The Last Girl (12 page)

Daumantas was gaunt from too many cigarettes. His hair was silver, his blue eyes piercing. He was charming. Or could be when he wished. He sat draining a bottle of vodka. Glass after glass. Pausing only to draw hungrily on a cigarette. In front of him was a pile of papers, his head bent close to the page as he read. A man stumbled against him and he looked up, startled, dragged suddenly from another world. There was a haunted look in his eyes. Gathering the papers together he pushed them into a bag. He gazed out of the window into the night's darkness.

Svetlana brushed her hand across her face, poured another drink, her hand unsteady, the bottle chinking against the glass. She imagined walking over to him. A hand on his back. Hello. Drinking? We could drink together. Drown the darkness.

He fumbled over his cigarettes, clumsily attempting to extract one from the packet, all thumbs. It dropped to the floor. Cursing, he bent for it, but overbalanced, knocking the plastic bag onto the floor. She almost rose to steady him.

The waiter helped him back into his seat. Daumantas shook him off angrily.

‘Maybe you've had enough,' the waiter said.

Daumantas shook his head. He extracted a cigarette and tried to straighten it. It snapped between his fingers, the cheap tobacco scattering across the gummy tabletop.

‘Come on.'

‘Leave me be,' Daumantas growled.

‘You've had enough.'

Daumantas slammed his fist on to the table. The vodka bottle jumped and swayed, nearly toppling.

‘I'll tell you when I've had enough,' Daumantas said. His voice shook and his tongue stumbled on the words. The waiter remained patient. He glanced over to the counter.

‘Get him out, Gintas,' the girl called.

Gintas nodded, smiling still. Taking Daumantas firmly under the arm he pulled him to his feet. He was taller than Daumantas. Daumantas struggled to free himself but the waiter propelled him to the door.

Daumantas protested.

He attempted to swing round to face the waiter but could not. They disappeared into the darkness. Svetlana pulled on her coat. She was drunk too, but controlled. She glanced over to where Daumantas had been sitting. The plastic bag lay on the floor confettied with tobacco. She hesitated. Jonas' beetroot face glowed crudely as he leant over the table, close­ to his companion.

Slipping through the tables she picked up the bag. Turning, she felt a hand catch her.

‘Svyeta!' Jonas said.

She pulled her arm free and glared at him. He grunted. She hurried to the door. The dark-haired waiter, Gintas, entering, held it open for her, smiling politely. She slipped out into the street. It was not well lit and she stumbled on the cobbles. Gripping Daumantas' bag, she hurried towards the area of the ghetto where he lived. There was no sign of him.

He had been too drunk to move so fast. She stopped a moment to consider where he might have gone. In the darkness she heard the sound of retching. Her eyes searched the entrance to a courtyard. Nothing was visible but, distinctly, she heard feet shuffling. She edged into the darkness, placing each foot carefully, straining her eyes.

A man was supine on the cold cobbles. Instinctively she cried out. Bending to examine him, she pulled him up, cradled his body upon her lap. Turning him over, she pulled his face into a sliver of light falling weakly from a window. A raw, bloated face stared up at her. Repulsed, she pushed him away. The body rolled on the cobbles. She stood quickly, steadying herself against the crumbling plaster wall.

Footstep clattered on the cobbles behind her.

‘Daumantas? Steponas?'

A twisted grin flittered across the weak beam of light and disappeared. Before she could move fingers had grabbed her, thrusting her back against the wall. She grunted, the breath forced out of her. Jonas pushed his face into hers. Saliva speckled his lips.

‘How about it, Svyeta?' he stammered, breathless.

She tried to push him back, but he was all thrusting hands and legs. He groped at her clothes, his red and fleshy tongue protruding from between his lips.

‘Don't you want it, Svyeta?'

‘Get lost, Jonas,' she breathed.

‘But you like it, don't you?' he said, his hand slipping up into her blouse. The thin cloth tore. She pushed him hard with her knee and spat in his face. His grip loosened and she shoved him backwards into the darkness.

‘What's the matter with you?' he shouted.

She grabbed the bag and ran for the street.

‘Svyeta,' he called. ‘I'll pay.'

She did not turn.

Jonas was on his feet, stumbling after her.

‘Whore! Since when did you get so picky?'

His voice echoed in the dark emptiness of the street.

