Born on a Blue Day: Inside the Extraordinary Mind of an Autistic Savant (18 page)

Frequently the women in my class and at the centre asked whether I had made any friends of my own age. Inga, Liuda’s deputy, introduced me to her nephew, who was three years younger than me, and encouraged us to socialise. Peter spoke good English and was rather shy and very polite. We visited the cinema together in town and watched the latest American releases. Whenever the music became too loud, I pressed my fingers into my ears, though he never seemed to notice.

There were other volunteers in the country from the UK and we were encouraged to stay in touch as a support network for one another. One of the volunteers, Vikram, had recently finished studying for a law degree at university before deciding he did not want a career as a lawyer. We did not have much in common – he talked a lot about football and rock music and other things that I had no interest in – and our conversations were often punctuated by long periods of silence, because I sometimes find it hard to sustain a conversation when the topic is not interesting to me as the words just do not come.

Another volunteer working in Lithuania was Denise, a tall, slim Welsh woman in her thirties who was very energetic in everything that she said or did. Denise was staying in Lithuania’s capital, Vilnius, and invited the volunteers in Kaunas to come and visit her and see the city up close. We travelled by bus – I sat at the back so as not to be surrounded by the other passengers – on a bumpy hour-long ride to the city centre. Vilnius was very different to Kaunas – the people walked more quickly and there were many new building developments built in shiny glass and metal. Denise’s apartment was clean and brightly painted, with wooden floors. The kitchen chairs were made of wood and the tops of their backs were shaped like rolling hills. I liked rubbing my fingers over them – they had a slightly gritty, ticklish texture. We drank tea and ate biscuits and looked at photos Denise had taken during her stay so far. I liked that the other volunteers encouraged me to participate in their conversations and did not seem to judge me for being different. The volunteers each had their own personality and were all very open and friendly with one another.

The most experienced of the volunteers was a British Asian woman called Gurcharan. She had thick, curly dark hair and wore brightly coloured saris. Her apartment was close to mine in Kaunas and she would come over regularly with bags of laundry to use my washing machine. In return, Gurcharan invited me to her apartment to talk and eat together in the evenings after work. The walls of each room were decorated with multi-coloured Indian pictures and the living room table was covered in candles and burning incense sticks. Gurcharan talked rapidly and I sometimes found it difficult to follow what she was saying. She was very open and spoke a lot about her personal life and encouraged me to do the same. I did not have a personal life and so did not know what to say. When she asked me if I had a girlfriend, I shook my head. Then she asked if I had a boyfriend. I must have blushed, because she then asked me if I was gay. The rapid succession of questions felt somewhat overwhelming, like the continuous pitter-patter of rain upon my head, and it was several moments before I answered her. She smiled broadly and asked if I had any gay friends. I shook my head again.

In one of the leaflets given to all the volunteers before flying out was a list of useful telephone numbers, which I kept next to the phone in my apartment. The conversation I had had with Gurcharan prompted me to call one of the numbers, of a group for gay people in Lithuania, and arrange to meet with one of its local members outside the town hall after work the following day. I had become tired of not knowing who I was, of feeling disconnected from a part of me that I had long been aware of. That phone call was one of the biggest decisions of my life and one of the most important too. All through my classes the next day I felt my pulse racing and could not eat anything. Later, walking down the avenue towards the town hall, I could feel myself shaking and I had to try very hard to push away the pressing thought to turn around and run. As I approached, I could see that the person I was due to meet had already arrived and was standing very still, waiting for me. I took a deep breath, walked up and introduced myself. He was tall and thin and wearing a black jacket that matched the colour of his hair.

Vytautas – a common name in Lithuania – was my age and excited to meet someone from Britain. His English was very good because he enjoyed watching American films and television shows. He invited me to visit him and his partner, Žygintas, that weekend at their home and I accepted. Because I did not like to travel on the crowded trolley buses, they collected me in their car and drove to their apartment on the other side of town. Many of the modern things that they had, such as a widescreen television and a CD player, were relatively rare at the time in Lithuanian homes. Žygintas loved British music and had collected many CDs and played some of them for me. Over food, we talked about our lives – Vytautas was a student while Žygintas worked in a dental practice. They had met through the group and had been together for several years. Over the following weeks I visited them regularly to talk about events, eat together and listen to music. It was always dark when I left to go home at the end of an evening and, though Žygintas was worried for my safety and always offered to drive me back, I looked forward to the long walk alone through the silent, empty, moonlit streets.

