Daina Opolskaitė

Translated from Lithuanian by Rimas Uzgiris

To tell the truth, I couldn’t recall how I fell asleep. Only that it was twilight, early evening, perhaps, when Gabrielė came in to say good night. Covered in dark, heavy shadow like a shawl, she approached my bed and gently touched my fingers. “I’m not sleeping,” I said. “I’m glad, you came.” She sat down next to me and I took her hand. I tried to look into her eyes, but her face was covered by that pitiless caul of shadow, and I could only make out the darker band of her eyebrows and the pale ridges of her cheekbones. I wanted to ask her to turn on the desk lamp, but I didn’t. I felt that this moment which had caught us unawares was too painful, short and precious, a moment that quivered and erased itself before our eyes like a scrap of paper in flame. A kind of dread made it impossible to do or say anything. Gabrielė’s warm hand in mine felt unbearably heavy, but also fragile and delicate like a chick’s new wing. It was an eerie feeling.

For a moment, it made me even afraid of myself. Somewhere from the depths of my throat, a ball of choking tears rose with frantic pace and I became frightened of what I might do – I didn’t know what, but I imagined it would be something terrible and ghastly. Finally, Gabrielė herself bent down over me and her breath, her hair, her voice, reminded me of times incomprehensibly distant: how she was born and didn’t have hair for the longest time, just a tuft here and there on the top of her head, how she cuddled tightly to me in fright like a kitten who has seen a bicycle or car bearing down on her. She sat next to me for a long while without saying a word. We both remained quiet. The silence strangely drowned our thoughts for a while, yet I began to feel like we were thinking about the same things. Then we spoke, but I don’t remember about what, and I finally relaxed. After that, she said, “OK, mom, I’ll go now. Get some sleep. Good night.” And for some reason I said to her, “Good luck.” And that was it. I can’t recall if there was anything else.

Now everything seemed different to me. There wasn’t a scrap left of that oppressive feeling of defeat, that sense of everything happening too fast, that I can’t manage to do so many things, and that time does not bend to my will. I wasn’t carrying around the unbearable fear anymore which had been hanging over me for so many months or even years. Now, I felt calm and happy, full of this limpid serenity that I never had before. I tried to recall the reasons for all that sadness and self-pity, which had been especially strong these last few weeks, but in vain. My consciousness expertly and cleverly returned all the reasons like a tennis pro – not one could reach me. The sense of serenity was divine and sturdy, indestructible and strong, like only God above can make, covering your trembling shoulders with it as with an invisible shawl.

I still didn’t intend to get up. I was enjoying the process of drawing out time. I wanted to casually think up what I would do. First, a thorough dusting, which I hadn’t done in a long while, at least I don’t remember when. I would carefully collect the dark dust devils by hand and open the window to let the wind take them away. Then, I would carefully polish all the glass and mirrors in my home, all the glass surfaces, even the vases and glasses in the cupboard. After that, I would walk with a dignified air through the whole house, attentively catching sight of my reflection in all of their depths. I haven’t looked at myself in a long time. Sometimes, I remember, I would ask Laimonas how I look, and he would shrug his shoulders, not really knowing what to say. An ambiguous question would be reflected in his eyes, like that of a child turning a broken toy over in his hand and not understanding how this could have happened. A deep wrinkle in his wide forehead would lengthen to twice its size. I could never understand what he was thinking at such times. Gabrielė would tell me straight away that I need to trim my eyebrows and dye my hair which had grown out at the roots, and that would be it. I am quite pretty, in fact.

In fact, I was quite grateful to both of them.

First of all, to Gabrielė. She was wonderful. Watching her every day, I couldn’t stop being amazed at how pretty and smart she was. I couldn’t believe that she was mine, really mine. I was proud of her, of her personality and everything she did. Even her appearance – I was proud of that too. I never had such luxuriant hair with such wonderful tone like she had. It was her inheritance. Every morning, she would pin her long shiny locks into a lush bun on the back of her head, and they reminded me of friable winter frost covering every branch of a tree. Gabrielė’s hair was fair, a little darker at the roots, but with no yellow tint, rather a silvery white. Fluffy like fresh snow, like a cloud. You wanted to run your hand through it. In that fateful winter, when I bumped into Laimonas on the steps of the Opera and Ballet Theater, for a moment I couldn’t believe that there are people on this earth who have hair like that. Silver. For some time now, he has not been that person of destiny from a fairy tale: over the years, his silver locks have retreated to his shoulders, leaving a shameless empty waste at the top of his head. But there is Gabrielė, his Gabrielė, and I know too how he feels seeing her every day at the mirror elaborately brushing her silver locks.

It wasn’t just her lovely hair, for I have to admit, there were many things I secretly envied. She became an adult very quickly inside and didn’t live through any stormy adolescent sufferings. Her temperance, ability to listen to others, and honesty were the qualities that I admired most. I simply couldn’t understand how such a young person could remain so calm and reasonable in the most critical situations. I was always inclined to fall precipitously into despair, and upon hearing something horrible would suddenly begin to sweat and my voice would waver and crack. I could break out in tears just like that, never having learned to control my emotions. When I found out I was ill and would soon lose strength and be unable to walk, I felt completely helpless. I cried like a madwoman because that was all I could do. When I drummed up the courage to tell Gabrielė one evening, she carefully looked me in the eyes to see if I were lying, then she put her head on my shoulders and plainly said, “It will be hard, but there’s nothing to be afraid of.” “I’m afraid,” I admitted to her in all honesty, though there was no need to say it. I dread the thought of how foolish I must have seemed. “There’s no need to fear, no need,” she repeated. After that, I never regretted telling her the whole truth.

