The Last Girl (8 page)

An unoccupied waiter strolled over. Not taking out a pad to write my order, he raised his eyebrows, questioningly, hands in his pockets. I glanced at my watch. Half past twelve. I hesitated.

‘I'm waiting for somebody,' I said finally. ‘I'll wait until she comes. She won't be long now.'

He turned away, unconcerned. The street looked dismal and cold. Thick clouds had rolled rapidly over the city; the wind whipped the skirts of the tables viciously. A rose toppled over. The couple sitting outside called for their bill and hur­ried off. I found a cigarette and lit it. The blue smoke curled away above me, caught on a warm stream of air coming from a heater close to my feet. There was no sign of her.

She had still not appeared by one o'clock. I worried. I hadn't for a moment considered that she would not meet me, my nervousness over the lost manuscript had erased any other worries from my mind. My eyes searched the street. Twice a minute I glanced at my watch. Where could she be? Not late. Not this late. I beckoned the waiter.

‘There hasn't been a message left for me?' He shook his head.

‘Perhaps you could ask at the counter?' I said.

Irritation passed like a swift cloud across his face. He straightened up, however.

‘What name?' he asked curtly.

‘Daumantas,' I said. ‘Steponas Daumantas. I was expecting to meet a lady called Jolanta.'

‘Jolanta?' he asked.

‘Yes, Jolanta,' I said flushing with embarrassment; I did not know her surname.

He smirked and traipsed away slowly. Leaning against the counter he joked with the girl. She shook her head. Not bothering to walk back across to where I sat he shook his head at me, then continued his conversation with the girl.

When I realised she would not be coming I ordered a drink. It had started to rain and the wind took the drops and threw them against the glass. The waiters ran outside and gathered up the tables and chairs. Emptiness replaced my fear. I wished she would come. Gladly now I would confess my carelessness; would have those beautiful eyes reproach me.

Gladly I would have seen her elegant fingers tremble on the tablecloth between us. I would take them between my own thick, clumsy fingers and beg her to forgive me. Allow her to think what she would of me, only to see those eyes. How were we to meet again? I did not know her address or telephone number and she did not know mine.

Leaving the restaurant I set out quickly in the direction of Gedimino. My first inclination was to get a trolley bus up to Karoliniskiu. I hesitated after a few steps though. Who was to say why she had not come. And what was I to do, go banging on all the doors in her block? How would I explain to her how I knew where she lived? No, it would not do. Tired and confused I stood in the road. I knew I should be sensible and make my way back to my apartment but the thought of sitting alone in the darkness filled me with horror. I wandered slowly along the gutter, knowing with a bleak sense of inevitability I would end up in a bar getting drunk.

As I wandered, however, I remembered that Svetlana had paid me a visit the previous evening while I had been out. I was puzzled as to what she had wanted. She knew where I lived as on some occasions I had asked her to drop my clean shirts off at my apartment. She had never, though, been to my apartment for any other reason. It was possible, I thought, that she was in need of money. Not that she would have come begging. She was proud despite her difficulties. She might have come to see if I had need of her services.

The idea of going to see her restored a certain amount of purpose. I hurried back to my apartment to collect some shirts for Svetlana to clean. They were not really dirty and I could not afford to have them cleaned too frequently, but I needed someone to talk to. I threw the shirts into a plastic bag, making sure the bag was a good strong one with an attractive picture on it. I had to crumple one of the shirts to make it look as if it needed her work.

I hurried back through the old ghetto to Stepono Street, with its crumbling, decaying buildings and rutted cobbles. Plaster peeled from the walls and grass grew in the guttering. Ahead of me, turning out from Svetlana's courtyard, was a familiar figure. For a few moments I could not place who it was. The man crossed the street, limping slightly, his shoulders hunched. He had disappeared around the corner before I realised it was Jonas, the cleaner.

The cold, blustery weather made the buildings more dismal than ever. The wind drove the rain against the little glass panes in the windows, blowing back the rags and paper covering the gaps where the glass had broken. Plaster dropped in heaps onto the broken paving slabs. I bent beneath the sagging walkway and knocked on the door. Waiting, I tried to shield myself from the wind, which eddied around the courtyard. Behind the door I heard noises, but for some time nobody answered. I banged on the door again. It shook beneath my fist.

