The black women have already left. The woman photographer, a twentieth-century Veronika, stubs out her cigarette in an ashtray.{71} The Puerto Ricans have disappeared. The cafeteria empties out. The golden trumpets no longer sound. Aroun’? Aukštoji Panemunė is all around. The vėlės have climbed down from their high benches and now surround me. I can’t make out their shapes. Everything is mixed up. Gnarled tree roots, the misty, swaying marsh, a wooden Christ standing on a sinking hummock; are those tears on His carved features, did this fine rain sprinkle down from Heaven? A harpsichord? It could be a harpsichord. Why wouldn’t a vėlė play the harpsichord? Vėlės aren’t concerned with clothes or historical periods. There are words. Magical words. Dead noblemen’s sculptural eyes, and brass snakes slithering through the rusted ring of a door handle. And a choir of kaukai, field and harvest gods.
Would it be blasphemy if Christ patted a kaukas on the back and turned the marsh water to red wine? Or a fairy dried His rain-soaked face with her braids? I think this could be one solution. A solution? Could this be the beginning of the poem I’ve been waiting for so long?
But why do I hear the black Greek choir nearby? The black women’s laughter – jungle drumming. The black women’s laughter – Elena’s fist pounding on the locked door. Lord, oh my Lord, who art inside me, I love her! All I can do is repeat the tired words. I love, love, love, love her! I love her, Elena. Stanley, where are you? Stanley, can’t you see that I’m as sentimental as an old maid? But I won’t jump out of a window. I’m afraid to die, Stanley.
65 In the well-known Lithuanian legend, the sea princess Jūratė falls in love with the young fisherman Kastytis, who has disturbed the peace in her underwater kingdom. The love between a goddess and a mortal evokes the wrath of the god of thunder and lightning, Perkūnas, who in his fury shatters Jūratė’s amber castle, which explains why small pieces of amber wash on to the shores of the Baltic after a storm.
66 The first and main hotel and restaurant in Palanga at that time.
67 Zasvistali – pojechali: We whistle – we go (Polish). Stanley’s Polish is poor, so some of his expressions do not make sense.
68 Dziękuję: Thank you (Polish).
69 konfederatka: a traditional, four-pointed Polish military hat.
70 Idz srac: Go and shit yourself (Polish).
71 Veronika: a jilted young woman in a short story by the Lithuanian author Antanas Vienuolis (1882–1957).
72 Lithuanian folk song:
The day darkens,
The brightness darkens
In the evening, the evening.
Oh, the sun is setting
into the dark clouds
beyond the green woods.
And the clouds are glooming
Over the green wood.
Chapter 10
The Chagall reproduction was unchanged. A cloud-haired woman flew over a Russian town. And another, a green bouquet in her hand, fell from her waist. A blurry sleigh glided by, a man waving a whip. The walls were still stamped with ornaments, possibly Roman. Books both arranged neatly on shelves and scattered on the table. Thick with dust. An expensive album lay open, and a splayed Soutine child soared over the page like a little cardboard man pulled by a string. Next to it sat two glasses with murky dregs, an abandoned cherry in one, an ashtray full of cigarette butts, a purse. Articles of men’s and women’s clothing and underwear were piled on the lone armchair. A wrinkled sheet slipped off the green sofa, a quilt in a bluish cover lay on the flowery linoleum.
“I will give you a carnelian ring and an abandoned streetcar in Queens Plaza,” said Garšva. He kissed the mole in the bend of her neck.
“I’ll take the ring to a jeweller tomorrow. He’ll adjust it to fit your finger. We’ll go to see the streetcar wagon next Tuesday. I’m free on Tuesday.”
Elena licked her parched lips.
“Are you thirsty?” asked Garšva.
“I want. Some water.”
He got up and found his blue robe. His back muscles tensed briefly. When he returned from the kitchen with the water, Elena said, “I knew that you were lying on the sand next to me, and I could see your back. I so wanted to touch it.”
As she drank the water, Garšva picked up the bottle of White Horse from the floor and poured himself a third of a glass.
“You drink it straight?”
“Yes.”
“He drank the scotch in one swig. He sat down on the sofa next to her legs. He stroked their skin, its fine golden stubble.”
“Just lie there, lie there,” he said when Elena startled.
“Just lie there.”
It was a foggy day.
“Lie there, that’s it.”
He kissed her ankles.
“Cover me, I’m a little cold.”
He covered her with the quilt, and she smiled faintly. Small, even, bluish teeth.
“I lied. I was waiting for you yesterday. I saw you. You were standing by the drugstore. Mine is the corner window.” And she added, “There’s a lot of blue in your room. The robe, the quilt cover, the book spines, the clock, the linoleum. Do you like blue?”
“I like the bluish veins on your legs,” said Garšva.
“Don’t play games. You’re very young, and I got tired. My head is empty, like a nobleman’s.”
“Like a nobleman’s?”
“My own inner noblewoman wanted to hear some harpsichord. My husband mocks me, you know. I bought all these harpsichord records.”
Garšva took the bottle.
“Shall I pour you some?”
“A little. Into my water.”
