So how did this happen that suddenly I, too, am travelling abroad? The ministry is sending me to Lausanne to an international conference on social issues. I can see that the conference has been well organised and well attended, with guests from the Far East, India and elsewhere.
How pleasant it is to travel. Nobody knows you, and you get to journey along foreign roads like some Lord Fairfax or Van Housen. However, that spring bee from Kaunas is still buzzing in my bonnet.
Perhaps this is my farewell to youth? Who will finish whom? It’s a tournament. What a contest. A majestic contest, watched by everyone. As I stagger forward, I look deep into the eyes of the women in the Mitropa railway carriage. I intentionally taunt the men. I choose either a light-coloured rose or a sweet little flower to pin onto the lapel of my spring jacket. This is the prerogative of those who have reached 40 and then some. I’m travelling alone. Young, rich and adventurous. But privately I think that even if I were to stay where I am until I retire, even only as assistant director, I would be satisfied. There are fewer worries when you know your job. I have no debts and more than enough money. I don’t own an estate either because I never tried to make a claim after the land reforms were carried out in the Republic. By contrast, those confrères of mine lost their minds trying to administer their little estates while spinning around in their chairs and talking on the phone as they worked at the ministry.
Every one of my colleagues, to a man, is eating crow at home. They never go out; they have no peace, all because of those estates of theirs. They’re spoiled and careless! And they keep sinking deeper into debt. They don’t love the land, nor do they work it themselves. Oh no! I say either work the land or don’t bother anyone. At least I sometimes have free time to thumb through a book. I help out my older sister, a teacher who stayed on the farm. Let her live out her old age on our land. A while ago I bought her a Dutch tile stove. I don’t ask anything of her. The farm is practically hers. The topic of to whom it belongs never comes up between us. What’s the point? Besides, everything is so clear. Each one of us can trace our heritage back to the farm, even if we all avoid this fact and pretend otherwise. I don’t have children. I get along with my wife. What more do I need?
When I returned to my hotel today after the conference hall I found myself intrigued by the women at the conference, and even those back at the hotel. Despite it being midnight, I had decided to walk back to my hotel. I felt happy and carefree.
And it was during a conference outing that I came to the conclusion that it was these expeditions that were of the greatest concern to the conference participants – along with eating. The bigger the conference, the greater such nonsense. They are in all likelihood the main purpose of such gatherings. And the women were kindly disposed towards introductions and friendly interactions. Sporting their newly-tailored outfits and smiling, they appeared to be in the same happy state that I was enjoying. After all, we all appear ‘not quite the same’ when travelling.
During the opening ceremonies one particular young lady dominated the corridors. A journalist of some sort, she was bringing around a guest book for all the participants to sign. I told her I only write poetry in ladies’ albums.
‘Ah bien! En ce cas – poésie!’
‘But doesn’t it seem to you, Miss, that it’s a bit outdated… Un petite peu démodé?’
Beside my name I drew an anchor. In other words, ‘hope’.
This made my lady even happier. She soon forgot my promised ‘poems’. She grabbed onto the anchor I threw out to her.
‘More, more!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You forgot your country.’
‘Lituanie,’ I wrote. But feigning patriotism, I added the name in Lithuanian: ‘Lietuva’.
‘If you are so witty, sir, please include your motto. Your motto!’
‘But I don’t live by a motto.’
As I glanced down at the official papers in my attaché case, I thought about copying into the album our ‘Vytis’, the national herald, which in essence is very beautiful and powerful. But the throng of guests carried me away from the guest book.
Some people have all the luck! But the conference must go on.
It’s a good thing I didn’t draw it. I wouldn’t want a repeat of what happened two years ago in Vienna, at the Prater, when I inscribed into a book of important guests a laurel leaf with two ribbons held by two doves. Under one of them, as required, I signed my name. Under the other ribbon appeared the signature ‘Mme Deveikis’. It was by lucky coincidence that I ran into her while travelling abroad and it appeared to me a very patriotic gesture to embrace my fellow pilgrim.
I returned home and had barely opened the door when I was greeted by my wife’s extremely curious face.
‘So how was your dinner with Mrs. Deveikis?’
I was astounded by her feminine intuition.
‘What are the two doves for?’
‘It’s a local tradition!’
A stolen glance revealed that my journalist was examining me. And so? I could read in her glance: ‘so respectable and yet not so respectable…’ It was just a momentary examination. But such tiny glimpses often hold great meaning in life and usually have lasting repercussions. But she had already disappeared among the guests. I was able to memorise her image in my mind’s eye. With hair like waves of the sea, combed and pinned to one side and tinged red, her movements and speech revealed her to be as hot-blooded as an Arabian horse. I don’t regret using a word like ‘horse’. That’s her! The hot-blooded one. After all, Lithuania is an agrarian country!
Just then, one of the Swiss delegates, a man who looked like a stump with a belly – a celebrity in the world of international social issues, which is perhaps why he has such a long and heavy beard – noticed my interest in the conference organiser:
‘That’s our famous poet.’
How poetic everything is here today.
