“Aunt Stefanija, what a pleasure!” Žilvinas greets me somewhat mockingly, his buddies nod their heads with unusual solemnity. “I didn’t think we’d see each other until dad’s funeral.”
A velvet voice, large, deep eyes, a manly, handsome face; he reminds me of a young Alain Delon — really a handsome boy. It suddenly strikes me that I’ve always loved him, he’s the only one I can open up to, reveal all of my loneliness to, show myself the way I am — weak, miserable, gushing blood — and ask for comfort, he’s the only one who can understand me, surely he’ll understand; his eyes are kind and wise.
“How are you doing, Aunt Stefanija? We haven’t seen each other in a long time.” He doesn’t change his tone, and his buddies are standing next to him without moving, not even blinking, unpleasant characters, worn-out leather jackets, patched jeans, frayed sweaters: they’re like twins.
“At my age not much changes. And how are you doing? You’re still working on your professional Communist Youth career?”
“Sure,” he answers calmly. “I’ve been elected to the City Committee. Maybe you’ll stop in for a minute? We’ll honor dad’s memory.”
Suddenly I get sad, so sad — here he is, the only offspring, the offspring of them all, he’s the only one I can tell everything to and be comforted by, the future is in his hands, he’s inherited Vilnius now. I go with him like I’m under a spell, the twin gangsters in the making hold me by the arms, I go up the stairs, held commandingly. It’s a bit intimidating, but I know Žilvinas, after all, he knows me, I have the dagger, and Žilvinas is a Communist Youth leader, everything’s okay, we’re just going to stop by some apartment, the boys apparently have some wine or something, they’ll probably ask me to put in a ruble or two — that kind is always penniless, well, Žilvinėlis, I really didn’t expect it.
“You see, it’s right nearby, Aunt Stefanija,” says Žilvinas; his velvet voice is calming, all of my fears disperse, I smile to myself: how intimidated we are, we immediately imagine robbers, or hooligans at least; when someone asks for a cigarette in the street we instantly smash him on the head, and then it turns out the poor thing really did just want a smoke.
“We won’t be long, Aunt Stefanija,” Žilvinas goes on, locking the door, “We’re speedy guys. We’ve got all kinds of business. You’ll have time to get back to the library too. The lunch break is almost over, isn’t it?”
He smiles pleasantly, Žilvinėlis really is suited to be a leader, he’ll look fantastically handsome on whatever podium, a dashing boy. His friends are taking off their jackets, I throw off my coat too, step into the room, and suddenly I want to scream. A huge, messy couch wallops you with the oppressive smell of soured sperm; caked syringes and empty ampules roll around on a dirty table, there are little bottles with a whitish fluid and a bowl of dried poppy heads standing there; hanging on the walls — what children they still are! — there are pictures of Stalin, Hitler, Castro, all of them stuck with kids’ toy arrows: one dangles right out of Stalin’s eye. I’ve never seen a room like this before.
“Wow, what a little liar you are,” I say quite calmly — it’s strange even to me. “A Communist Youth leader! When did you have the time to change so much?”
“I’m a little liar?” It seems to me he’s sincerely astonished. “Why?”
“Well, the Communist Youth committee, you’re building a career. .”
“That’s true,” his eyes are so calm, self-confident, and oppressive, that I instantly believe in him. “I’m a member of the City Committee, and this. . it’s nothing, just a little relaxation.”
“They’re from the Committee too?” I unsuccessfully try to joke, even though I don’t feel at all like laughing; he really wouldn’t have brought me here if not. . if not for what?
“Of course not. Let me introduce you, Aunt Stefanija, so you’ll know who you’re dealing with. Raimondas, otherwise known as Roza, he doesn’t know himself why. Viktoras, otherwise — the Dolby Master. He’s an awesome talent, the first in Vilnius to set up a Dolby system — it suppresses the noise of magnetic tape, maybe you’ve heard of it? They’re both unemployed at the moment — but no conflicts with the justice system, no criminal cases. I warned them — your first conviction, even if it’s probation — and I don’t say hello anymore.”
“And what are you planning to do now?” I ask, like an idiot. Žilvinėlis just shrugs his shoulders.
Suddenly I want to scream, but it’s hopeless, the old masonry walls of Vilnius won’t let any sound through, everyone’s at work, no one will be home; it was so long ago, I see Stadniukas’s eyes before me again, but I don’t feel the fury and determination I did then, I just feel awful and really depressed: here they are, here they are, my children, our future; the eyes before me aren’t Stadniukas’s, they’re completely different, bleary, with enlarged pupils; the faces are quite young, but two are already puffy, and the third, the very worst of all, is smooth and handsome, like in a painting: the most important thing is to not be afraid, or actually, not to let them see that you’re horribly afraid, to say something or ask something, or scream, or scold them, or. .