With Laimonas it was different. I took a long time to choose the day when I would tell him. It was a Sunday, Gabrielė was out somewhere with friends, and Laimonas was taking his time getting ready for a concert. Paganini, Mozart, Vivaldi, Chopin and many others were waiting for him. He thought of them much more than he thought of me. They were all dead, but for Laimonas they were more alive than the living. In fact, he lived through them, spoke with them in a language only they could understand, but I never felt jealous or hurt.

In fact, quite the opposite, I was always charmed by his ability to lose himself in time, to cut through centuries and eras with one wave of his baton, to inhabit sounds that have long grown distant, to submerge himself in non-existent forms, to resurrect faded feelings. Such was his music. I saw how nothing ends for him, how nothing goes away. He doesn’t recognize the fetters of death and time. He cuts them away with the first strong wave of his hand that ushers in the musical sound. Those hours of performance made me believe that Laimonas is a miracle-worker, a genius, for I saw with my own eyes how with one gesture of his baton he slays two blood-thirsty hell-hounds with their eternally gaping jaws. Violins, flutes, horns, double-basses would pour out and drown the murderous chimeras. Once again, the undying flame of life burns in Beethoven’s eyes. Mozart’s cold fingers again fly over the keyboard. The cool breath of Vivaldi covers the instruments with a barely noticeable sheen of frost. I went to many of Laimonas’ concerts and spent hours looking attentively at his face. I was always shocked and shaken by what I saw flaring in his eyes. It was passion, the most genuine passion, completely controlling the man. Did the two of us ever experience such passion?

“I will soon be unable to walk. I’m in a very bad way,” I said to him then, as calmly as I could, standing close, looking into his eyes. “There will be long chemotherapy sessions. They told me I won’t have any strength.” I must admit, at the time I felt some kind of egotistical curiosity and even a strange desire to test his reaction. I wanted to see how he would grow frightened, confused, wouldn’t know what to say to me or how to comfort me. I knew I would feel terrible, downright pitiful, but I wanted for some reason to feel that pain. I wanted to consciously hurt myself so that it would be easier to get used to it.

Laimonas calmly put his razor into the cabinet and turned around. One of his cheeks was thickly slathered with a layer of white foam. “I was thinking about that,” he admitted frankly, shocking me. “I saw that you weren’t getting any better.”

“You saw?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why would I? You feel it yourself.”

“Do I really look terrible?”

“I’m not talking about that.”

“Tell me, do I really look terrible?”

“I don’t know what is terrible or good.”

“No, you know. Remember when we went to the mountains. That summer. Then you told me that I’m beautiful. We picked wild strawberries and feasted on them. Do you remember? I was wearing this flowery dress, you remember? Tell me, am I now like I was that summer in the mountains? Tell me.”

 “We don’t need to speak about that. It’s better for you to rest.”

 “I’m not going to rest. I won’t lie down.”

 “All right, as you wish. Then you can make dinner. I’ll be back in a few hours. If you need anything, call me. I’ll stop at the store on my way home.”

Then he finished shaving, left, and that strange conversation was done. Nothing meaningful had been said, nothing emotional, and I didn’t understand a thing.

Now, I just wanted to carelessly wave my hand at all of it. After getting my courage up, I slowly opened my eyes like some newborn doing it for the first time. They were flooded with the blinding light of day, and I slowly took in all of my surroundings. The first thing I saw was Gabrielė’s photo – it was standing right next to me on the nightstand. Gabrielė was smiling, looking right into my eyes. Her lightly pressed lips reminded me of pink blossoms. Two silver specks of light glinted in the blackness of her pupils. On top of the bookshelf, an amaryllis held a full bud, not just one, but three, a great cluster of buds that were ready to bloom. Why hadn’t I noticed it earlier? Maybe the pain was to blame. When you feel pain, not only your room, but your entire world, the entire earth looks different. Things and their contours vanish, sounds fade away, even those that are closest to you, those with which you live from day to day. The clocks tick minutes and hours of pain, and seconds of pain are like little needles pitilessly poking your skin, punching holes straight through your epidermis. Pain is the strongest feeling on earth, easily overcoming all other feelings and even instincts. You can’t see anything, smell anything, and you don’t want to: it is stronger than you are.

Gingerly turning over onto my left side, I raised myself up. Nothing hurt. I could stand without a problem, lift my arms, I could walk. So I did, but fearfully, yet my muscles moved with ease – no tightness, no tingling. I didn’t feel any weakness or light-headedness. I didn’t need to lean on any armchairs, nor reach for the ivory handles of the closet. An ordinary experience, yet special. There was no pain. A world without pain. Amazing. I felt like I could move mountains, do a hundred jobs of the sort that I had long forgotten. I wanted to feel once more the everyday pleasure of doing them. The charm of life lies in the everyday details and work we do – I needed time to understand that. I will now try on all my clothes, I thought to myself, and get rid of the ones I don't need. I’ll dig out all my make-up.

The door to the hallway was open. I could see from a distance into the entryway where Gabrielė’s favorite red coat was lying on the shoe rack. She had left in a hurry, otherwise she would not have left it. Laimonas’ leather jacket was also strung up on the rack, his umbrella fallen on the ground. Both of them had been in a hurry, clearly, but where? A hairbrush had been left on the dressing-table, a tube of black shoe polish, the large drawer of the entryway dresser had been rummaged, scarves and ties thrown together, even a tube of toothpaste. But Laimonas’ briefcase was sitting calmly in its corner on a shoebox, and Gabrielė’s school backpack was hanging neatly on its hook. Where had they gone, disappeared too? I couldn’t recall them saying anything to me.