Gurcharan was excited to hear about my friendship with Vytautas and Žygintas and wanted to meet them. She offered to cook a meal for the four of us at her apartment, and we gratefully accepted. It was a frosty late autumnal evening when we arrived and it took several minutes of removing coats, hats, scarves and gloves before we entered the living-room. Gurcharan was already busy in the adjoining kitchen cooking several dishes simultaneously, the spicy aromas filling the room and whetting our appetites. Any lingering daylight was fading fast and replaced instead with the flickering, warm glow of candles crammed on various shelves and boxes. The table in the centre of the room had already been laid out with plates and cutlery and glasses that twinkled in the candlelight. Wine was poured for the guests and the food piled onto plates to hand around the table. There were numerous curries full of vegetables and meat and more than enough rice for everyone. Gurcharan was as talkative as ever and asked Vytautas and Žygintas all about themselves over supper. I listened as best I could between mouthfuls of the delicious homemade food, but mostly the conversation did not interest me and after I finished eating I picked up a book from a nearby shelf and began to read to myself. I was embarrassed when Gurcharan exclaimed that I was being very impolite; I hadn’t any idea that I was being rude. Just then, as Žygintas was finishing his meal, he stopped suddenly and shouted a word in Lithuanian, before repeating it in English for our benefit: ‘Mouse, you have a mouse!’ He pointed to the kitchen worktop where he had just seen it appear, jump and vanish before his eyes. Gurcharan smiled slightly and said simply: ‘Yes, I know.’ She had no problem living with a mouse, she explained to us, and had lived with one before, back at her home in the UK. As long as it did not get in the way, she saw no reason to worry about it. I had not ever had the chance to see a mouse at such close range, and was disappointed to have just missed it. The conversation continued as before and this time no one seemed to mind when I returned to my book and read to myself. At the end of the evening, Gurcharan went to give each of us a kiss as we left; I hesitated so she put her hand in mine instead and squeezed it tight. She was aware that I was different and told me she was proud of me because I was willing to take risks.

About a week later, I was in the kitchen of my apartment making sandwiches when I noticed a small smudge move on the tiled wall opposite. As I moved my head closer and looked again I saw that it was an insect that I had never seen before. The next day, at the centre, I asked Birut
about it. ‘It’s
tarakonas
’ she said, then thought for several moments, searching for the English word, ‘a cockroach’. The insects are – I soon discovered – a common problem in many of Lithuania’s older buildings. My landlord, Jonas, was telephoned and was very apologetic and promised to treat the infestation. However, the whole block required treatment and, as my neighbours were all very elderly, this proved difficult to arrange quickly. In the meantime Jonas gave me a spray to use on any cockroaches that I saw. I did not mind them too much, though I found them distracting if I saw one while trying to listen to a conversation with someone or watch the television. When I told my parents of the problem in one of my regular phone reports home, they were very unhappy and I had to reassure them that my apartment was otherwise clean, that I was completely healthy and that the landlord was working promptly to deal with the problem. It was several weeks before Jonas was able to complete the treatment across the block and even then the cockroaches persisted, though only making the odd appearance from time to time.

Winter came inexorably over the months following my arrival in Lithuania, bringing heavy snowfall and bitterly cold weather throughout the country. Temperatures fell at night to as low as minus thirty degrees in Kaunas. My apartment was not a modern building; it was poorly insulated and very difficult to keep warm. I borrowed a radiator from one of the volunteer workers at the centre who had bought a new one and was happy to loan the spare to me. I put it in my living room while I watched the television or read in the evenings, and later I would carry it into the bedroom to help keep me warm and sleep comfortably. Jonas put draught excluder around the door and windows after Birut
, to whom I had explained the problem with the constant cold, intervened on my behalf. Apart from the severity of the cold, I loved the wintry weather: the crunching sensation of treading through several inches of freshly laid snow on the way to work and the sight of bright, glistening white all around me. At night, I sometimes put on my coat and boots and walked the still streets while the snowflakes tumbled around my head. I would stop under a blazing street lamp and turn my face up towards the falling sky, stretch out my arms and spin round and round in circles.

In December, as Christmas approached, the women at the centre asked me what my plans were for the festive season. I realised that this would be my first Christmas away from my family and understood Christmas to be a special time to be shared with others. One of my coworkers at the centre, Audron
, insisted that I come and spend the holiday with her and her family and I gratefully accepted. In Lithuania, Christmas Eve is much more important than Christmas Day and preparations for it take many hours. The house is cleaned and everyone must bathe and wear clean clothes before the evening meal. Audron
and her husband collected me and drove me to their home in a large apartment block. As they climbed out of the car I noticed that her husband was extremely tall – more than two metres in height. He reminded me of the number nine.