LITMIR.BIZ

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sways her hips erotically.

      Unfortunately, the portraits differ too much. Bloated Leodead Brezhnev, with grinning, artificial jaws. Even his brains are artificial. More and more like Mao’s last pictures. In the end they all become as similar as twins—there’s some secret hiding here. They’re artificial, put together out of non-working parts; when they speak, barely grunting out the words, it seems they are going to disintegrate any minute. And yet they don’t disintegrate. They’re the live apotheosis of kanukism; They give themselves away, propping up stooges like that.

      No, no, better Robertas under Vytautas’s portrait. Later he sits down to play a minuet while I stare at Madam Giedraitienė’s seductive hips, Stefa’s hips, all the hips of all the world’s women; they dive into the opening of a door, Virgilishly and slavishly lead to an apple cake and a circle of hell made up of plump, feminine faces.

      Because above the table, shit on the beans, hangs the portrait of the mustachioed man, the rightlower corner cracked, the mustachioed man’s a bit battered. Stalin Sralin,1 baby swallower. But we won’t be afraid of him; we’ll shove a rod up his ass.

      Shit on peas, shit on beans,

      Shit on Stalin’s flunkeys . . .

      One sits across from me, another paces along the wall; his neck is thin and he’s severely adamappled. His nostrils are thin, they quiver frequently; he wants something. He peers at you sullenly, with fish eyes: maybe he doesn’t like it that you are lying naked and spread-eagled like that. They themselves laid you down, they themselves tied you up. Plaits appear on the wall, they shiver and distort themselves. You sprawl at the bottom of a stone pit, all you see is a mustachioed Sralinish little piece of crackedsky. The plaits climb toward the sky, toward the mustache; they glimmer, twinkle, and blink, like little eyes. He gazes from the frame as serene as a god. This stone pit is his altar. But everything’s backwards here—you’re crucified, and he’s praying to you. Backwards: first he says Amen. Amen to you. The holy spiritsralin smiles Georgianly; the tiny chewed bones of infants stick out from under his mustache. Why have they put you here? After all, you didn’t have the time to do anything. They didn’t even give you a pistonmachine; they were saving you for other work.

      “Beat him some more,” says quivernostrils. “I’m soaked already.”

      Steeling lamp gets up, waves a hose, there’s lead poured into it, to gentlycaress.

      “Oh you, devil’s spawn, yob tvoyu mat.”

      By now you know what that means: to screw your mother. They can, they can do anything; the mustachioedgod Sralin screws all of your mothers. They hit you on the head, and your kidneys and groin and the soles of your feet hurt. Then they punch you in the void—the back of your head hurts. There are circles all about the stone pit and around the portrait, like cobwebs or bars. There are cobwebs like bars on the window too, or the reverse—you don’t know anything anymore, you’re hit on the head, you’re tied up and there’s nothing you can do. There’s absolutely, absolutely, absolutely nothing you can do. You never could. You didn’t have the time to do anything; they didn’t even give you a pistonmachine.

      “My hand’s tired. Lively bastard.”

      The pain is white and blinding, like a lamp. Painlamp stands on the table and pokes the eyes with its flashing.

      “What a stink,” says the unseen one. “The bottoms of his feet are all scorched.”

      “Burn his pecker,” say the quivering nostrils. “Maybe that’ll scare him. Just throw some water on him, he’s not all there.”

      The nostrilly face flies around you. There’s smirking and sighing from the frame. Stadniukas is his name, shitty Russian NKVD.

      “Aw, go on, burn him yourself,” says the white blinding pain. “The hell he’ll get scared. If he’d say something at least, the little bastard.”

      And Lithuania will be free again,

      When we drive out the last Russkie,

      Machine guns will soon howl bullets . . .

      The door slams—it’s over already? No, there’s water yet, icecold, and tremblenostrils, he still wants something, he holds a flame and smiles. What is he going to do?

      “You need your eyes burned out,” say the plaits and circles on the wall.

      The water soaked into you; you soak up the water like parched earth. It’s spring now; grass will grow out of you. Narrowneck stands next to you, smiles and twitches his nostrils; suddenly he unbuttons his fly and pulls out a limp sausage of manhood. What is he going to do? He was supposed to burn yours. His is slimy, like some strange slug; the hole in the end, like an eye, looks at you. Like it’s alive. And Stalin on the wall. Both of them are alive and looking at you. What will he do now, what will he do? The flame lowers into your crotch, the pain as even and shiny as a needle. Then it curves, touches the heart, kidneys, liver; but you still see, you see everything. The slimy slug slowly coils, raises its head, looks at you with its one skewed eye. Looks at you and relishes it; the little flame between your legs has turned into the flame of hell. You’re an old castle, the Crusaders are burning you. It hurts, oh Lord, how it hurts. The slug devours your pain; it quivers with bliss, its stumpy head upreared. Can it hurt more, can it? Where’s the end, you ask of the slimy fetidstench slug’s eye, and it suddenly spits in your face, a sticky white spittle. The little flame slowly rises from your crotch, you see nothing more: the slug’s sticky spittle sealed your eyes. You hear quivernostrils breathing heavily, everything in your crotch is probably scorched, quivernostrils buttons his fly, hides his slug; it feeds on others’ pain, and you’re probably gone by now. Stadniukas is his name, remember, Stadniukas.

      The elegant menagerie has assembled. Nearest, golden-toothed Graž­ina, the legendary heroine; even in a chair she writhes like a cat, crying, pleading for a soft couch, white plush, and a gigantic fat dog—the flabby philistine luxury of the period between the wars. Next, sunken-chested Martynas with yellowed teeth. Stefa—a blond-haired little angel with a spy’s eyes. And further—a veritable lineup of thick-jawed women who know everything in the world in exactly the same way. A postage stamp series, imprinted with a single cliché. Clichés everywhere: ceiling and wall clichés, the view from the window cliché, poster and slogan clichés. A book is the best of friends. Welcome to Vilnius. Regards to our most heroic women. A watery-eyed society of unusual harmony. Only Martynas and Stefa are worth even the most modest of inquiries. The others don’t interest me; I’ve heard their talk yesterday, a year ago, five years ago—time has stopped here too.

      “You know, yesterday I spent two hours looking for meat, I was already standing in line, and right in front of my nose . . .”

      “They take everything away, you know. In Kaunas some men soldered freight cars, bound for Moscow with meat, to the rails . . .”

      “Haven’t you been to Russia? You’ve seen how thing are there? Completely . . .”

      “Things have always been like that in Russia, that’s why it’s Russia. What do we have to do with it . . .”

      “Don’t worry, Moscow is choking on Lithuanian sausage . . .”

      “As if stuffing your face is what matters most . . .”

      “A Lithuanian always eats his fill . . .”

      “Like there was anything else. There isn’t anything else . . .”

      “Ladies, just wait for eighty-four.” That’s Martynas now. “Orwell’s ghost will appear, the system will disintegrate like a house of cards.”

      “Comrade Poška, think of what you’re saying!” There’s Elena’s hippopotamus alto.

      My eyes start hurting from this talk. Of bread and circuses, only bread is left today. I sneak a look at her. She doesn’t sit with the others, she stands leaning against the shelves and is the only one who is quiet. Her dress lies softly on her thighs, just hinting, just letting you know how perfect they are. Her calves are covered with high boots, but I’ve

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