Perhaps it’s possible to dream up that giddiness, that apocalyptic melody of bodies. . that beastly desire, those floods and ebbs. . probably it’s even possible to invent the sightless, universal woman body, her heavenly orgasm, when the entire skin becomes pure white and as thin as parchment. . when every last vein shines through it — blue or dark red. . to invent that supernatural, impossible vagina, in whose multifold space you go astray, which is different, unrecognizable, mysterious every time. . you can invent even yourself, but it’s impossible to fabricate that boundless closeness, it embraces all of me like a nirvana, more perfect than death. . It gives me meaning; you can’t invent that kind of closeness by yourself. Another person is essential here, in all of his wholeness. . I am no longer alone. . She doesn’t let me be alone. . It’s a true closeness, a true connection. . with her. . with the trees. . with all of oceans of the world. . with hallucinating Vilnius. . with me myself. . A true connection, one that has nothing in common with the sexual dance of the body, little in common even with the erotic, it’s a true connection. As long as such things exist in the world, they alone make life worth living. (Maybe that’s what they call love?)
No, I haven’t invented Lolita, she is: she walks around the room naked, and then puts on a robe. . She sits across from me in the tub and splashes my chest with white foam. . She is, she doesn’t disappear anywhere, she won’t vanish like smoke, here she is: kneeling at the end of the bed she helplessly nibbles at my thighs and belly, she wants to take a bite of her god’s body, ritually taste of it, so that at least a particle of mine will remain within her, because if she were to lose connection with me, she would instantly crumble into a little pile of ashes. I lie on my back, and with all of my pores and veins I feel her take my scarred masculinity into her hands, stroke it with her palms, press it to one cheek and the other, brush it against her lips, look at it, no longer at me — only at it.
“My handsome one,” she says in a hoarse voice, “It’s like a flower. . It’s my prettiest flower. . And it smells like a flower. . A scarred warrior. .”
Her head has fallen on my hips while she caresses and kisses her prettiest flower; I actually feel weak, and an emptiness spreads through my innards. She sucks me, sucks out my insides, it seems she is pulling everything out of me, only a sugary bliss remains inside; it should be very good, but for some reason it’s dreary — for some reason I see a blue sky above me, it’s not darkened by the least little cloud. The clearest of clear summers returns again, the summer of horror, the summer of the cattle cars. Grandfather’s angry predictions are coming true; I don’t understand anything anymore, I live as if in a dream, I rise and go to bed as if in a dream. Barely a year has gone by since the Russians came, and the world changed the way it doesn’t change in centuries. Now I’m lying completely naked in a bed of luxuriant grass, the sun glares, right nearby a little creek swirls, and on my belly scrawled sheets of paper quietly rustle. Giedraitis Junior is naked too, still guzzling a half-empty bottle swiped from home. The wine we’ve drunk gently intoxicates, and I feel like I’m in a double dream, Lord knows, as if I’m dreaming in a dream, but there’s no peace in it, either; the wheels of the cattle cars keep rumbling in my head. Everything is a dream — it’s so easy to convince yourself of that. The trains to the East thunder by in the black darkness. The Russians are hidden, they do their black work in the blackness, but I know the secret. Every morning I run to the railroad tracks, where Giedraitis Junior is already waiting for me. After the night, the embankment looks like it’s been covered in snow; it’s white, white as far as the eye can see — as if the cattle cars were spreading a deadly frost. We quickly scoop up and gather that dirty snow, but oddly — it doesn’t freeze, but rather scorches the fingers. It’s probably not the paper that scorches (that snow is made of paper), but what’s written on it. We gather up those damp little papers, but we don’t manage to take even a hundredth part of them: the entire embankment is strewn with those moaning, wailing, screaming sheets that the trains of ghosts, rolling to the East, scattered during the night. This is the only place where everyone throws their little messages out — apparently, this is an enchanted spot. And I am the king of that enchantment.
I play a strange game, as if I were playing chess with strangers’ fates. Every night people disappear without a trace, and then thunder off into a boundless void by the thousands. The Shit of All Shits is devouring Lithuanians; everyone is waiting for their turn to come. And when it comes — they throw out their ghostly letters, like sailors from a sinking ship. They believe someone will pick up their cries, tears, and groans from the ground and send them off as addressed. A naïve, naïve, hope: to once see the morning railroad embankment strewn with hundreds, thousands of little letters, is enough to be overwhelmed by a bottomless fear, a horror of the mute trains of apparitions dissecting the blackness. You couldn’t manage to send out even the smallest part of those letters, so we play a strange game: we skim through them, and he who wins is the one that finds the most interesting one. . or the most horrible. . or the funniest. . We haven’t selected today’s yet:
Elena,
I know you won’t get my letter, I’m writing into the void. I’m sitting in the corner of the car with my pants wet because the guards won’t let us near the opening. So no one will see there’s people in the cars. No one knows where they’re taking us, maybe to shoot us. Maybe I’ll be gone soon, but you won’t be around for long, either. If that’s the way it is — the Russians will shoot everyone. We’ll die out from them like from the plague. It actually makes me feel better, that you’ll die too. We’ll meet in paradise, no one will separate us there. .
I watch Robertas guzzle the wine; I try to guess what he’s thinking. What does father think, drawing nothing but bloody trains that are descending into horrible, gigantic, tunnel-like sexual openings? What does grandfather think, he who doesn’t eat, drink, or say anything? What does mother think, she who shaved her head bare yesterday? What do I think myself? Maybe that the end of the world is here? That I’m a human and that I should love other people? In other words, those aliens too, the ones who load the trains of apparitions at night? I cannot love them, for the very reason that I am a human. Actually, I could add that they aren’t human. Yes, that’s the only possibility: those aliens are not humans.
Maryt, we’re still alive. They stuffed us into black cars last night, they’re taking us to Rushia, we’ll be like servants there for the Balshevik masters. Don’t you worry, I’ll write you a letter as soon as I can. You just learn Russkie, Russkie will be all they’ll let you speak and write, so learn it. Let Kazelis run like hell from Kaunas, they’ll take everybody from the cities to Rusland, maybe out in the country they’ll leave some. The two of you just lie low, then maybe everything will be okay. I had a slab of bacon so I’m fixed up a bit better than the others. The Russkies aint never seen bacon, so it was like manna from heaven to them. Only one guy didn’t eat it, he said at home they make it better, in factories, out of speshal stuff. Teach Kazelis to say miravaja revoliucija and tavarich stalin nash atec, and he ought to learn a Russkie song too, they like it a lot when you sing their songs. When some Russkie shows up in the yard, start singing out loud right away, then they’ll leave you alone. I’m throwing this letter out next to some kind of bonfires, maybe some good people will pass it on to you. Luv and kisses, Stanislovas