The Last Girl (2 page)

Eliyahu, the Gaon, was born wise. He was born at Easter in 1720. By the age of three, legend says, he knew Chumash and the Siddhur by heart. By four he was expert in Kaballah. By six he was debating with learned rabbis and Talmud scholars.

The streets of Vilna were busier then. These narrow alleys with their uneven cobbles were, in winter, lost beneath rivers of mud, in summer carpeted with dust. The streets rang with the noise of horses and the rasp and scrape of metal cartwheels on the stones beneath the dirt. Men crowded these streets, talking, singing perhaps. Arm in arm they made their way to the Beth Midrash, to their job in the glass works. Women leaned from the window shouting to neighbours, to their urchin children begging from passers-by. The narrow alleys rang with the sound of Yiddish.

When he was older, his wife went out to work and Eliyahu studied. He studied always by candle, keeping the shutters firmly closed against the world. Blocking himself off from its noise, its fun, its temptations, even from its light, he created a new world to inhabit, a world shared by other scholars before him, a world raised out of the letters of Talmud, Torah. A world of words.

He tormented his body, depriving it of sleep. Of nourishment. Instead of meat, he fed himself bread soaked in water and this, even, he opened his throat to, letting it pass down without touching his tongue to deprive himself of the pleasure of its taste. Working in his cold room with his bare feet dipped into a bucket of cold water he wrote words of wisdom, words that would be cherished by thousands after him.

But this city is no longer his city, despite this bust and the signs and the streets and squares named after him. It is not his city or the city of his children. The city has been cleansed of them. Cleansed. What a bitter taste that word has when we roll it on our tongues. Yet still I feel that their ghosts linger, in the odd neglected building. Whispering.

A madness descended upon me. Those hours I was not at my desk surrounded by scattered books and papers, by saucers overflowing with ash and cigarette butts, I was wandering the streets of Vilnius with my camera. The women I photographed were mothers with small children.

At first I took the shots surreptitiously. Sitting on a bench in the park, my camera at the ready, set for the right distance and the right light, I waited. Hidden behind my copy of the
Lithuanian Morning
, I pretended to be engrossed in the innumerable political scandals which in truth depress me heartily, and which I avoid. On most other benches were pensioners like myself, some talking earnestly, others gazing away blankly, across the grass, lost in their memories. By mid-morning the mothers would come, drawn out by the warmth of the sun. Unobtrusively I would pick up my camera, take the picture, and disappear once more behind the newspaper.

Later I grew more courageous. I approached the women to ask if they minded me taking the photo. The fact that I insisted they had the baby with them, preferably in their arms, relaxed them. After the first few attempts I invented a story. I was a newspaper photographer taking shots of citizens relaxing in the park. I did not have to go into details; it was enough to call myself a reporter.

There were times of course when it was hard for me to tell whether the young woman was the mother or a nanny, but this was important to me. I took time to engage her in conversation, ask about the child. It was important that she should be the mother; the picture would lose its authenticity if she were not.

After I had taken on the role of photojournalist the whole thing seemed less mad, less questionable. I began to defend it aesthetically. In fact, as I continued, I took more time posing the shots. It was only those first photographs that were rushed and blurred. Later they were of a good quality. Often I shot in black and white, but I also experimented with colour. The women were happy to pose on park benches or standing beneath the emerald canopy of old trees.

One Friday evening I hurried to the library and took out a lavishly illustrated text on the development of Western art. Late into the night, I pored over the pictures in the dim light of the apartment. Centred in Daddi's Triptych of 1348 is a rosy cheeked, fair-haired Madonna. The infant God nestles in the crook of her left arm. It is a painting of wonderful warmth and tenderness. It is not the shining gilt that draws the eye. Neither is it the image of Christ glorified, or Christ hanging grey from the cross, scarlet blood spurting from the wound, spraying his disciples. The dying Christ is pushed to the side. In the centre of this image, under the dark sky glittering with golden stars, before the beautifully worked red and yellow backdrop, is the simple picture of a woman looking down with gentle indulgence at the child nestled in her arms. While she cradles with her left arm, her right hand lifts and gently strokes the baby's chest. And he, the young child, looks up with equal adoration at his mother. He lifts, too, his right hand, as if to caress the cheek of his mother. The apostles linger at the feet of the mother. Here, one says, looking straight out of the frame at us. Here, this is what you have to look at, this is what is important. Yes, this is to be the object of our worship, the mother and the child.