They drank in silence.
“I don’t want you to mock me. Be quiet. I’ve read your poems. I asked my husband to take you to Jones Beach. I knew that you two had met at the Vaineikis’s. I knew, in advance – yes – that you would be mine. Cold calculation, you’re thinking? Don’t speak. Trust me, I don’t know, I really don’t know. It’s true that I foresaw some of this. The drink is warming me up. No, don’t kiss me right now. Why did you buy it? Do you need artificial love? Be quiet. Drink, if you want. And pour me some. That’s enough.”
And they both drank.
“My head is spinning. What’s the difference? Real, artificial… I’m just a former high school teacher. And I loved Vilnius. I used to walk for hours. One fall, you know those popular books about metempsychosis, well it seems I’ve already experienced it many times. If you like I can tell you about it, didn’t you ask me to? About the dead noblemen’s heads? Fine. Listen. One night, a handsome young man was walking down Pylimo Street. His collar was turned up, a biting wind blew, it was autumn, he was rushing home after his classes, do you know the columns in the university courtyard? Don’t laugh. You’re the poet. A young dreamer leans against each one of the columns, the ends of his necktie flutter, dry leaves rustle, he’s reciting verse. Be quiet. I really wanted to cry, yesterday, in the square. It’s been a long time since I’ve cried. I feel good here. Listen. I’ll continue. And if it isn’t interesting, cut me off. No, don’t kiss me. A good-looking young man, fair-haired, a few freckles around his nose, don’t smile, that’s how I imagine it, and hungry, because he isn’t well off, so what if that’s cliché, the whole story happened under the Germans, the young man was in a rush, it was close to curfew. Near the house with the sculptures of noblemen’s heads in the cornices he heard a harpsichord playing. Naturally, he came to a stop, it was unusual to hear harpsichord music under the Germans. The doors to that building are heavy, copper lion heads with chains in their jaws, and the handsome young man didn’t dare touch the chain. And then the doors opened on their own, and it was dark inside, a greenish light shone from above. The young man climbed up the granite stairs. The light became brighter, as did the sound of the harpsichord. On the upper landing, gold-plated statues held torches, they burned with greenish flames. And at the turn, a red carpet led towards the hall. No, don’t give me more to drink. Sit still. The young man entered the hall. Many candles burned in malachite candlesticks; fat cherubim blew on long pipes: white grapes, apples and pears in woven baskets; and the candle flames rose, unmoving, even though the fair young man felt a breeze on his back. Don’t smile, that’s how I imagined it. Imagined it logically. The main doors were open, do you see? Some people stood there, unmoving, in the hall, with dark clothes, pointy beards, white ruffles, white faces, eyeless, because of the shadows that fell on their eyelids. I think that the sculptures of noblemen’s heads had been placed atop velvet clothes. They stood respectfully, their heads bowed. And… listen. In the hall, by the wall, a greenish harpsichord – strange, isn’t it, because candle flames are normally a clear yellow? And a woman sat playing, in a white gown, lace trailing on the parquet that had been polished to shine like a mirror. Only her waxen fingers moved. Her long fingers travelled the keyboard. Two red servants supported a blind man who listened, seemingly content, as he was smiling. You’re curious to know what the pianist’s face looked like? I don’t know. Once I imagined my own face there. Don’t laugh, I powdered it and looked at myself in the mirror. Then I decided: that’s me. But it doesn’t really matter what her face looked like. She noticed the fair young man and raised her hands from the keys. And naturally, he approached her, knelt, and kissed her outstretched hand. You can kiss me now, if you like. That’s enough. Later, my dear. Just sit and listen. The fair young man invited the white-gowned woman to dance. The two red servants gently helped the blind man on to the stool and he began to play a minuet. He nodded his head, probably enjoying himself. And the noblemen’s heads swayed to the dancers’ rhythm. And everything was reflected in the polished parquet. And… no, let me cry, they’re childish tears. The gilded statues stepped off their pedestals, you remember – the statues from the upper landing? They entered the hall, the greenish light from the lanterns washed over everything, and the chains hung from their necks, the chains wrenched from the lions. Fine. Pour me a little. Thank you. That’s enough. And then the fair young man saw: he was embracing a dead tree trunk. And around him, in a semicircle, stood more headless trunks. Around the rotted harpsichord. And the cherubim, and their pipes, and the baskets of fruits – everything was thick with mould. The candles went out. The torches burned. Where did the blind man and his red servants go? I don’t know. Mice scratched around in the splintered remains of the parquet floor. The fair young man let go of the black trunk. It fell down, the echo of its fall repeating itself several times. And as the fair young man ran down the stairs, he heard someone pounding on the harpsichord. The instrument shrieked, as though it were being immolated. When the young man found himself back on the street, the doors closed. The moon shone, the noblemen’s heads hung from the cornices. Now I’ll explain it to you. I didn’t make all of it up. There was an old Polish woman who lived in Vilnius, half mad, destitute among her books and candles. Like the last of the witches. A bit of bacon, butter and Polish conversation would put her in a good mood. We had a long talk. About the harpsichord. Now come to me.”