Svetlana hurried away.

‘Ivan is back,' she shouted into the darkness. ‘Watch it, Jonas. I'll tell him.'

When she was sure Jonas was not following, she slowed her pace. She chuckled darkly at the idea of using Ivan's name to defend herself. He had been back three days and already she had a black eye to show for it. Reaching behind her, she found the tear in her blouse.

Museum Square was quiet. She walked slowly, listening to the sound of her heels on the paving. The buildings were springing to life. New plaster and coats of bright paint. Spruced up for the tourists after years of neglect. Stepono Street, half a kilometre away, crumbled still. The roofs sagged, the wood was rotting, the windows broken. Tourists did not go there.

In her room on Stepono she found her two sons sleeping side by side on the floor. Misha with his arm·around his young brother. A thin blanket covered them. For a few moments she stood gazing at the gentle rise and fall of their bodies, illuminated by the thin light seeping through the window. Misha's body had filled out. His arms were thick with muscles. Soft stubble furred his chin. Bending, she stroked his cropped hair tenderly.

Undressing in the darkness she hung her blouse carefully on a wire hanger. Taking it to the window she examined the rip in the dim light; she would be able to fix it in the morning, she decided. She studied her body in the cracked mirror on the wall. Holding back her hair, she pulled the skin tight on her face. Not so old. Still attractive.

She would take the package back to Daumantas. The writer. She knew he was, he had told her once.

Pulling on some thicker clothes, she collapsed wearily onto the sagging bed. Ivan was not there. She pulled herself up close against the wall to leave him space.

Svetlana woke with a start. Sitting up, she wiped the perspiration from her forehead. The sound of fists pounding on the door rang in her ears. A steady, forceful thud. The wind was howling through the treetops and somewhere a dog was barking. She put her hands to her ears. She could hear their voices still, calling. Male voices. Edged with anger, sharp with malice.

She shook her head and opened her eyes wide. She swung her legs off the bed and staggered over to the small sink. The water in the bucket was icily cold. She splashed it over her face, cooling her burning cheeks. Slowly the voices subsided. The pounding faded. She stood in the darkness listening to the sounds of the city. The occasional car, uncertain footsteps that drew slowly closer, passed the window and then faded into the distance.

When she lay back on the bed, she was shivering. She wrapped her arms tightly around her. She did not sleep. In sleep, she feared, they might return. The thump on the door, the men's voices. She lay watching her sons sleep on the floor. Gradually the darkness faded. A grimy light flushed the walls. Her eyelids relaxed and she felt the fear ebb and her muscles loosen.

The door rattled and shook as somebody struck it hard. Svetlana sat up. Her head ached. Nikolai was in the corner reading a comic; Misha was gone. Ivan snored loudly beside her. She glanced at the clock on the wall.

‘Who is it?' she called, angrily, as the door rattled once more on its hinges. She pulled a coat over her rumpled clothes and staggered across to the door. Jonas' face leered at her when she opened it.

‘What do you want?' she hissed, attempting to close the door on him. He jammed his foot into the space.

‘I've come to see Ivan,' he said.

‘What do you want with him?' Behind her she heard her husband stir.

‘What's going on?' he demanded, his voice thick with sleep.

‘Jonas. He wants you.'

Ivan sat up and groped for his cigarettes. Jonas kicked the door hard so that it sprang open, hitting Svetlana. He pushed past her.

‘Get me a coffee, Svyeta,' he said.

Ivan, lighting a cigarette with a grimace, muttered, ‘You heard him, get us a coffee.'

Jonas strolled over to the window. Ivan pulled deeply on the cigarette, frowning. He said nothing.

‘Svyeta told me you were back,' Jonas said.

Ivan watched as Svetlana poured water from the bucket into a pan on the small hob. She placed the bucket back beneath the dripping tap, collecting unmetered water.

‘So?'

‘Just thought I'd come to say hello.' Jonas grinned. ‘What do you want?'

Jonas sat on the end of the bed and took out a packet of cigarettes. He lit one slowly; he seemed in no hurry to get to the point. Blowing the thin, blue smoke out in wispy rings, he said finally, ‘I was wondering if you wanted some work?'

Ivan laughed.

From the doorway Svetlana gazed outside. The sun rarely reached into the courtyard and mould grew up the walls. The wooden walkway providing access to the upstairs rooms was rotting and threatened to fall.

