Doctor Ignas likes Lithuanian folk songs. He cites verses while X-raying his patients, poking them with needles, writing out prescriptions, shaking hands, “Lino žiedas, ai ratūto, I hope to see you looking better on Thursday.” Garšva inspired this love of folk songs in the doctor during the German occupation in Kaunas.{11 The German occupation of Lithuania lasted from 1941 to 1944. Kaunas is the second-largest city in Lithuania (pop. 300,000), and was the country’s capital during the interwar period of independence. It is located at the confluence of the Neris and Nemunas rivers.} Doctor Ignas even composes the occasional poem himself, while waiting for his patients. He consults Garšva at length about every stanza. His round little face blushes pink like a girl’s when he receives a compliment. His poems are unpretentious; they’re just poems for himself. Doctor Ignas doesn’t publish them, but reads them to Garšva and his father who barely reads the newspapers.
Antanas Garšva saw Doctor Ignas two weeks ago. Again an X-ray of the ribs, again the heart’s zigzags etched on a scrolling band, again the bare arm wrapped in rubber while the mercury rose to whichever number the blood chose, and again the eyes were examined.
“Vai tu rugeli, vai tu siūbuonėli,” said Doctor Ignas when the two of them were once again seated in his office, facing each other across the desk.{12 Folk-song fragment: “Oh you, little rye, oh you, to and fro.”} Antanas Garšva awaited the verdict. Doctor Ignas was silent. He tilted his angelic little head, his yellow hair shone atop his broad skull, two sad wrinkles ran down from the corners of his nose, and the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses reflected Garšva’s Byzantine face. Smoke rose silently from their cigarettes. The coloured pencils stuffed into an imitation baseball turned grey.
“I’m looking forward to your next poem,” said Antanas Garšva. Doctor Ignas took off his horn-rimmed glasses and placed them on his prescription pad. He blinked, like a typical myopic.
“I haven’t written one,” he replied sadly.
“Why?”
“Could you take some time off work?” asked Doctor Ignas.
“Is it serious?” asked Garšva.
“It’s not tragic, but…”
“…but, I return to the manor and meet an old woman holding two bright candles,” Garšva recalled aloud. And with this silent memory returned a summer evening, a lake, yellow water lilies, cows lowing in the distance, Jonė’s tanned feet in their little white shoes, and even further back, a song. An evening in a Lithuanian backwater, where the wealthiest inhabitant was the Jew Mileris, who sold sardines from Kaunas.
“Could you be more precise?”
“It isn’t that tragic. Come back the day after tomorrow, I’ll examine you again and I’ll be more precise. If your finances are in bad shape, I can help.”
Doctor Ignas’s head drooped even lower over his chest.
“I’d like to work until Wednesday. It would make for a nice round pay cheque,” said Garšva.
“You can try, but be sure to come back the day after tomorrow.”
Garšva got up and went towards the door. At the door they shook hands.
“Ulioj, bite, ulioj, kadigėle!” said Garšva.{13 Folk-song fragment: “Hum, bee, hum, buzzee.”}
“Bičiute, bitele – kadijo! I’ll be expecting you the day after tomorrow,” replied Doctor Ignas.{14 Folk-song fragment: “Buzz, dear bee, Buzz little bee!”}
Garšva glances at his wristwatch. Fifteen minutes to start time. Not so tragic. There are no more tragedies. The remaining New York theatres stage dramas and comedies. Tragedies are staged in museums. A plaid jacket and brown trousers hang in the locker. This elevator operator’s uniform is modernised Johann Strauss. Person number 87 could get sick wearing a uniform from an operetta. I didn’t go see Doctor Ignas the day after tomorrow. The next day I telephoned Elena’s husband and we met in Stevens’s tavern. Should I drop work, change out of my uniform, and go to see Doctor Ignas? I feel strange. The contour of the peeling cupboard door looks like a giant ear. Who banned surrealism from Lithuanian literature? Was it Mažvydas?{15 Martynas Mažvydas was the author of the first printed book in Lithuanian, Katekizmo prasti žodžiai (Simple Words of the Cathechism; Königsberg, 1547).} Kaukus, Žemepatis ir Lauksargus pameskite, imkiet mane ir skaitykiet.{16 “Give up your kaukai, your harvest and field gods, take me and read me instead.” From the Lithuanian Preface of Mažvydas’s Catechism (1547), the first book printed in the Lithuanian language. In it, Mažvydas addresses common Lithuanians, urging them to give up pagan beliefs and embrace Christianity, which the state officially adopted in 1387.
A kaukas (pluraclass="underline" kaukai) is a type of brownie or gnome in Lithuanian mythology, thought to live under a house or in the ground nearby. Kaukai were thought to bring good luck or skalsa, a type of non-material wealth associated with economy and the efficient use of resources, and they might do small, useful tasks. A Lithuanian housewife traditionally left small gifts to attract one of these positive, chthonic beings to her home, even sewing a tiny garment with a single piece of thread and hiding it in a corner. Lithuanian semiotician A.J. Greimas’s analysis showed that the word kaukas is associated with water, dampness and earth. Kaukai were also associated with death, as at some points they were thought to be the spirits of stillborn children.} I can’t take off my uniform. I’m a Lithuanian kaukas in a Strauss operetta. Imkiet mane ir numarinkiet ir tatai marindami permanykiet.{17 “[…] take me and read me, and in reading consider this […]”, from the opening lines of the Preface to Mažvydas’s Catechism.} There are no more tragedies. There are the peeling cupboard doors, an empty Coca-Cola box, a few minutes to start time. Tik tik, tik tik – in my temples, in my veins, in my dreams. Imkiet mane, bičiute, bitele, kadijo!{18 From Mažvydas’s Catechism and a folk song: “Take me, dear bee, buzz little bee!”} The celluloid bullet has dissolved, the bitter powder has shrouded the brain. Number 87 already feels calmer, more fun. A chemical blanket has enveloped this number. Elena, I will not be able to give you a carnelian ring or an abandoned streetcar wagon in Queens Plaza. It doesn’t matter, Elena, soon it won’t matter at all.
7 Lithuanian folk-song fragment:
If I knew how
Then I would halve
Green patterned smocks.
10 Folk-song fragment:
Linseed darlings, linseed dears
Linseed blossom, wheeling,
Linseed blossom, spinning –
Turning, turning – wheel!
Linseed blossom, spin!
Chapter 1
Stevens’s tavern is quiet during the day. Lively Bedford Avenue is around the corner, so incidental drinkers rarely stop by. Stevens’s – Steponavičius’s – clientele are labourers. They fill the place on evenings and weekends, and Stevens’s plump and experienced face lights up with an obliging smile. His hands move instinctively, and a joke slips out instinctively, and Stevens instinctively nods his head if he has to comfort an unhappy tippler.
When Antanas Garšva entered the dark tavern at ten that morning, Stevens was reading the Daily News. Stevens liked this slim, slightly stooped, fair-haired man who often came in during the day. He had a nice voice, and didn’t boast or complain. Stevens was happy to have a daytime customer relationship with the man. Chatting with Antanas Garšva made Stevens feel that his own life was in pretty good shape.
Antanas Garšva once again looked at the familiar objects, the familiar face. Light-coloured tables covered in reddish checked tablecloths, the floor clean for the moment, the polished and gleaming bar and mirrors, the red vinyl of the chairs, the television hanging in a corner of the ceiling. Only the old boxers’ portraits looked dusty, like neglected relics.