have been hard: Vargalys is Vargalys, there are all kinds of people, blacks and Jews, Latinos and Asians, French and Swedes, a zillion of all kinds of variations, and among them all one more — Vargalys, an otherwise undefinable subspecies of human, maybe not even human, maybe there’s really only two different kinds: human and Vargalys. If you close your eyes and think hard, you can imagine anybody, but not Vargalys; you pretty much have an idea of everyone’s inclinations and activities, but what Vargalys was doing on this earth no one knew, not even me, even though I was constantly alongside him. We wandered the library collections together; I brought him books and wrote summaries — so what of it: one time he’d write page after page about tiger hunts, another time about a cave city in Iraq, and then, let’s say, something about Camus’s last days, or a species of wild pigeon: no system, no meaning, and no results. So I never did experience what the whole of Vargalys is, I only got to know a lot of his separate parts. He was as inscrutable as Vilnius itself, I’ve never been able to understand this city either, it mocks my efforts: every day it’s different, intangible, unnameable; even now Vargalys is holed up inside me, he won’t leave me alone, whatever I think about, in essence I think about him, whatever I may say, I say it to him, and what matters most — I almost believe he hears me. I don’t feel wronged on account of his horrible behavior, his complete lack of consideration for me, I understand him: I became a part of his own self, a part of his body, a part of his soul; after all, you have the right to behave with yourself however you see fit, anyone can hurt or harm himself, pay no attention to himself; I was the one who wanted to completely devote myself to him, no one forced me to, unless it was my own nature, or Vasilis’s great teachings, or my endless loneliness. If there really is a lonely person in the world, it’s me — I’m a stranger in this city, in this world; no matter how much I put on, I’m still stuck in the swamps of my childhood, I still hear the croaking of the frog queen, I still long for Vasilis’s slow and careful caresses. I’m still a tuteiša, nothing more. On the days of your period you’re always drowning in depression, and why is a person so dependent on their body, on that wretched flesh; no wonder Vargalys hated his body so, he really was a strange person, but irredeemably authentic: no deception, no pretense, no desire to look better than he really was; Vargalys reeked of authenticity, it’s hard for people like that, but you can’t not love them: you’re charmed by their daring — it is so hard, after all, to be yourself, to not put on a show, to not pretty yourself up, to not try to sell yourself as best you can. It always seemed to me that he’s the incarnation of Vasilis, he’s the wizard of Vilnius, in exactly the same way that Vasilis was the wizard of our swamps; I was always afraid I’d call him Vasilis, Vargalys wouldn’t have forgiven me for that. I remember an episode, one of his short-term romances with this Vaiva, our intern, she showed up in our office, very pretty and unbelievably proud: Vargalys was instantly taken with her; maybe she was worth it, Vaiva really did have something proud or even queenly about her, but as a woman she didn’t pay the slightest attention to him — Vargalys was old enough to be her father; however, he immediately discovered Vaiva’s soft spot — she liked to feel intelligent and smart — he’d do her work for her, but so cleverly, it would turn out she’d thought it all up herself, and even offered some good ideas to the others. He went at her from all directions at once, he divided himself up into a legion of Vargalyses, each one more elegant and magnanimous than the last; Vaiva melted right before your eyes, and to him it was like some contest or something, he entranced her like a wizard, the poor girl really was under a spell, she didn’t get it at all, but all of a sudden Vargalys slapped her in the face and threw her out of the library; I saw it happen: he was triumphantly squeezing the poor thing right between the library bookshelves, and she accidentally called him by someone else’s name; she said, “don’t Rimutas,” or “not here, Romutis.” Vargalys went nuts, the same way he did once when he found me looking at the pages he’d marked in a book — he smacked her in the face, gave her a black eye, and the next day threw her out without giving her credit for her internship; Elena was crowing: now he’ll get it, a commission will come, but absolutely nothing happened; Vaiva disappeared into thin air, and not a peep. To call Vargalys by someone else’s name wasn’t just a horrible insult, but a bad omen too; to me it seems that without his name Vargalys wouldn’t have been anything at all, his power hid in his family and his name, he was a Vargalys of those Vargalys sorcerers, his grandfather and a host of ancestors stood behind him, he was encased in legends and the respect of the neighborhood, he couldn’t be a Rimutis or Romutis, he couldn’t even be a Vytelis — he was Vargalys, that said it all. Mad Vargalys, glued together out of ridiculously opposing parts, parts that couldn’t have anything in common, the way his grandfather had nothing in common with his father or his father with his mother; the street is rising uphill, it seems I’m climbing the hill next to Bezrečjė, all the important things happened there, apparently something will happen today too. The bonfire of the Great Fire burned on that hill, set by Vargalys’s father, who smelled the Russian tanks advancing on Lithuania’s cities and towns from afar; he decided to meet the tanks the new government was bringing with a huge fire, he burned his entire archive, and he had a ton of paper, papers on Lithuanian finance, Lithuanian politics, and Lithuanian history; Julius kept dragging out more bundles, and Vargalys’s father turned into a sorcerer, the eternal ruler of the flame; he probably burned up all of Lithuania, or its spirit; since he didn’t dare to burn himself up, at least he sacrificed his papers, where all of his essence hid, to the flames; once he’d destroyed them, he couldn’t be a sorcerer anymore. Vargalienė ran around the bonfire and danced an insane dance of victory, only