Ivan stood up and pulled on some trousers. ‘What kind of job?'

Again Jonas hesitated. He glanced at Svetlana in the doorway and indicated slightly with his head. ‘Maybe we should go for a drink?'

When they had gone, Svetlana tugged a large tub into the room and dropped it on the floor. Taking a bucket she put it under the old radiator in the corner. With a metal key she had shaped, she opened the radiator valve and poured hot water into the bucket, which was cheaper than running it out of the tap and boiling it on the stove.

Taking an armful of the soiled clothes, dumped by the door, she dropped them into the hot water. For a while she let them soak. Taking a bottle of vodka from inside the broken jug where she kept it hidden, she gazed up at the image of Christ aslant on the dirty wall before her. She did not cross herself, but half reached out to touch the crucified body gently with her fingertips. Before they touched she withdrew them.

She sat on the bed, absently stroking the sheet, remembering how Daumantas had sat there just two days before. The thought of Daumantas jerked her memory. Rummaging in the corner she pulled out the plastic bag. Setting down her vodka, she opened it. Gingerly she pulled out the papers. The writing meant nothing to her. She had only a vague knowledge of Lithuanian lettering, enough to get around. She turned the sheets. She held them up, smelled them. Carefully, then, she put them back into the bag.

On her knees she pounded the washing in the tub, hair falling over her face. Perspiration gleamed on her forehead. Her arms ached. Soapsuds soaked her blouse. She beat the clothes distractedly. Christ looked down on her from his discoloured cross but it was Daumantas she was thinking of.

‘One thousand dollars?'

Svetlana looked at Misha. The washing was drying in the sharp gusts that swirled around the courtyard. The tub was leant against the wall. Misha sat before her silently, his head bowed as though he was ashamed. His hands were grimy, his young face weary. It was quiet and in the courtyard she could hear Nikolai kicking a ball against the wall. The figure dazed her. For some moments she could not think. Misha picked at his short, broken nails. She felt her breathing constricted. She got up and went over to the door. For some moments she stood staring out blankly at her younger son.

One thousand dollars.

Tears welled up in her eyes. She wrapped her arms around her body, holding in the pain. Behind her she heard Misha get up. Coming to her, he put his arms around her. She felt his rough stubble against her neck.

‘Mama,' he said. She could smell the sweat on his body, the dirt from his work on the building site.

She turned, wiping the tears away with the back of her hand.

‘He said he could do it?'

Misha nodded. When he spoke she could tell that he was trying to keep the eagerness from his voice.

‘He will get me into England and will organise a job for me. There will be somewhere to stay and he will arrange all the papers I need.'

‘You trust him?'

‘He's done it before, for others. He says he can introduce me to others he has helped over.'

‘He's English.'

‘Yes.'

Svetlana let her breath out slowly. One thousand dollars. She ran a hand through her hair. On a good day she earned ten dollars. She closed her eyes and leant back against the doorpost. Where would she be able to find one thousand dollars? Not taking in washing, that was for sure. The money that she made was barely enough to feed the family.

‘I have some,' Misha said. ‘Some I have saved over the year.'

Svetlana watched as he crossed the room and carefully lifted aside a sack of junk. From under a brick in the corner he pulled an envelope. He brought it over to her and placed it in her hand.

‘I've been trying to save,' he said, ‘a bit at a time. But it's hard. For almost a month now they've paid us almost nothing. The investors have lost money. They might have to stop building.'

Svetlana slid the notes out of the envelope. She counted them carefully. One hundred dollars. She looked at her son. Tall, muscular, he worked ten hours a day and didn't drink as far as she knew. His face was hard and his short, cropped hair made him look like a thug. She reached out and stroked his cheek.

‘We'll see,' she said.

He nodded. He took back the notes and carefully put them into the envelope. To hide her tears she turned into the courtyard. The shirts and sheets flapped in the sudden furious gusts of wind. She felt them; they were cool, almost dry. She pulled a shirt into her arms. Felt its stiff cleanness on her skin. England. Work. Dreams. From where could she get such an amount of money? Not from this washing. From Mindaugas. She shuddered, remembering her old pimp. She pulled another clean shirt from the washing line. A sheet, voluminous, fresh. She sank her face into it. Not Mindaugas. There had to be other ways.