Antanas Garšva gets up at nine. He shaves, washes, eats two eggs, drinks a cup of coffee. Then goes out to the store and calls Doctor Ignas.
“Hello. I’d like to see you.”
“It’s about time. How are you feeling?” replies Doctor Ignas reproachfully.
“Terrific. Yesterday everything turned upside down. Oh, forgive me. Everything turned right side up. Nevertheless, I’d like to see you.”
“If you’re feeling alright, come at around two. Right now I have to visit some patients.”
“Great. I’ll be there at two. After that I’ll head to work. See you later.”
“See you.”
Garšva goes back home. He sits down at the table. He finds a sheet of paper. Picks up a pen.
It’s cosy in Garšva’s room this morning. A sunbeam has slipped through the window and illuminated the Chagall woman’s cloudy hair. Book dust rises and blends with cigarette smoke. The clear blue colour of the room. The chair creaks, the pen scratches. The writer’s rhythmic breath.
True peace has finally come to me. I’m objective, I’m a medium, I don’t need to be absolutely original. My soul has found a relationship with the world. I’ll be unknown, like an ancient Chinese painter. I’ll follow in the footsteps of the great masters. And I’ll thank my God for those forgotten pieces of my life: the time I played at being a priest giving mass, the race, the foundling. I’m thankful for the young Russian. When I prayed, swam, dreamt of a child, killed a man, I was sure. I was a synthesis of body and soul. I am Jin Shengtan, who, on a clear morning after a long rain, once again hears the birds’ voices, draws open the curtains and sees the freshly bathed sun shining over the forest.
My responses have welded together my life, my observations, my ruminations. A few little grains. A few poems. A single, tangible truth.
I forgot that I have only one life to live. I have been living as though I were preparing for yet other lives. And I lost a great deal of time. Though, like some American said – “Life begins at forty.” A man only takes shape at forty, the Romans argued. I’m forty, and now I’ll start to live. And when death comes, I will greet it calmly: Ave Caesar, vivans te salutat!{100 See note 91, but there’s a small change: the translation here is “Hail Caesar, a living person [singular] salutes you!”}
Lioj, ridij, augo, lepo, leputeli – trills the nightingale. A boggy marsh. Fairies whir through the air. Toads watch the universe through bulging eyes. Triangular firs, the towers of Lithuanian shrines rise to the stars. To be born, to live, to die. To climb up on to high benches. Two shabby kaukai accompany Christ. “Give us some new pants, turn the marsh waters to red wine.” In the honeycombs, the ears of wheat, the rue and the lilies, the embraces of gnarled trunks, the tangled roots, the flowing waters – You are to be found.
Lioj. Ridij, Augo.
I have understood myself. The shards fit together. A child observing a landscape. Road, stream, hills, deer. A serpent hugging the ground. Fairies combing their tresses. The gliding mist. Day darkens, brightness darkens. Lapwing feathers, tolling bells, dominus vobiscum.
Antanas Garšva lights himself yet another cigarette. He feels a pain at the top of his head. “I’ve smoked too much,” he tells himself. Garšva crushes the cigarette in an ashtray. He twirls his pen ambivalently. The pain is bearable. It will go away. Like the grim past. Two o’clock – Doctor Ignas. Tomorrow – Elena? The day after? The day after tomorrow I’ll ask for time off. And, very possibly, I’ll switch hotels. Everything will be renewed. Love, poetry, people, streets.
There will be no more need for Hear me, My Elevator. Hear me, my Childhood. Hear me, my Death, credo gloria or confiteor gloria. There will be no more need for Hear me – my Sin, my Madness. Day darkens, brightness darkens. A choir of kaukai, field and harvest gods. Lioj.
I’ll make it in time. I promise. I will give you. A carnelian ring. A wagon in Queens Plaza. My love.
Elena is taking a bath. White foam slides down her legs and explodes into iridescent bubbles. “He will kiss my legs. Slowly. When he kisses my wrists, I’ll believe my happiness. I won’t torment him. I’ll restrain myself.”
She gets up, a grey Aphrodite in a cast-iron tub, turns on the shower, and warm spurts of water wash off the foam.
“I’ll ring the bell and the door will open. Faster than I can pull back my fingers. Tomorrow.”
The pain is annoying. The top of the head burns. There is no fear. But the peace is fading too. Pain and indifference. Sudden stabs, and then a deaf, rolling ball. The ball is growing and will soon escape. The pen has stopped scratching. I’m out of pills. Garšva gets up, goes to the kitchen and returns with a glass. He drinks some White Horse. Sits down again, and again picks up the pen.
The white woman plays. O felix culpa quae talem et tantum meruit habere redemptorem.{101 See note 34.} Two vėlės and a harpsichord. The gilded statues run up the granite steps. The torches in their hands have gone out. And the sculptural noblemen’s heads rejoice. Ė, ridij, augo! Ė, felix culpa! I love the blue veins on your legs. Your damp eyelashes. Tristan and Isolde’s sword, the mole on your neck. Lioj.
Amber insects creep along the sand. Towards the blue Baltic. “Vai žydėk, žydėk, balta obelėle,” sings the vėlė, wrapped in a white shroud. O felix culpa! My childhood, my life, my death. Lioj.
No pain. But the ball is enormous. It no longer fits inside the brain, and yet it cannot escape through the skull. A thought struggles to be heard: “Must see Doctor Ignas.” Garšva hurriedly puts on his suit. His fingers don’t cooperate. The pant zipper chokes but he manages to get it free. A tie? Never mind. Money? There are eight dollars on the table. Enough for a taxi.
The brown man in the elevator. I just remembered him. Is he Death? A warning from God?
God, You see how miserable I am.
I know I’m too late, but save me.
I promise.
I’ll tear up my notes, my poems.
I won’t think in ways that offend You.
I’ll pray.
I’ll enter a monastery.
God, though I am dying, help me.
I believe that You can forgive at the very last minute.
An entire life.
God, oh God, I offer myself into Your hands…
Oh no, I am a manikin, a manikin, oh God.
Oh Gooood!…
“Zoori, zoori,” whispers Garšva.
Where is zoori? What is zoori? Why is zoori? I’ve lost zoori. Help me find it! Could it have flown away? Help me! Antanas Garšva whimpers. He screams. He pounds the walls with his fists. The pins pop out. The Chagall reproduction flips around and hangs backwards.
Stanley is walking along the bridge. He is weaving slightly. Having thrown the Seagram’s bottle into the East River. He finishes a cigarette, tosses it, and looks around. The bridge is empty. At the very end a man recedes. Stanley leans against the railing and stares at Greater New York. Rocks built on rocks. Skyscrapers. Ships and tugboats float by. Chimneys stick out in the distance. A train thunders on to the bridge, shaking the tracks. The clamour approaching fast.