Vilnius Poker. Ricardas Gavelis
about.
Now I stand on the street by the bus stop across from the Russian Orthodox Church and absentmindedly look around (who knows when I stood and looked around). Not far off a girl in a cocoa-colored raincoat flashes by, on the church’s steps a furtive cat curls itself up; but that’s not what matters most. What plagues me the most is the memory of the limp-breasted Old Town Circe, her spirit hovering about. Even the trees are as quiet as she was then.
Now I see the man with straw-colored hair, unsteady on his feet, now I sense the glare of his pallid eyes fixed upon me, smell the odor of rotting leaves. And it’s in that glare, in that odor, that the answer hides, an answer that unifies the scattered details into an excessively harmonious whole.
All of Their subspecies watch you, secretly shadow you—even if they’re eyeless; eyes are not at all what matters most in this case. I could call Them “the observers,” “the watchers,” “the stalkers;” however, these names would imperceptibly lead away from The Way. Our language is merely a collection of labels, stuck alike to entirely different things, because those labels always run short, there’s never enough of them. (It’s They who always strive for words to come up so short, to be so inaccurate and deceptive.) But after all, it isn’t Their oppressive meddling that determines everything. The crushing groping about in the dark and the unceasing shadowing are probably the most obvious, but by no means the most dangerous things.
I had been warned about Them when I was still a child, but I didn’t pay attention to it. I suppose that everyone (or almost everyone) is warned. Unfortunately, our civilization has taken such a turn that no one pays attention to the warnings. They drown in the stream of other impressions, images, and words. They’re decided, almost by agreement, not to notice, not to explain the odd things. Sooner or later that custom will push humanity to its doom.
It’s imperative to save ourselves before it’s too late, to take at least the first small step towards The Way. Everyone must ask themselves if they have ever seen the stare of the void. I can’t think of a better description. I’ve devotedly investigated Their stares (a stare that’s one and the same), overcoming fear and disgust. And I always saw one thing in it: a hopeless void. Their boundless subspecies, Their infinite hierarchy, in which, it seems, even they ought to get confused, doesn’t help matters . . . Brazen youngsters, sullenly staring at you in a cafe. Pale-faced, pustular women spying on you through the glass of unwashed windows. Straw-haired, broad-shouldered men, secretly piercing you with the glare of colorless eyes. Filthy city pigeons, hypnotizing with their soulless bird pupils. Cockroaches twitching their antennae, staring at you from all corners without any eyes. Swamp sinkholes smelling of rot, they’re looking at you too, they’re destroying you too . . . Let’s start from the beginning, with humanoid creatures (Their subspecies, having the form of human beings). You will, without fail, see signs of an inner life in even the most miserable little human’s eyes. Even a lunatic’s eyes flash with a live spark from time to time. Lord of mine, even a dog’s eyes are alive! But not Theirs. Look around, I beg you . . . spot those who are secretly watching you . . . they don’t even particularly hide . . . examine their eyes . . . study them . . . study them well . . . You’ll surely see: all of those brazen youngsters, pustular women, broad-shouldered men with obnoxious faces, look with the stare of the void . . . No, their eyes aren’t empty; they simply look with the stare of the void. I can’t say it better . . . Imagine a beast that devours light—and not just light: words too, and love, and music, and dreams, and . . . Imagine its stare . . . No, I don’t know how to express it. All I can do is hope every thinking person understands what an absolute, oppressive void is.
Study them, first of all study those deranged gawkers, those kanukai in human form, maybe at last you’ll feel uneasy. Follow them yourself and perhaps you’ll begin to see things clearly. Perhaps you’ll grasp the danger that’s impossible to overestimate; perhaps you’ll even have the strength to resist. Perhaps you’ll at least have the strength to shout for help. Perhaps it won’t be too late yet.
They start with the children first of all. For the love of God—guard the children!
I wanted to run, to flee, from that accursed Russian Orthodox Church, but in spite of it all I held on to cold reason. I walked slowly, placing my feet carefully. Around me an unfamiliar world was in its death throes: angry women with puffy faces, crumbling gateways where staggering apparitions and withered trees with dried-up leaves took refuge. It even seemed to me that all the passersby spoke some unintelligible, hissing language.
A murky brew bubbled in my brain. My head puffed like a steam boiler without a release value, ready to explode at any moment. My swelling skull did nothing but hum and clatter: inside a multitude of tiny little doors opened and slammed shut, and my thoughts ran along new, unfamiliar routes.
At the instant of insight you fall into a new, absolutely different world. A universe of strange episodes and images that your mind isn’t adapted to, that no part of you is adapted to. Your eyes and ears, your arms and legs aren’t suited to this novel world. You could trip in a level place or crash into an invisible wall that everyone else sees and goes around. I passed through Vilnius and sensed that the streets were no longer streets, the trees no longer trees, even I was no longer myself. I couldn’t even stop, close my eyes and calm down—I didn’t know if that might not be the most dangerous thing of all. A strange equilibrium only slowly (very slowly) appeared. The streets once more turned into streets (different streets), the trees—into trees (different trees); however, the new status quo only deepened the inner upheaval. I couldn’t orient myself in this new world. The ground eluded my feet. It seemed I understood everything, but I experienced no joy. I kept thinking: it’s much better not to know anything at all. It’s really not worth envying Saul, fallen to his knees on the road to Damascus, or Mahomet, transfixed in front of the falling jug. The grand insight brings only torment.
I had to find Gediminas right away. Things that had been long since forgotten and had been thrust to the very bottom of my consciousness became enormously significant in the new world. Vague images flashed in front of my eyes, stories without beginning or end, which brought on a strange presentiment. In that muddle, like a leitmotif, Gedis kept appearing. I saw his sarcastic smile, heard his hoarse voice whispering, “Who sent her, who sent her, Vytas?” I could swear he once said, “I always feel like someone is watching me when I’m with a woman.” Yes, yes, he’d say something like that to me all the time.
I hurried. I still didn’t know how to express my great revelation in words; I didn’t know what I would have said to him. However, I didn’t in the least doubt that he would understand me. I spun the telephone dial and considered how I should begin. Gedis, I have finally grasped the secret: They are watching us. Did you know? Aren’t you horrified? Or perhaps like this: Gedis, surely you remember the black-haired Circe who wanted to destroy us both. Did you notice the look she would secretly steal at us? . . . Or maybe start straight off, like this: Gedis, surely you don’t think that those observers, those pathological stalkers, are merely snooping, merely registering facts? Surely you don’t think they’re gathering the consummate card index just for the sake of the index itself? Do you have any idea of what their intentions are, or could be? . . . Finally his work telephone answered: “Riauba just ran out to the repair shop to get his car, and then probably he’ll get it into his head to take a spin around the highways.”
Of course he’ll get it into his head: besides logic and music, Gedis also worshipped speed. In the middle of the night he’d get up from his work table and go tearing around, who knows where, with his Opel. He always drove like a god.
I waited for him for an hour, then another and another. Calling over and over, I slowly aligned the most important observations. They spy on you with pathological attentiveness, even when they really can’t see anything hidden or meaningful. They hysterically avoid publicity and openness; They are always obscure, sodden, and colorless. (Then what about the Old Town Circe?) I carefully prepared for my visit with Gediminas: in discourse he recognized only logic; he left emotions to music, and ecstasy—to speed. I gathered theses for a simple introductory lecture. First: we have all experienced that oppressive evening mood, when we’re compelled to pull curtains over the windows. We say “it’s more comfortable that way,” but actually we’re unconsciously