I sat down to write a dissertation about a new educational system. I must add that both of my parents were educators, and my father collected information about the educational systems of various countries as well. This also helped me — helped me to complete ruin. You see, I wrote a solid dissertation rather quickly.
I’m not at all ashamed to admit what an idiot I was back then. I proved logically that the lack of the free rein of thought is strangling the Soviet school. I demonstrated that the educational program is pedantic, practically medieval. I demanded an essential change in the teaching of history, that we present children with the hidden facts of history. I suggested teaching children how to think independently, to argue, and to draw conclusions. And so on. It’s funny to even remember my stupidity. I suggested teaching Soviet children to think! I wanted to disclose the true facts of history! I was the Very Idiot of Idiots. I was VII.
Anyone with a solid education in this field could write a dissertation like that. But only VII could officially submit it to a scholarly council. And I kept perfecting the text’s style! I was a cosmic cretin, an imbecile squared, a divine degenerate.
No one discussed my dissertation openly. However, unexpectedly, a departmental meeting took place to denounce the infiltration of bourgeois influences into Soviet pedagogy. Next, I was left unemployed when it was announced that I had not completed the requirements of the doctoral program. Then I couldn’t find work anywhere else. The fate of the Soviet unemployed is no cause for envy. The majority of dissertators like myself get work as night security guards. But I took all of my savings and went to Moscow to search for justice. Even as the VII, I grasped that justice doesn’t survive more than three days in Vilnius. However, I was a true VII: I imagined that justice had been cultivated in Moscow for the duration. At that time, little Nikita had already been kicked out; the ROF slowly but surely took over the government. The mean-eyed old men crawled out of the caves they had hidden themselves in and started to dictate their will, to control all of the minutiae of our lives. But I was blind, I didn’t get it.
I rushed around the corridors of Moscow’s bureaus searching for justice. I was treated like a harmless crank. Everyone kept asking me if I understood what I was suggesting. And I, as is appropriate for a divine degenerate, explained that I was suggesting a bright future of intelligent, thinking, and self-motivated people. At last I stumbled into the home of a former party mucky-muck; he explained to me what kind of people his system needed, what kind of children we should be raising. My eyes were finally opened. I understood everything. First I wanted to strangle my own son, before it was too late. Then I wanted to hang myself, but it was too late. On my return to Vilnius, I was invited to visit the KGB and offered a job at the library. Apparently, it had been decided I was a harmless crank after all.
Incidentally, every copy of my dissertation mysteriously disappeared. Even the manuscript from the drawer of my desk at home.
Unfortunately, I never did strangle my son. My wife left me, and she made sure my son saw me as little as possible. More often, he doesn’t want to see me, either. I’ve long since stopped teaching him anything — by any system. He’s already doomed; there’s no saving him. I do not have a son. And that teenager or young man who’s recorded in my documents, who uses my surname, has no soul. He is a true product of Vilnius. He scorns me because I’ve obtained neither wealth nor social status. He would respect me if I had a Mercedes or occupied a minister’s post. That young man condemns me because I had intelligent and truthful ideas. He’s by no means a fool; he agrees my ideas were good, but, in his opinion, that’s exactly why they should be forgotten as quickly as possible. He intensely dislikes Komsomolites or party men himself, however, understandably, he’s officially a Komsomol member — otherwise they wouldn’t take him on trips abroad. He thinks what matters most is to have a lot of stuff. Not money — Soviet rubles mean nothing — but concrete, tangible stuff. The Ass of the Universe is slowly returning to a natural economy and the direct barter of goods. It’s in this barter that my offspring sees the meaning of life. That young man sincerely doesn’t understand that feelings of virtue, kindness, or justice can exist. He trains a bit as an athlete and speculates heavily, because sport takes him abroad to compete. He takes hard currency there as contraband, and he brings home the stuff he’s dreamed of. He travels to places I’ll never be, but he doesn’t see anything there — only stores. I have nothing against sports. I once dreamed of becoming a basketball player myself. I loved and I still love basketball, but my offspring hates sports.
He makes fun of me. He lectures me on how to live. He’s surrounded by the prettiest girls, even though he’s as ugly as sin. The girls aren’t at all interested in him, but the beauties of the Ass of the Universe can sacrifice anything for contraband rags. He knows with certainty that when he turns twenty-five he’ll drop that despised sport and start up a rose farm. He hates flowers too.
I lost my son a long time ago. I should not have brought him into the world.
And now I’ve lost my only friend, or at least buddy. I discovered him as soon as I got to the library. VV greeted me, smiled wryly, and said:
“If you had given me twenty kopecks then, we would never have met again.”
I hardly recognized him. He was clean-shaven, scented, and wore a tie. At first glance, you’d think even his insides were polished and scented. But the eyes were the same: the eyes of a fallen saint. He added:
“Our office is the strangest in the world. Or at least in Vilnius. I advise you to consider why they let the two of us into the book collections. What’s their secret purpose?”
Our office really is the strangest in all of Vilnius. Computer experts, bibliographers and otherwise inexplicable types have congregated here. Sooner or later, we’re supposedly going to computerize the library catalog. I think probably later: first, because we don’t have our own computer yet, and second, no library has the right to convert to computers as long as the Lenin Library in Moscow hasn’t done it. The metropole must be first, and if someone tries to outdo it — they must be reined in. So we’re all in the dark as to what we’re doing. I’m gathering my collection. Gražina knits. Elena is a Party member. Marija is growing a hussar’s mustache. Laimutė tries a different diet every day, even though she only weighs a hundred pounds. Stefa takes care of VV. And so on.
And that’s the way it will be until the central library in Moscow computerizes. Outdoing Moscow is forbidden. It’s a verified fact: for example, the resources and technical capabilities in Vilnius would allow the telephone problem to be easily solved. However, that can’t be done, because then the count of telephones per thousand inhabitants in Vilnius would exceed Moscow’s.
I appreciated VV immediately. Egoistically, it bothered me that he had made friends with Gediminas. After all, I was the one who introduced them.
I remember Gediminas from my school years. Everyone in school knew Gediminas Riauba. His father was our principal, and Gediminas was the center on the basketball team. I always smile sadly when I remember how much I envied him. What Lithuanian boy doesn’t dream of becoming a basketball star!? We’re suspiciously similar to American blacks in that respect. I dreamt of it too, at that point not having reached five foot three. What didn’t I do. I’d hang on a crossbar, hoping to stretch out that way, and cried at night. I practiced five hours a day — like a professional. I was the most energetic and tenacious player, I should have gotten onto the school team, but Gediminas Riauba drove me out. He could do that; the coach listened to him. He said, “Maybe let’s not start a kingdom of dwarfs here.” I’ll remember those words until the day I die. Probably I secretly hated Gediminas Riauba. Not because he insulted and mortified me. Rather because, being generously endowed by nature, he never did finish anything to the end. I think he could have been the best basketball player in the world, but in the first year of college he completely stopped playing and devoted himself to mathematics. I think he could have been the best mathematician in the world, but suddenly he took up his cacophonous music. Later he started mountain climbing too. I probably hated him. I couldn’t bear to see how that man wasted God’s gifts and didn’t finish a single thing to the end. He was a snob. He always went for whatever was trendy and flashy.