Don’t tell me she doesn’t sense what I could do on her account? If she were a miserable leper with rotten fingers, I would kiss those stumps all over one by one, infecting myself with leprosy, knowing full well what I was doing. If she were to turn into a chrysanthemum (she resembles a chrysanthemum), I would be the grave on which she would grow. Whatever she would be, I would recognize her immediately and turn into her shadow. Even if she were to turn into an intangible fabrication of the mind, a mysterious dream, I would be her dreamer.
We’re going down a neglected path in the park to the foot of the hill, and for the hundredth time I think of how we don’t fit in here. An overaged Romeo and Juliet in the heart of black Vilnius. We don’t fit in with the quietly weeping city, with the spiritless kanukish life. Vilnius doesn’t accept such passions, such thoughts, or such behavior. Soon it will start to hate us (it already hates us). It will laugh at us with a drab, barking laugh. Love is impossible in Vilnius. We are partially digested pieces of flesh — can things like that be allowed to love? Can you imagine Romeo and Juliet suffering their tragedy in a sewer pipe, up to their waists in a stream of excrement, unable to move, armless and legless?
We approach the river; I feel the sad breath of the water. The secret wall continues to loom between us, a wall of treacherous rain. A cold mist rises from the water; the other shore is barely visible. The mist enshrouds Lolita’s legs, slowly rises to her waist, and caresses her with damp fingers. I envy even that mist. Lolita is mine; no one is permitted to caress her. I can destroy even that mist, even the wind raging between her breasts. I get the urge to burn the books she likes, that she thinks and talks about. I get the urge to destroy the music she listens to alone. I envy everything. Our love is truly insane. I keep remembering how two wolves fought over a bitch with a white neck next to the camp fence. They forgot everything, even their fear of humans. They thrashed and bit each other as if they were alone in the entire world. The old one won, the pretender shamefully limped off, but heaven didn’t take pity on the winner, either. Half the camp witnessed his end. The old gray was angry at the entire world. He scurried after the white-throated bitch and defended her from everything. He showed his fangs and growled at us. He attacked dry twigs and the gigantic Siberian mosquitoes. Sometimes, snapping his teeth, he grabbed at the emptiness, at phantoms no one could see; he’d battle with drops of rain. Perhaps I am that wolf.
“I’m like that dog,” says Lolita, slowly descending the slope, “I follow you and wag my tail. You see how good you have it: you’ll never need to buy a dog.”
The river flows slowly and indifferently, like a gigantic vein; the blood of us all flows with it. The river of our forgotten blood. Vilnele, run to the Vilija, and Vilija to the Nemunas. So, say we love freedom more than life. Where is it, that freedom? Where is it, that life? The city swallows the river and poisons it with its sewage. The fish that are still alive stink of tar. And what do we, unable to smell ourselves, stink of? The Shit of All Shits?
Lolita’s irregular face smiles sadly; wet strands of hair cling to her cheeks. Her body is gone; it’s disappeared under the drenched coat. A dream must be intangible.
The river emerges straight out of the fog, flows in from who knows where — maybe from hell. Even the dog got depressed, stopped sniffing at the wet grass and stiffened, his long snout turned in the direction of the dumbfounded willows on the shore. What can I say to Lolita? We’ve long since exhausted the permissible subjects, and I don’t have the right to invite her on The Way — for her own good.
I need an assistant who could tell her what I cannot say myself, things I probably don’t even know myself. A mysterious go-between, maybe some Vasilis, a ruler of the swamps who knows the language of birds. Unfortunately, all of the people who are close to me are far away; all of them are in the other world. I can only hope to summon spirits, but they are, after all, bodiless and speechless.
But what spirits could I summon? Save perhaps that lonely figure: you’d think he’d emerged right out of the river, a damp being in a crookedly buttoned coat coughing damply. The edges of his hat collapsed from the dampness, streams of water cover his face like cobwebs, there’s no eyes peering out of it — just the shattered lenses of round glasses. Where did he pop up from? Maybe he climbed down from the old roofs of Vilnius?
“Goot day!” that old Jew sniffles, smiles wryly, tries to pull off his limp hat, throws up his hands, and finally fixes his gaze on me.
He has eyes all the same; they’re wise and kind.
“Your face tells an old Jew a great deal. Vhere have I seen you?. . Maybe in da time of Grand Duke Vytautas or Grand Duke Gedhiminas? Or maybe in Spain in da time of Torkvemada? You invited me?”
Maybe I really can summon spirits? It’s been a long time since anything surprised me: all things are possible in Vilnius. It’ll turn out I called him here myself. What will he say?
“I’m an old, old Jew of Vilnius. . my great-great-grandparents served Gedhiminas and Vytautas. My great-grandparents lent Zygimantas money. . Ja, ja. . My grandparents suffered under da Russian pogroms, and my parents fooled da Poles. . Oi, how dey used to fool da Poles!. . I myself lived and died in da ghetto! Ja, ja! I know everyting about Vilnius! Ja, ja. . Listen to me, an old Jew knows everyting. An old Jew knows more dan all da Lituanians. . but I can say to a Lituanian, Lituanians didn’t hit da Jew, didn’t make pogroms, didn’t drive him into da ghetto. .”
He walks unsteadily; the brim of his hat has collapsed entirely and covers his ears, from which long gray hairs stick out. Dressed in worn-out clothes, his shoes squelch water and mud. But none of this engenders scorn — it seems this is the only way this ghost of the rain could look. He turns to the dog and politely nods a greeting to him. Did I really summon him? Are his stories interesting to me at the moment?
“Vhy is it vortvhile to listen to an old Jew? Because Jews are a special people! Every civilizashion only sees vhat it IS, it never plans vat it should turn into. Ja, ja. . Dey can only long for der past, but Jews long for der future. . Only Jews invented demselves a future. . Dey alvays had two great ideas: Messiah and da Promised Land. Look over da history of da vorld and you’ll see dat only Jews long for da FUTURE. . Only da Jew Marx could tink up communism. . Listen to an old Jew. . He sees da vorld differently!”
He talks and all the while entwines himself further into his many-folded clothes, as if he wanted to disappear into them completely. The mist slowly disperses. Only the river is always the same black; it flows past us apathetically, and probably listens secretly. A river of words — how many words has it swallowed by now? If you stuck your ear into the current, you’d hear them, floating up from forgotten ages.
“How strange,” says Lolita. “A gloomy river, the fog’s covering everything. We don’t know where we’re going or why. . And an old Jew rattling on about the Messiah and the Promised Land. It’s all like a dream. .”
“But I am a dream!” he confirms willingly. “Don’t be afraid, I vill not interrupt your love.”
“It’s nice that at least you didn’t call her my daughter.”
“Am I blind? Am I insane?” His eyes suddenly widen, it seems even his wrinkles smooth out. “Maybe you tink you can tell an old Jew about love? It’s da old Jew can tell you about love.”