“You should marry me or something,” says Lolita, completely out of the blue, “We’d get along nicely. During the day, we’d discuss what we’ll think up for dinner. And in the evening, after eating, we’d stare at the television. And all our days would be exactly the same — right up until death. Is that such a bad way to go?”
“Better to die suddenly. I don’t find a slow suicide appealing.”
“You need to kill yourself somehow. Slowly isn’t so bad. You don’t even notice yourself fading.”
The gray-haired man is visible through the window too; he really does smoke without stopping. It seems he’s slowly smoldering himself. The yellow leaves have risen from the ground again; they want to soar through the closed windows. A wind, awakened by the thundering cattle cars, rages over the entire world. This time those trains aren’t going to Siberia. But where? Where did grandfather go to, with the dish of excrement in his hand, where did mother, hanging with her shaven head, and father’s drawings go?
“And I’d make you a pack of kids. A thousand little Lithuanian ants, who would continue to multiply and propagate. After all, the only way you can retaliate for your miserable life is by taking it out on the children — let them experience all this insanity too.”
Today she is too physical. I haven’t felt her body this intensely in a long time; it seemed to have disappeared, dissolved into something else: into her eyes, her speech, or her thoughts. Today I sense it with all of my essence. I even smell her sweat, which smells of old grass. I see the beauty fluids pulsating beneath the sleek skin of her legs. My Lolita sits in a sagging armchair; she cannot exist without me. Without me, those girlish breasts would wither and her face would be furrowed with wrinkles. She would age instantly. I am the source of her life and youth.
“It just seems to you that you’re thinking of me,” she says in a hoarse voice and closes her eyes. “I see your thoughts. I’m not there.”
“What is there, then?”
“My ghost, a bloodless, transparent Lolita. . My legs, but for some reason they’re shining. . And then there’s a strange hallucination of a city. Not even Vilnius, just some city. Clouded over and frozen stiff. A city that has lost everything, even its name.”
“And what else? What?”
“Twilight. An opaque dusk, where something is panting, giving off an unpleasant warmth and the oppressive smell of rotting leaves.”
If I were a believer, I’d start crossing myself. How did she know that? Who is she, this inexplicable woman? All my perceptions insist she knows much more about me than I do about her. Perhaps she knows too much. How? After all, there’s no one, no one, I can reveal myself to. All the underground movements of all time seem ridiculous to me. Only I know what a real, absolute underground is. I cannot talk about it, even to Lolita. But how did she read my thoughts? Who is she, this inexplicable woman? Who sent her?
I look over the interior of the house. A cramped little kitchen is visible beyond a rickety door. A gas burner, dented pots, and a huge knife on the table. Nothing of interest, except maybe for that blackened knife. Lolita sinks deeper into the armchair, only her legs keep sliding forward. Her dress keeps pulling up higher; her legs emerge from the darkness as if they were alive, darting hopeful glances at me. Lola knows full well where my eyes are looking; she enjoys my gaze.
“It’s starting to get dark,” she says mysteriously, as if she were telling a fairy tale. “The setting sun is looking at us. It’s the time of charms, the time of miracles. Don’t take your eyes off of me, just don’t take your eyes off me, and you’ll be mine forever. Ajingi! Nothing will worry you anymore, only me! Ajingi!”
Today she is an enchantress. All of the corners of the room are lit by the fading glow. By now the light is dying, but the darkness has not yet been born. Stunned, I watch as Lola stands up and slowly lifts her dress; she is wearing nothing underneath it. I look at her belly and the thick hair covering her sex, and desire rises in me like a threatening wave. I sit before her as if before a pagan goddess.
“Wouldn’t it be better to forget everything?’ she says quietly, quietly, but I hear her. “Is it worth it to think of other women. . other things. . a different life?. . Come to me, come to me. .”
She slowly, slowly, slips out of her dress; the last rays of the sun redden her body. She stands there blindingly beautiful, and as unapproachable as death.
“Do you know what the celebration of the body is?” she whispers, “The ancient, genuine celebration of the body?”
I can’t make sense of anything anymore: she spreads her lower lips with her fingers, smears the open pink slit with a sugary smelling lotion. I don’t even know how I end up naked next to her; I kneel motionless and look at that slit of scents pulling me closer, raising the desire to plunge into it fully. There’s probably a city there too, and a library, and a labyrinth, and wind fluttering the yellow leaves of the trees. Probably everything I’ll need to say goodbye to is there. I want her, insanely. Lolita falls on me, writhes, rumples my hair and moans, that enchanting smell fills my nostrils; I’ve never smelled anything like that before. My joints soften and melt. I want her insanely, but I can’t do a thing — you’d think the short, stumpy, and powerless phallus of Vilnius had turned up between my legs.
I crave her like death, but my penis hangs helplessly. Blood doesn’t gush to it; it doesn’t want to look at anything. It doesn’t belong to me anymore. The eternal mark of the Vargalyses has deserted me. I’m done for: I can’t anymore.
I slowly slide off, stretch myself out on the old carpet, and long to cover the shameful phallus of Vilnius, but I can’t. I long to close my eyes, but I can’t. She looks at me, smiling. She understood everything; you’d think she’d been waiting just for this. Long fingers gently caress me, tangle in the hair below my stomach, and grab the shrunken mark of the Vargalyses. I’m done for.
“We’re small and tired,” Lolita murmurs, “The terrible spells frightened us. We want protection and love.”
I’m helpless; I obey her completely. It isn’t just this moment she rules me; she’s long since ruled my every desire, every thought, every action. And now she acts like a ruler: she kneels firmly on her legs, her breasts pressing on her knees, greedily opens her mouth and bites me, voluptuously consuming all of the former mark of the Vargalyses, as if she wants to swallow it. I want nothing, except to die. I’m done for. While she devours me, choking, growling in satisfaction, I lie there as if I were shackled; I can only look at Lolita, Lolita, the ever-changing ruler of demons, who has taken away my last weapon. But most of all I’m driven out of my mind by the glance from her closed eyes: imperious and mocking, following my slightest movement, my slightest thought. Outside the window darkness is already falling, but I sense, inexorably sense, thousands of beady little eyes looking at me, sucking out my fluids; the multifaceted Lilita is merely leading that thousandfold throng of kanukai, she’s directing the choir, suddenly I clearly see pudgy little faces pressed up against the window glass.
“I want to bite it off,” Lolita whispers harshly. “I’ll bite it off. I want it.”
She laughs a hoarse, cannibalistic laugh; her eyes already closed, her hair disheveled. The pudgy little faces quickly jump back from the window. I lie on my back and feel only cold: in my chest, in my belly, in the tips of my fingers. None of my muscles obey me anymore, even though I feel my hands, my legs, and my limp joints. Maybe it’s paralysis, or maybe now I’ve stopped, the way Vilnius had stopped. Horror takes away my breath; I can’t even scream. Although who would I call — save perhaps for Lolita. Lolita or Lilita? Can I still call her? I sprawl there, slowly suffocating, while she walks around the room naked, glancing at me occasionally. She’s not surprised; she expected my paralysis, maybe she intentionally immobilized me. She despises me. A bitter scent emanates from her, one I’ve never smelled before. What were those kanukai doing outside the window? I saw at least three of them. The horror slowly recedes, I try to move my fingers again, but only my brain stirs. I feel it writhing about in my head. I was intentionally brought to an out-of-the-way place. They don’t like a scene. But why just now? After all, I’ve learned nothing new — except that They are forced to kanuk people. That’s how They reproduce; to Them it’s a biological necessity.