“Šapira’s always like that,” the light-haired Semitic face says calmly. “He emerges from underground at the most unexpected moment and always vanishes without saying goodbye.”
He speaks as if we’ve already known each other forever. I have seen him, I have heard his name. And I’ve seen this room, but not in this world — in a vision or a dream. I’ve been lured into a trap, a trap of my own visions. On the walls (it seems to me even on the ceiling) hang glass cabinets; inside them, neatly arranged, are countless nameless torturer’s instruments. Glistening lancets with mirrored blades are lined up by size; the smallest is the size of a match and the largest is designed to disembowel giants. But all those knives are merely a small part of the horror show; there is still an infinity of saws upon saws, sharp pincers, and needles upon needles. You could hide the tiniest little saw in a coin, like a prisoner; with the big one it would be possible, with two quick thrusts, to cut a live person in half. A bit further on glitter pliers upon pliers, hooks, and little hatchets. Whether I want to or not, I see them covered in blood, sticking into a live body. That’s what they’re made for: they scream for blood and live flesh. Those instruments are arranged carefully, with love. A strange love lurks within them. There are scores of them, there’s no end to them; I look around and suddenly realize this many cannot fit into such a small room. I’ve been lured into a trap. Unconsciously, I retreat backwards and quickly turn around, but behind my back is the iron-clad door. Knives upon little knives, sharp pincers to rip intestines apart, everything shines and glitters, everything streams blood. I quickly turn to the door and see that it has no handle. How simple it all is! I’ve ended up where I had to end up sooner or later; they’ll carry me out of here ripped to pieces and feed me to the pigeons of Vilnius.
“Yes, you could call me an anatomic pathologist,” the low distinct voice suddenly says. “I dissect the stiffs and announce the final diagnosis. I earn buckets of cognac if my enlightened colleagues were mistaken. Five mistaken diagnoses, that I will refute, and someone’s career is over. Do you like cognac?”
The light-haired Semite finally moves, casually opens a cabinet door. I take the proffered glass and take a sip without sensing the taste.
“I see you don’t care for instruments of destruction,” the owner says calmly and pushes open another door. Beyond it, I see a tangle of glass tubes and hoses, instruments with a number of little handles and numeric indicators. “Maybe it’ll be more comfortable in here?”
“An entire laboratory,” I say — feeling better that I’ve recovered my voice, that the cognac has a taste again, that I’m still alive. For the time being still alive.
“It’s a hopeless business. The number of times I’ve demanded an basic spectroscope! But what of it. . And I need a spectrometer. I need a laser. . For cryogenics. . I knock around all of Vilnius with a piece of someone’s ass. They fear me in every laboratory, in every institute. I’m a beggar. . But let’s not whine. You’re not afraid of corpses?”
I could tell him about how I hid out in Vilnius’s underground. My quarters were piled up with a gigantic stack of corpses. It was summer and they stank hideously. It was even more unpleasant when they started heaving from the gas. Maybe they were Lithuanians shot by the retreating Russians, maybe Jews murdered by the SS — I didn’t have the time to investigate. And for the most part we didn’t bother one another. We were each engaged in our own business: I in hiding, they — in decomposition.
And he asks me if I’m afraid of corpses.
“I see,” the light-haired Semitic face states, looking at me carefully. “Just put on a gown. And gloves. Stick your fingers somewhere you shouldn’t and your fingers will have to be cut off. A classic thing it is, dissecting fingers. Reducing them to little pieces. When you disassemble a single lone finger, when you arrange all of the veins, muscles, cartilage on the table, your eyes can’t take it all in at once. You just can’t believe that so many parts of all sorts fit into such a small mechanism. . And actually, it’s not just fingers I’ve dismantled, I’ve done an entire man. Every little piece of him. I’ve reduced a man to a million bits, strings, lumps. . it’s an unbelievable sight, I’d never even suspected it myself. . The laboratory absolutely full of ONE MAN: thousands of glass jars with little pieces of flesh or splinters of bones, a dozen or more flasks of various liquids. . And you just keep reducing it and reducing it, reducing it again and again. . If I was a hero of Dostoevsky’s, I’d probably announce that’s how I’m looking for where a man’s soul hides. . That shitty soul. . But I’ve always just cut up the dead; maybe that’s why I still haven’t found a soul. It’s already flown off to heaven. I need to cut up LIVE people. Good Lord, how I’d love to see how the entire mechanism works. .”
We pause at one more iron-clad door and go inside. Just the sight I expected: anatomy tables. On one there’s a young girl who is only half dissected. Her head hangs to the side; the glassy eyes gaze at us intently. She’s waiting for me. The girl’s right side is slit from her armpit to her hip, her legs are disgustingly spread; it appears she’s lewdly, all aquiver, awaiting a man. It’s just that a man wouldn’t find anything to do here: her crotch has been dissected up to the very uterus. There are no lips, no vulva, no vagina — just a straight-edged hole with even sides. One breast has slid to the side, the other stands upright; apparently it hasn’t relaxed yet. From the side I look at her spread legs, at the line of her thighs, and suddenly I feel attracted to her.
“You’ve probably heard yourself many times that it’s only alcoholics who’ve been exiled to the basement and hardened necrophiliacs who work here. That’s partly true,” Kovarskis announces nonchalantly. “Only the necrophilia is imaginary. Our poor, worn-out little doctors have nothing to do with it. It’s the babes who are to blame. Just the babes. . You wouldn’t believe the sorts who show up wanting to get screwed here. You just wouldn’t believe it! Babes — the most disgusting and obscene creatures on earth. Working here, you get to know women a bit. You wouldn’t get to examine them this closely even if you drilled a hole in the women’s toilet. You perhaps respect women?”
“One.”
“It’s a hopeless business. Look at this one. Even dead she lies there with her legs spread. The symbol of women. You just need to put a brain into that hole between the legs. They THINK with that place.”
“Usually it’s impotent men who talk that way,” I say, a bit angered.
“True,” Kovarskis agrees. “Or queers. Anyway, it’s all rubbish. Yes, there are a few alcoholics and semi-necrophiliacs here; there are a few boys who hope, after working here, to then operate like gods. But the most important thing here is me.”
His tone is enough to make you shudder. The Lord God could use a tone like that to announce: this world was made by ME! Once more I look over the bearded relic and meet a calm, searching gaze.
“So, what brought you here?”
I understand it’s my turn to talk. But I don’t know why I came here. Ahasuerus dragged me here; he promised I would find something important here. Maybe that girl? She reminds me of something. Maybe Janė, raped by the Russian soldiers? She lay there the same way, completely unable to press her knees together.