I was supposed to find a strange country here, one called Lithuania; it really is here, but is this how it’s supposed to be: at least a quarter of the city’s inhabitants are Russians brought here from who knows where, and the Poles of Vilnius — the poor Poles — graduate from the Russian schools and don’t speak Lithuanian; break the spell on Vilnius, Vasilis, boil up a potion of bats, crows’ feathers, and wolf-berry, break Vilnius’s spell, Vasilis, if you still can, if it’s at all possible anyone still can. I was to find the spirit of the ages here, it actually does linger here, but will it last much longer: Gediminas, the dour brainiac of Vilnius who went by the name of a Grand Duke, lies somewhere on the glaciers of Tian Shan, Vargalys, the other one with the name of a Grand Duke, is neither dead nor alive, even plain old Martynas lay down in front of a roaring truck — the soul of Vilnius is fading by the day, you aren’t needed here, Stefanija. Don’t think that way, don’t; you’re needed, Vasilis will break the spell on Vilnius yet, he’ll pull the pink, violet, rose-colored mists of our swamps out from under his arm and he’ll show everyone; he’ll dig the sunken village of Užubaliai out of the ground too; he’ll summon the forest brothers, slowly drowning in the muck of the swamp but rising again to the surface every night, out of oblivion, and if he doesn’t do it, if he is no more, it’s destined that you, Stefanija, do it: you really are needed. The ladies are buying onions, there aren’t any in the stores again; it’s time to get out of this market, the veterinary pharmacy will close for lunch any minute, I go across the street and there’s a long-bodied little dog with short little legs traipsing around by the pharmacy, some kind of perverted dachshund, exactly the same as the one I saw by the Tallinn, it can’t be the same one, it couldn’t have scurried this far — that’s just the way it is in Vilnius: the people here are all alike, and the dogs too, and the buildings in the new districts, even Old Town’s vain efforts to remind you of the real Vilnius don’t help. Shoo, shoo, you clumsy thing, you’re all I need, don’t tell me menstruation really does smell like a bitch; the door creaks stupidly, there’s a bit of a line: salve for fleas, fish oil, and this one doesn’t know what he wants at all. Lolka feared her fate, but she feared old age most, even a mature age, she foolishly tried to stay young forever; when she had a bit to drink she complained that she was slowly losing her body, I didn’t know what she was talking about, but she kept repeating it to me, it turned into her mania. Earlier, her favorite pursuit had been abusing Vargalys: what a wimp he is, how old, how hopelessly in love. Lolka tormented him, she’d make him tell her about the camp, drag him to discotheques, threatening to one day force him to shave his head bald for the fun of it — Vargalys, the great Vargalys, would complain to me, or maybe not to me, but rather to himself: he’d sit down in the room and talk out loud; the really horrible part was that he didn’t say a single bad word about Lolita, he’d only complain about himself, about how old and wimpy he is, and undeserving of Lolita’s love — I’d be overwhelmed with horror: it was Lolka who wasn’t worthy of licking his boots, and this was how she’d brought him down: Lord knows, if she’d demanded it, he would have shaved himself bald. I’d console him like a little child, stroke him and hug him, and he’d lie there naked, feeble, with that childish, helpless little thing of his, but he really wasn’t either old or wimpy, he was worth the love of all the women in the world, it was just that slut Lolka who destroyed him. And suddenly she started complaining that she was losing her body: she kept showing me her fingers, which were supposedly distorted, bent at the joints, she’d get completely undressed to prove to me that supposedly there were fat lumps of flesh gathering on her hips, her thighs, under her breasts, Lord knows, I didn’t see anything, I got really tired of her, although that mania had its good points: Lolka stopped torturing Vargalys, became more attentive and more loving, she even told me secretly that she was afraid to get undressed in front of him, for a moment I even had hope that maybe she’d leave him alone. Lolka lived just for the myth of her perfect body; suddenly that body started going downhill, or maybe, for all the good it did, she got scared that sooner or later it’d start going downhill and that would be it; she lost her crutch, she started acting like a fool, lost the meaning of her life: everyone’s that way, they hang on to a house, or a car, or a job, or some other trifle, and if it vanishes unexpectedly they don’t see any sense in living. . I’ve off and philosophized, it’s not just the clerk giving me dirty looks, it’s the line behind my back too: why doesn’t that dolt ask for something; and the dolt, that is to say me, just stammers: if maybe, by chance, even just one package; they have it, they have it, I stuff the roll of gauze into my purse, I don’t even take the change, I slip out to the street, take a deep breath of air — oh, how happy I am, I want to sing or turn somersaults, all the people are so good-looking and smart. I got some gauze, I got some gauze — do you hear, I got some gauze to plug up my stinking, dripping little hole! It’s time to go back to work, I smile like some kind of a fool, even my cramps have stopped: look here, how nicely that girl has tied on a scarf, I could learn from her, I follow her with my eyes, my glance falls on a tall young man’s figure, he turns and I recognize Žilvinas, Martis’s son — how old is he now? Seventeen? Eighteen? All decked out and slicked down by his mama, brown corduroy pants, a jacket with at least six appliquéd pockets, gracefully tied with a belt, the ends hanging loose, the expression on his face proud and a bit insolent, a real Communist Youth leader, an exemplary youth; apparently I wasn’t destined to be happy for long, my heart stirs with a sad, sad longing: Martynas is gone, Teodoras and Gediminas are gone too, Vargalys is neither dead nor alive; Vilnius is emptying, the real people, the real Lithuanians are dying, and who will replace them, who will come in their place, what will their children do, their one and only child, Martis’s son? Žilvinas saw me, he’s walking towards me, another two young men follow after him, they don’t look like Communist Youth leaders at all, more like gangsters in the making.