‘Svetlana?' I called.

‘What do you want?' a male voice answered irritably.

‘I'm looking for Svetlana,' I called. There was further shuffling behind the door and then, finally, the sound of a key turning in the lock. The door scraped open and in the darkness I saw the face of a man, perhaps in his fifties. He was unshaven and his hair was matted and dirty. He wore a coat. His puffy face was a raw shade of red.

‘She isn't here,' he said, leaning against the doorjamb. He looked me up and down reflectively.

‘When will she be back?'

He coughed, a rasping cough that racked his thin frame. ‘How do I know?' he growled.

‘She didn't say?' I persisted.

He did not answer. He did not even look at me. He scuffed his ragged sports shoes against the doorjamb.

‘I've got work for her,' I said, indicating the bag I was carrying. He looked up then.

‘Where's the money?' he said.

‘I pay her when they're done,' I said.

He pushed out a hand. ‘Give me the money now and I'll give it her.'

‘I don't know.'

‘No money, no work!' His voice rose, setting him off into a paroxysm of coughs, doubling him up.

‘You're her husband?' I asked, when he had managed to half straighten up.

He nodded his head. ‘Yeah, I am. So, you can trust me and give me the money.'

I gave him the bag of washing and pulled out a few Litas.

‘This is for you, if you give the washing to Svetlana. Tell her that Steponas Daumantas left it. If she brings it around to my apartment I will pay her a little extra,' I said.

‘She'll do it,' he said, nodding his head. He had grabbed hold of the money and stuffed it into his pocket.

Before he closed the door, I asked, ‘A man called Jonas didn't just call here, did he?'

For a long moment he looked at me without answering. Then he said, ‘Yes he did, if it's got anything to do with you.' His voice was so threatening I did not ask anything further.

‘The quicker she can get the shirts done the better,' I said.

But he had closed the door and was locking it behind him. I trudged home.

As I pulled off my shirt, about to go to bed, the telephone rang. I answered it quickly.

‘Daumantas?' a man's voice asked. ‘Yes.'

‘Jonas, here.'

‘Yes, I recognised your voice.'

‘I've got something that might interest you,' he said. His voice trembled slightly, excited. Or maybe drunk.

‘Really?'

‘Well, I say I…'

‘What have you got?' I asked, impatient. ‘Did you find it? Did you find the bag?'

‘You were looking for some papers, yes?' he said. ‘A kind of book that you had written?'

‘Yes,' I said, my heart lifting with joy. ‘You've found it? That's wonderful!'

‘Hey, hey, hold on. Don't go jumping the gun. I didn't say I found nothing.'

‘Well, have you or haven't you?' I asked angrily.

‘You want to talk about it, I suggest we have a meeting,' he said. ‘You know the Red and Black?'

‘Yes,' I said, annoyed and bewildered by his opaqueness. ‘Meet me there, tomorrow. Eleven thirty.'

‘You'll bring…' I began, but the telephoned growled in my ear. I dialled his number. The telephone rang. It rang and rang but nobody answered. Excited and annoyed I went to bed.

At eleven thirty I sat in the Red and Black cradling a brandy. The whole night I had tossed and turned, unable to sleep. When finally, just before dawn, I managed to drop off, I dreamt a series of very vivid dreams. The first was of Jolanta. We were sitting at a table in the restaurant opposite the Filharmonija. She was angry. ‘How could you have lost it?' she said. Over and again she said this. I insisted, ‘I have not lost it, Jonas has it.' But my words made little difference. After this I dreamt of Rachael. She did not speak but there was no anger in her eyes. She looked at me and I wanted to turn from her but I could not. Her eyes cut deep. By the time Jonas pushed open the door and limped into the bar I was tired and angry.

He nodded, seeing me, and limped over to the bar. He ordered himself a drink and came over with it. Sliding into the seat opposite me, he winked. His breath reeked of vodka; he had obviously been drinking already.

‘Well?' I said, seeing that he carried no bag.

He raised his glass. ‘Maybe we should toast to good business?' he said.

‘I wasn't aware that a missing bag was business,' I said sharply.

‘Ah, there you go, you see,' said Jonas, a lop-sided grin disfiguring his face. ‘You have a need, the bag, I have a way of satisfying your need. That is business. That is what we have been learning from the West, isn't it? Capitalism!' He raised his small glass. ‘To the West and capitalism,' he laughed.