It was in the silence of a church, on a day when the sun cut particularly cleanly across the nave, illuminating as it did the head of Mary, the Mother of God, that I saw my last girl. The church of the Holy Mother of God stands on a hill towards the river. It is a little farther up the road from the beautiful, gothic St Anne's and Bernadine's. It is not so impressive, but when sitting at this desk not writing a word for days on end is sending me crazy, I go there to sit in the perfect stillness. To look at the way the light can slice the darkness. To admire the beauty of enclosed space. The quality of silence.

For years I have tried to pray, but I cannot. The words simply do not come. I get to my knees and lift my eyes to the picture of our saviour, but I am unable to get beyond this point. Instead I kneel in silence.

I thought my photographic obsession was burning out. I had not taken a picture for over a week and felt no desire to do so. That very morning I got up with something approaching energy and optimism. Whilst boiling water on the old stove for a coffee, I sat at my desk and opened my large jotter. For one whole hour I wrote. The words poured out with a vigour and freshness I had not felt for years. And then they dried up. It was like a fleeting, cool shower in the desert. The bright mood with which I had awoken dissolved in a flash.

After boiling the kettle once more and sipping my way through a good too many coffees, I slammed the jotter shut. It is a mistake to try to force the words. Like a butterfly they flutter on, somewhere farther out of reach with each swoop of the net. I had pushed too hard. I should have been content with those words that I had got down, those thoughts that I had managed to frame with my clumsy scribbling. Angry and trembling with the effect of too much caffeine, I paced the small room. Through the wall that used to be a doorway into my second bedroom, my neighbour's small child kept up a consistent high-pitched wail. I clenched my fist hard. I needed to walk.

I pulled on a light jacket and slammed the door of my apartment behind me. The dirty windows prevented much light from entering the stairwell and I descended the stairs with customary care. The air outside was warm. My old neighbour, Grigalaviciene, was sitting on the bench outside the doors, knitting in the sunshine. She smiled and nodded and seemed about to create a space for me to sit by her. I paused and looked down at her. Her grey hair was thinning and her skin creased softly. For a moment I considered sitting with her, but I knew from experience that once she started talking there was no stopping her and I was in no mood for conversation. I nodded and, buttoning my jacket, moved on briskly.

The air in town was fresh. It was a pleasant day for a walk, the sky was beautifully clear. The colours seemed to palpitate under the sun's warm fingers. I had half a mind to sit in a café, but the amount I had already drunk put me off. I walked quickly, feeling the movement relax me. I tried to divert my mind from my writing. As I paced down the narrow lanes I played a game that I have played for years. Looking out for a notable person I tried to decide which novel they were from. Almost immediately an old man hurried up the street towards me. He kept to the shadows as though he wished nobody to see him. He looked sixty or more, though perhaps, upon closer inspection, he might have been younger. He had a doleful, careworn face. He presented me with no difficulties at all. This was obviously Balzac's poor Goriot. In his pocket was some jewel he was hurrying to sell to raise money for his daughters. A man being slowly killed by his love. Love's monstrous, plump fingers beckoning him on, always on, to his death. I shook my head. I love you with darkness and death.

The church seemed empty when I came to it. I allowed its cool darkness to swallow me. I crossed myself, fingers following the worn, ancient ritual, finding in it a certain comfort. For so many years we were denied this. I sat on a pew at the back of the church, my head bowed. Though I could not pray, the church in itself, in its silent space, created an atmosphere of prayer. Just to sit there in silence was to be in communion with something greater, even if that greatness was only the purity of the silence and the way that the sunlight cut through the stained glass of the window.