Later that evening he danced on the stage. The Swiss guests, it turns out, were country people, lovers of folklore who danced their predestined dances. Elsewhere, other groups of people sang. There was clapping, drinking and talking – and more talking. All these speeches were whetting the congressional appetite.
If I wanted, I could grab one of these naughty ladies and together the two of us could sneak off to a park somewhere or to a little restaurant; we would understand one another perfectly.
I’ve never been a poet – besides writing up legal cases, I can barely compose a single line. I have trouble writing letters, even to relatives: ‘I weigh 80 kilos, and my wife has gone to Siauliai.’ It’s only with my sister, the widow who has devoted herself to raising two orphans, that I’m more open, and the two of us converse through letters quite pleasantly. My sister respects my wife; they visit one another quite often. And although they have very different interests this doesn’t seem to hinder their relations.
I will not ask that young woman out, nor will I chat her up – even though I could learn much about contemporary Swiss poetry and she shows her willingness to teach me by smiling at me during other people’s lectures!
What would you do with her, you old wolf? You’d regret it later. Let her circle the fire and drag down someone else with her bohemian customs. Because I am so decent, my thoughts turn to my wife who is perhaps not quite as youthful as I am.
The conference members were invited for a boat ride on Lake Léman for the purpose of more thorough sociological study and to admire the night-time fireworks display. I excuse myself and head to bed. This is to be expected of a well-bred citizen, the backbone of the entire reawakening homeland. I’ll leave the evening studies for the others.
But really, how can a person of such an age, when he is not yet old but no longer young, willingly refuse the town’s fireworks and adornments? After all, adornments and fireworks are the meaning of life. And what an evening! Women’s eyes flashing like lightning. Everywhere I turned a brunette with a ruddy face kept handing me steins of beer for the road; right
before midnight, just before the club closed, she also made clear her womanly congeniality.
Back on the street I run into a charming Japanese woman from our conference. She’s delicate, with attractive and feminine facial features, and of course she has eyes stretched upwards like delicate ribbons. How kind and naïve are those Japanese women! Walking alone in the street this time of night! But a Mexican woman and a New Zealander catch up to her. The three women must be hurrying back to the hotel. They smile like brothers. Meeting them would be beneficial to me: I could enrich my knowledge of the world. It would be pleasant to become acquainted with such a nice and charming Japanese woman and to exchange opinions, even if it’s well past one in the morning. Where are they all going? I don’t know. We’re all scattered throughout the city’s hotels. I bow to them gallantly – it turns out we are all staying at the same hotel. All of us. I allow the Japanese woman to go first with her clever, ever-smiling and child-like eyes. How clever those Japanese women must all be, all of them, just like this one. For, as you can see, they can control a man with the allure of the domestic, with their loyalty, submissiveness and feminine charms, of which she seems to have inexhaustible reserves.
I’m back home at the hotel. My head is swimming. It’s calm, like after a big party. It feels as if you’ve just finished watching a bold, old-fashioned cancan. I wrap bandages around my leg, which is swollen and in a sorry shape. I apply a compress. I might be able to fall asleep. I set my shoes outside my door, the shoes that have carried me through so many of the streets of this foreign city during the day.
But to set your shoes outside your door in such a big-city hotel, where people have all come together for whatever reason and do not know one another, is not such an easy task. Do they want to know one another and are they intentionally looking for a way to meet one another? If only their train ticket wasn’t obliging them to check out the next morning.
All the shoes are lined up. Even the women have thick alpine shoes. How can women wear such clogs in summertime in the city? They must be on an expedition. Over there, a couple’s shoes, look respectable. But opposite my room, a pair of red slippers! Unique, elegant and with pointy toes, they are neatly placed. In other words, they belong to a serious woman who has her act together.
They must be the Japanese woman’s!
If I were to go to her room, she, dressed in her silk pyjamas decorated with large, white ibises, would hardly be surprised; she wouldn’t scream hysterically. Or maybe it would be worse. She’d start screaming in the entirely incomprehensible language of the Samurai. On the other hand, she is very dignified, without preconceptions; she would examine a person calmly.
Renseignement? She would ask.
She’s still awake. You can call her – on the phone.
And what if she’s asleep, what innocence!
I slap myself on the forehead. The shoes I am leaving in the hall to be shined fall from my hands. I go to bed. But I can’t forget the Japanese woman. All night I dream of devils poking me with their pitchforks. They’re the very same specialists who in their civilian lives work as close as they can to the forge. Surely, I must have inhaled or eaten something.
The next morning I am again thinking about legs – this time, mine. They hurt. I have bags under my eyes. I miss my wife. Where is she? She should come here. She would understand. But can a woman ever learn? A man alone on a business trip, working… I stop myself at ‘working’. And she isn’t ‘old’ in the least. What was I thinking? She would look elegant compared to the others.
I linger with a few others in the elegant lobby. We stall, unsure of how to start the day. Conference attendees are everywhere. How many of us are there? Everyone is preparing; they all look extremely busy. One is a blunt-faced woman, as though she was flattened by God when she was being moulded out of clay. She’s flat and short, and with her meaty nose she looks rather like a man. She has broad shoulders and very short legs but admirably styled hair which gives her a lot of femininity.