I did not lift my glass. ‘Are you telling me that you have the bag?' I asked.

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Let's get down to business, no time for chit chat. Here we are then. I know where your bag is.'

‘You know where it is?'

‘Yes!' he said, the same idiotic grin twisting his face.

‘And where is it?'

‘Ah!' He tapped his nose. ‘I don't actually have the bag. If I did, of course I wouldn't be here bargaining with you.' He paused. ‘However, the person that does have it says that if you want it so bad then you'll be happy to pay for it.' He shrugged his shoulders, as if such logic was alien to him.

‘How much?' I sighed, reaching for my wallet.

‘One hundred dollars,' he said without hesitation, fixing me with his eye. He downed his vodka and shuffled out of his seat. Indicating the empty glass he limped off to the bar. I leaned back in my chair. When he returned, he raised his glass to toast me once more, cheerfully, as if his bargain was the most reasonable that could have been expected.

‘You are expecting me to pay one hundred dollars for a plastic bag and some paper?' I asked, incredulously.

He shrugged his shoulders again. ‘I tried to argue him down, but that was his final price,' he said, reasonably.

‘Who has it?' I demanded.

‘Ah, well, I can't tell you that,' he said. ‘Wish that I could, but he said absolutely not.'

‘Tell me!' I said, my voice rising to a shout, blood rushing to my face. ‘Tell me who has it, Jonas.'

He grinned. The barman glanced over, cleaning glasses, not too concerned.

‘You don't need to shout,' he said. ‘You don't want to go behaving like that.'

‘I'll be doing more if you don't get me that manuscript back,' I hissed.

He shook his head, the sly grin slipping uncontrollably across his face. ‘You should be careful getting so worked up at your age,' he smirked, ‘it's no good for your heart.' He got up to leave. ‘Call me if you're interested in getting the papers.'

Boarding the trolley bus on Gedimino, I sat down heavily. I ran a hand through my hair. My anger at Jonas was tempered only by my anxiety over Jolanta. My concern for the manuscript was not as strong as the fear that I would never see her again. The trolley bus crawled through the morning traffic. Rain patterned the windows and wind tussled the trees. Two women talked quietly, moaning about prices. Crossing the river, the trolley bus climbed the steep hill between the grass banks. At the Karoliniskiu stop I got off and trudged slowly to the bench outside her apartment block.

For an hour I sat in the light rain, until it began to soak through my jacket and I worried I might catch a cold. She did not appear. I travelled up the lift to the top floor and stood for a few minutes staring at the four blank doors that opened off the top landing. Not a sound came from behind any of them.

The trolley bus made its way back into the Old Town and I walked home slowly in the rain, head buried deep in my upturned collar. Cold, miserable and confused.

I kept two hundred Litas in a tin in the kitchen; that is about fifty dollars. In my wallet there was a little more. Carefully I laid all the money out on a table and sat down by the window. The rain had begun to fall harder. I poured a large brandy. The telephone did not ring and nobody knocked on the door. I went to bed at twelve, after finishing the bottle of brandy.

When I woke the next morning I hovered over the telephone, but my anger at Jonas prevented me from getting involved in negotiations with him. Jolanta I could not call.

I knocked on Grigalaviciene's door. When she called out through the doors, I told her that it was I. Locks and bolts slid open. One door after the other opened and she poked a sparrow-like head through the gap. She examined me for a few moments suspiciously, then, deciding I wasn't drunk, opened the door a little wider.

‘
Nu?
' she said.

I shrugged my shoulders. I just needed some company, if only Grigalaviciene. She opened the door and let me in. Behind me I heard the bolts shooting. I made my way to her tidy kitchen and slid into the seat by the kitchen table. She filled a pan with water and lit the gas with a deft flick of a match. Pulling a packet of biscuits from a cupboard she neatly arranged them on a plate despite my protest. When the water boiled, she poured it into a thermos and put a cup and saucer in front of me with a teaspoon and a jar of tea. I helped myself. All the time she kept up a steady stream of chatter. I was glad of it and sat not listening to her, but rather to the sound of the rain against the window and the flame of gas licking another pan of water.