As I sat with my head bowed I heard footsteps entering the church behind me. A woman's heels clicked on the flagstones and the church door thudded softly. The clicks stopped momentarily and I heard, not far behind me on my left, the soft rustle of a dress as she genuflected. In the silence, also, the delicate breath of a child as it sighed. The heels clicked past me, and from where I sat, head bowed to the floor, I saw her legs stride by. The muscles in her calves tensed beneath her stockings. I watched as she walked down the aisle to the altar. She sat the small child on the front pew and approached the altar alone. She knelt before it and crossed herself and buried her head in her hands as she prayed.

I watched her as any might that sat in that silent space, alone. She knelt before the altar for at least five minutes and perhaps the thought that was uppermost in my head was one of wonder at the young child who through this entire period uttered not one sound.

*

She turned then and picked up the child. She hugged it to her and kissed it. She did this in such a natural way as if they two were alone in that space, as if she had not noticed my presence. Tucking the child onto her hip she turned back up the aisle. In the dimness of the church it was difficult to discern much of her appearance from the back pew. To make it more difficult she was wearing a collar that rode up high around her face, obscuring it. She was about five feet from me when she stepped into a pool of light that fell from a high window.

Her face was illuminated with the suddenness of a revelation. My heart froze and my hand flew to my mouth. She heard my stifled groan and noticed me for the first time. There was a look of surprise in her eyes. Our eyes met and her step faltered for the smallest part of a moment. That look was fifty years old. It cut me to the quick. In that moment the madness of my photographic craze became clear.

She walked quickly past. I remained in the pew, my heart racing. My face burned and my thoughts scattered across the decades. I faintly heard the clicks receding behind me and the soft thud as the door of the church closed behind her. A sudden panic took me then. I stood up and hurried to the large wooden doors. In the darkness I stumbled on some loose matting and fell with a crash, hitting my face. I sat in the darkness, rubbing my head.

Outside the church she seemed to have disappeared. My eyes darted around searching for her. And then I saw her. She was pushing a colourful pram down towards the corner of Maironio Street. On this corner was the gated entrance to the park. As I watched she turned in through the gates. I set off after her, not hurrying, comfortable in the assumption that she would be there when I arrived.

Sure enough, turning through the gates, I saw her kneeling beside the sandpit. A small café was open, but deserted. A middle-aged woman swept the dust behind the building. I wandered to the serving hatch and called into the back. There was no immediate response. Eventually I heard the scuff of old shoes on the tiles. The woman appeared indolently behind the serving hatch. For as long as possible she ignored my presence.

‘Well?' she muttered finally.

‘Coffee,' I said.

She pulled a chipped cup from a pile that was drying and threw it beneath the machine. The machine hissed and steamed as angrily as she did. She slopped the drink onto the counter in front of me. Even though it was nowhere near full, still it managed to spill over the side. She stood there looking at me, not bothering to inform me of the price. I put a Litas note on the counter, which she snatched up. In the Old Town they are politer now. Tourism has forced a change. After all we're Europeans now, not Russians. It was comforting then to find this woman still serving the coffee as I had always had it served, without the smile, without the pleasantries that mean nothing. I smiled. She grunted. She turned and went back to her sweeping.

I sat at a dirty table and watched the young woman. She played for a long time. It was difficult to see much of her from behind. Her hair was long and dark, as the Russian girl's had been. That did not escape me, of course. I saw the meaning in that. I realised what it was that had made me run out into the street, then, to see her. But with the Russian girl it had only been the hair, the hair and the baby. I had started searching for the wrong thing, then, looking for all those young women with their babies.

It had taken that flash of her eyes in the light of the church. That momentary vision had sped me back across the years, years full of movement, ambition and energy. Full of writing and arguing and desperate forgetting. And I had forgotten. I had forgotten and continued to forget with the same fury. Continued to bury, to cover over, though I was no longer aware why.