I saw her earlier at the conference. But now I can’t remember what country she’s from. She is preparing intensely for the day, poring over the local and national papers, even some sort of textbook and a school notebook full of many notes and remarks. There’s not a man in sight. Have they gone into the city or are they not up yet? It’s only the ladies. As I was leaving home I promised myself that I would follow the conference proceedings diligently. And here I am paying close attention to the actions of these women, and to their work. One never knows where inspiration may hit.
A waiter brings a glass of water to another lady, seated in the lounge, for her morning medicines. She is remarkably pale, but stylish and tall. She, too, is poring over her morning correspondence. She appears to be signing cheques. She is so tough, much more like a man. Does she have a heart? She smiles at the waiter, but in a very official manner.
Could one of these two ladies be the owner of the red slippers? No. I wouldn’t want them to be.
The blunt-faced woman is wearing sensible, masculine shoes, and the other, the lean one signing the cheques, keeps adjusting the strap of her purse across her chest; it keeps sliding down because of her boniness. A real Englishwoman. She orders tea with milk, as is expected of a good Englishwoman. Her face, one can see, once had a more prominent jaw. Was it an automobile accident or did she scrape her face skiing on a sudden descent? Quite a bit of blood must have been lost in the snow. And all this because she wanted to lose weight or because she took up the in-vogue sport of skiing despite the fact that her legs were unsteady. She probably no longer participates in sport. Her face looks tired, even if it was nicely repaired in the operation. She’s quite elegant, even if flat-chested. Not bad at all. Could she be my Cinderella with the magic slippers? No, she wears different shoes. Comfortable and plain. She probably has no idea what else to seek in life. Englishly sad. Although a conversation with her would probably be scintillating. No! It’s not her.
The Japanese woman enters the room. Tall and fair, she smiles at everyone. Like yesterday, she is accompanied by the New Zealander and the Mexican. How pleasant for me! I dash across the floor to greet her. What do I care what the others think?
‘Bonjour,’ and ‘How are you?’ endlessly. Oh, what loyal eyes that woman has. Our acquaintance pleases me greatly. The Japanese woman truly intrigues me. And she is interested to learn more about me as well.
‘You see, Madame, how easy it is to reach the world of the Far East!’ I say to the woman, convincing her of my super-human powers.
New Zealand and Mexico get lost so as not to get in our way; they go into town for some shopping. After we’ve discussed the geographies of Lithuania and Japan, the traditions of home and family as well as politics (we talk quickly and without any particular order), my lady also decides to go into town for some shopping. But I cannot go with her. To walk from store to store with a woman – how demeaning.
But the shoes! The whole time I was convinced without even looking. It was her! Alas no, she’s hitting the town in very stylish shoes, but they are not at all red. Not at all my Cinderella, that fair princess.
My slipper fetish makes me feverish every time I think about those mystical slippers, like a detective of some sort. I must find my Cinderella.
I remain in the lounge. The room is half empty. The second day of the conference has begun. Another woman! This one is clutching her newspaper as if she doesn’t have any other work to do. She even takes a bite to eat from time to time as she reads. She has a tailored suit, which is very stylish. Two foxes on her shoulders for this generously proportioned lady of the morning. But her face cannot be seen. With a confident beat and tempo, I approach this interesting woman holding the morning newspaper, who is undoubtedly interested in politics.
Ah! The red slippers!
How can it be? It’s her.
Finally.
What divine legs. Shoes are shoes; that’s not what interests me. But what is finer than a woman’s legs beautifully displayed! Beautiful!
I am satisfied with my research. We might be in a city but spring has intruded into every store window display and has left its mark on every metre of the place.
Oh, those red slippers. I am pleased with my keen senses. I rub my hands in delight. A reward for a job well done! I feel like a detective who has finally apprehended his criminal. I head off to look for a newspaper like the one she’s reading. For me, an important conference delegate, this is crucial. The ends justify the means.
I embark on the newspaper hunt with some diligence. The lady, noticing a strange man tramping about annoyingly, casts her newspaper aside and looks up coldly, exasperated. She is a very beautiful woman. For a few minutes I stand there speechless, my mouth agape:
It is my wife. The woman speaks: ‘I finally found you…’
She drops her newspaper to the floor.
‘It’s you? I thought you were the Japanese woman.’
‘Japanese? I’ve always said that conferences are not good for your health.’
‘But how did you get here?’
‘Just like this.’
Her words make no sense to me.
‘You’re tired, my conference delegate.’
She comes closer. I am very happy to see her.
‘What Japanese woman are you talking about? Japanese? Do I look Japanese?’
‘No, I thought… it was the shoes.’
She appraises her shoes.
‘Do you like my shoes? I’m surprised at how gallant you’ve become. You would never notice my shoes back in Kaunas, even if I were to buy a dozen pairs.’
‘But they’re… so unusual.’
‘Really? You think they’re unusual? Nothing unusual about them.’ This bit of news delights her. Turning about, she admires them as she lifts up her fair legs. I grow abashed.
‘There are people here… be more considerate.’
The Dedalus Book of Lithuianian Literature Page 6
