“I was walking along May 1st Street. Wanted to cross to the other side. Can’t remember anything else.”
“Correct. You were hit by a bus. Understood?”
“Understood. I was hit by a bus.”
“Good. When you recover, you’ll continue to write.”
“Good. I’ll write.”
“I like you. I got carried away. But… I think it’ll do you good. I think you’ll be one of us. Get better. Write.”
Simutis and the man in the white coat left. Beyond the fence a car started. Garšva touched his head. It was bandaged.
Antanas Garšva recovered. He was left with a winding scar on his crown. He began to write a long article, “Humanism in Soviet Literature”, but never completed it. The Germans invaded Lithuania. For about two years Garšva worked at a publishing house. He did copy-editing and no longer wrote.
First his father died. He would pick his nose for hours, not saying a word, then, later, began moaning. He was taken to hospital. His father died of bladder cancer, but only after a lengthy struggle, because he had a strong heart. The surveyor and his wife moved out. Antanas Garšva ended up alone.
Peace gradually enveloped him. He forgot which day or hour it was. He would fall asleep at the table. He ignored his fellow writers’ queries. And then, one day, he stopped going to the publishing house.
His colleagues brought a doctor to see him. The doctor decided: Garšva is not dangerous, he doesn’t need to be taken to the hospital. The doctor occasionally visited from the city, as did some of the writers, carrying meagre parcels of food, or money that couldn’t buy anything. Garšva began to speak again. In a brief, condensed way. The doctor and the writers decided: Garšva will recover.
It was early autumn, and he would wander around the garden. Often he would pick a leaf from a cherry tree and stare at it for a long time. It was a map. He was searching for lost territories in the leaf of a cherry tree.
The veins in a cherry leaf – a stone wall as solid as a Roman senator’s nose. Surrounded by grass. Caesar knelt, writing on a tablet. Gallia omnis est divisa in partes tres.{57} The barbarians placed wreaths on their heads. Green ones. It was a celebration. Where? By the sea. Lole? Lepo. Eglelo? Lalo. You are right, ancient Aestus.{58} Spend hours staring at your Baltic Sea. At a leaf from a cherry tree. And with as little emotion as possible. “Wrapped broadly in the western waves” – not for me.{59} Short, crooked pines by the sea. Sap slithers down the trunk, the sand, and the waves carry off the sap. A precious stone in Venetian lace. A Roman senator holds a piece of amber in his palm. “It is more beautiful than gold,” says the senator, because the chests are filled with sesterce, and there is only one piece of amber. Augo? Ridij. Skambino? Palo. Ancient Aestus, musical Aestus, show me your own tree, the one you prayed to. Does it command? No. Does it comfort? Yes. Look at the smoke rising to the sky, at the wisp of grass, at the soaring bird. At the cherry leaf. You can.
Garšva often had diarrhoea. He would run to the wooden outhouse – his father had carved a lopsided heart in the door. Garšva would sit there, staring at a heart-shaped patch of sky.
“Flood my breast with your chilly wave,” he would recite.{60} And would think to himself that he should finish the poem he had shredded and tossed into the Nemunas. But he didn’t have the strength. They were only words. Lalo, ancient Aestus, the Roman nose, skambinoj, sky, amber. Within a month the doctor had cured his diarrhoea.
Ženia arrived one evening, tidy, not much aged, as is often the case with petite women.{61} Garšva was sitting in the veranda. A small pile of acacia branches lay on the bench. He was holding one of the branches, picking off the leaves and tossing them, like someone playing “loves me, loves me not”.
“Hi there, handsome,” said Ženia. “I heard you were sick. One of your friends mentioned it.”
Garšva grinned, and continued to pick the leaves in silence. Ženia put her bag on the table.
“I’ve brought some butter, bacon and eggs. I haven’t forgotten you, handsome.”
“That’s great,” said Garšva.
“Nice place. Can I take a look inside?”
“Go ahead,” Garšva offered.
A few minutes later, Ženia returned.
“Not bad. It needs a cleaning.”
“Go ahead,” Garšva agreed, pruning the last branch. Ženia gently stroked Garšva’s neck.
“Can I move in with you? You’re alone, right?”
“Yes, alone. But I don’t have much to eat.”
“Don’t you worry. We’ll make ourselves some food.”
“We’ll make ourselves some.”
“I think this place will do,” she said, as though to herself.
“Oh yes, it’ll do,” agreed Garšva.
“Do you know what?” asked Ženia, surprised.
“What?”
“What I’m thinking?”
“I’m guessing it’s something nice?”
Ženia looked at Garšva carefully.
“Say – one.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“Two.”
“How much is two times two?”
“Four?”
“And twelve plus fifteen?”
“Twenty-seven? Are you studying arithmetic?”
“It looks like you’re ok,” Ženia concluded. Then suddenly leaned towards him and whispered, “Say: I am Antanas Garšva.”
“I am Antanas Garšva. Always was and always will be. Forever and ever, Amen,” whispered Garšva.
“You’re almost fine. I’ll make some eggs.”
That night Garšva remembered things he had forgotten. He slept with Ženia, and devoured four eggs and bacon for breakfast.
On the second day of her stay, Ženia revealed why she was there. It was evening and a full, yellow moon hung over Artillery Park. The acacias infused the warm fall air. The dried-out veranda bench creaked. A few slices of bread and some butter lay on the table. Ženia got up and began to clear the table. When she had placed everything on a wooden tray, she spoke, “Turn on the light.” Garšva pressed the button. Ženia wiped the tabletop.
“I’m opening my business tomorrow,” she announced.
“You’re setting up a shop? Don’t bother. There aren’t any goods these days, and shoppers won’t visit such a remote place.”
Ženia’s eyes flashed angrily.
“Are you really crazy, or do you just act like you are?”
“Sometimes I think I’ve always been this way.”
Garšva turned away from her. He stared at the full moon through the glass panes of the veranda.
“Listen, handsome. I’m still in the same business.”
“Oh,” said Garšva, staring at the full moon. It sat on the chimney of the barracks lock-up, looking like a stick person drawn by a child.
“Listen – I want to do some business here. We’ll both make some money.”
“You’ll pay rent?”
“You’ll be well fed, I’ll keep you clothed, and you won’t have to pay me.”
“A heavenly proposition.”
“So you agree?”
“And what kind of clientele are you aiming for?”
“Germans. Don’t worry, I don’t service regular soldiers. My brand is rising.”
Garšva laughed.
“My friend the baker is director of a tobacco factory. Members of the corps de ballet are distributing apartments and issuing orders for materials. A clarinettist from Bremen is conducting Handel. A musician from the town of Bremen. He told me about how one farmer traded flour for a piano and now spends the entire day banging out a dance tune with one finger. Russian prisoners of war are clearing his fields. I recently read about this kind of scene in a weekly paper. The description contained multiple uses of the words ‘someone’ and ‘for some reason’. What rank of officer do you service?”