it wasn’t obvious who had won what here, because there were no winners, only losers; today on the hill there’s neither a fire, nor Stadniukas with soldiers, this isn’t the right hill; on the other side of the street are the gates to the market, a remnant of the old city, it’s still possible to buy a thing or two there, even though the market went downhill a long time ago: no one bargains anymore, a lot of the sellers are too lazy to even hawk their wares, they just write the price on a bit of paper like they were in a store. In the pavilions the Uzbeks make an uproar with their melons, at least they’ve retained the spirit of an eastern market, they bawl, praise their wares, grab passersby by the sleeve; Lolka and I liked to stroll through the market, even though we never bought anything, it was just that Lolka always had to swipe something; she had enjoyed stealing at the market since she was a kid, maybe she was a thief by nature, she was always grabbing others’ things: others’ apples, others’ victories, others’ men. All the same you’ll have to admit your great shame, Stefanija, no matter how much you don’t want to, you’ll have to remember your terrible mistake and humiliation: true, Lolka is gone, but you’re still here, and there’s nowhere to hide from yourself — admit it, Stefanija. When Lolka starting weaving her net of long legs, sexy breasts, and bewitching glances around Vargalys, I shuddered; as always, she was shockingly brazen, she even had the nerve to ask me about his favorite things, what his weaknesses were, the willful, insane look in her eyes would paralyze me; you’re defenseless in front of a person like that because you instantly realize no weapon hurts them, you cower in front of them like a monkey in front of a boa constrictor and surrender, an iron-bound villainy like that intimidates and crushes you — my little sister slowly turned into a monster, and I helped her myself. I still think of her as my little sister, even though she’s long since been a monster, her toothy maw aimed at Vargalys; thank God, Vargalys paid no attention to her shameless attacks, Vargalys didn’t pay attention to anything, he didn’t need to answer to anyone — people like that are rare, people like that can’t exist at all, only a Vargalys could be like that: all of Lolka’s shameless attacks shattered on his indifference, sent her into complete despair, Lolka fumed to the point of insanity, her toothy maw snapped, catching nothing but air. I felt a wicked pleasure, I felt I was taking revenge for everything bad she had done to me, even for what she had only yet to do, I hated her, the way only sisters can hate each other: I’d imagine what I’d say to her when she’d try to get my sympathy, I picked out mocking, murderous words with pleasure, but when the fated hour struck I was speechless again. Lolka didn’t ask for sympathy and she didn’t complain, she topped even herself: with the smile of a vestal virgin she demanded I help her nab Vargalys, my help was her last resort, she didn’t see any other alternative. She thought I should organize a little orgy, with Vargalys and the two of us, I was to lure Vargalys into a snare, shove Lolka into bed with him myself; when I heard this I felt I was a corpse, a dead thing, I should have killed her, bitten through her throat, poked out her brazen eyes. She chattered on as if it were nothing: you know that Vargalys doesn’t take you seriously. I should have killed her on the spot. But I just mumbled like a fool and promised to think about it. The worst of it is that I really did start thinking. Even now, remembering this, I feel like that carcass swaying on a hook, yes, it’s fall already, lamb has shown up at the market: Vargalys liked lamb roast, he’d marinate a nice leg for a whole week in red wine with seventeen herbs, that evening we gorged on just such a roast, but all of that was later, at first I just started thinking; a person’s worst ability, his true ruin, is thinking, particularly if it’s a woman who takes it up. I knew, I saw that Vargalys didn’t pay attention to her, but I was completely overwhelmed by a weird premonition that Lolka would inevitably nab him — the more openly Vargalys ignored her, the more that conviction flourished. I should have tossed sulphuric acid in her face, poked out her brazen eyes, but a frightened voice whispered, don’t you dare touch her, let everything go on behind my back, better I agree, like it wasn’t for real, like it was a joke, so I could control everything, so that at least in some weird way I’d stay in charge; I couldn’t do it, I simply couldn’t, I couldn’t even think about it, so I did it without thinking: we devoured that roast, got drunk, and when I went out I left Lolka with Vargalys, in the depths of my heart refusing to believe he’d take her, but it was as if I were pushing him into it myself; I couldn’t even imagine it, but I agonizingly foresaw that would be just the way it turned out; dreaming he’d smack her in the face like he had that Vaiva, that he would spit in her face, mock her in public, but knowing full well that I was giving in. I gave in, I was and still am a tuteiša, what could I do up against Lola the Lithuanian, the owner of Vilnius, she had the upper hand, she kicked me back into the quagmire, into Bezrečjė’s stench, and I gave in practically without a fuss, because I never did become a true Vilniutian, I’ve always been a tuteiša, a wretched, miserable exile. I wrote my own sentence, no one forced me; I condemned myself to long years of imprisonment because I couldn’t leave Vargalys. I really am like that lamb carcass, there’s just that much sense in me and just that much strength. I continued to be friends with Lolka too. I wore her leather coat, and I have it still. I continued to buy clothes and food for Vargalys, to clean his apartment, that’s why I came to Vilnius from my swamps, that was the meaning of my life; I don’t want to leave the market, even though the veterinary pharmacy is across the street, I’m fascinated by those carcasses, they’re saying something to me, it’s just that I don’t understand their language yet, but some day I will, because today blood is running out of me like it does out of them, and today both they and I are crucified, because God has forsaken us.