The Last Girl (7 page)

‘Jonas? Do you have an address?'

The young man began to look a little impatient.

‘Or just a telephone number?' I said, desperately. ‘This is important.'

He thought for a moment, and then sighed. ‘Fine, wait a moment, I will get his number for you.' He walked over to the counter. I saw the young woman address him, nodding her head in my direction. He pulled out a small book from under the counter and wrote a number down on a menu pad.

‘Thank you,' I said as he pressed it into my hand.

When I dialled the number, later that evening, from my apartment, nobody answered. I stared at the large black receiver, willing a response, but after listening to it ringing for minutes on end I finally dropped it back into its cradle. I went to bed early and tossed around before falling into a deep sleep. In the morning I awoke feeling much better.

At eight Grigalaviciene banged on the door again. I opened it and let her in. She had a parcel of goods in her hands that she bustled through to the kitchen.

‘I was at the market this morning,' she explained. ‘I thought I would get you one or two things to save you the bother.'

‘It's no bother for me,' I said, but, feeling brighter, added, ‘thank you.'

She clicked her tongue at this uncalled-for pleasantry. Not acknowledging my thanks, she turned and appraised me with her sharp old eyes. ‘Well, you're certainly looking a bit better this morning.'

‘I feel it,' I said, thumping my chest.

‘
Nu
, well, you don't deserve it,' she said, making her way to the door.

‘What do I owe you for the vegetables?' I asked. ‘Ten,' she said.

I fished in my wallet and gave her a note.

‘Oh,' she said as she left. ‘You had a visitor last night, while you were out.'

‘I did?'

‘A woman,' she said pointedly.

My heart faltered. ‘A woman?' I asked. Jolanta. Could it have been? How could it have been? I thought. My mind raced as Grigalaviciene stood there coyly holding back her information. What other woman would come to visit me? Was it so hard, after all, to find out where I lived? I was in the telephone book.

‘A young woman?' I asked.

Grigalaviciene pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. ‘Young? You wanting young women to come visit, are you?' she said. ‘Well, she was younger than me, but,
nu
, most are.'

‘For goodness' sake,' I said impatiently.

‘She wasn't so young you should be getting so excited about it,' Grigalaviciene said disdainfully. ‘Svetlana, she said her name was.' She shook her head and wiped her hands against the faded apron she wore, as if wiping the dirt of my business from her.

‘Svetlana?' For a moment I was startled.

‘I don't know what you're up to and I don't want to know,' Grigalaviciene said, standing in the hallway outside my door, looking hungry for gossip.

‘I'm not up to anything,' I said, irritated. ‘What did she want?'

‘As I said, I'm not a one for prying into your business.'

‘Did she say what she wanted?'

‘I've got better things to do with my time.'

‘What did she want?' I shouted.

A 1ook of fury crossed her old face then. The creases tightened and her mouth set in an angry straight line. ‘She didn't say what she wanted and I didn't ask,' she spat out. ‘And in future don't go loading all your dirty business on me. It's enough having to put up with your drinking and the fear of what violence you might do, without -'

A roar of rage sprang from my own throat and Grigalaviciene, frightened, scuttled away to her own apartment. I heard the two sets of doors slam and the sound of locks turning. I slammed my own door.

When I telephoned the number again that morning, a timid woman's voice answered. It was Jonas' daughter. Her father, she told me, was at work and would not be back till lunch. She did not know about a bag and said I would have to talk to her father about it. She agreed hesitantly to take a message. I left my name and telephone number with her.

Slipping on my jacket I made my way once more down the stairs and across the parking lot to Jewish Street. The sun was out and the sky was a brilliant cobalt. The spires of the churches shone. The oppressive weight that had been lying on my heart lifted slightly. But a hot flush passed over my face at the mere thought of telling Jolanta I had lost the manuscript when I met her for lunch the next day.

The café was closed and there seemed little sign of activity. The streets were busy. Tradesmen were setting out their stalls of amber trinkets to sell to the tourists, and students wandered to the university. I peered into the darkness of the café. The window was dirty and I could see little through it. The doors were locked and would not shift an inch when I tried them. I sighed and pressed my nose against them, banging as loudly as I could with my fist.

‘There something you want?' A voice from behind startled me. I turned. A man with a heavily scarred face stood on the pavement holding a broom in his hand.

‘I'm looking for the cleaner here,' I explained.

‘Oh yes?' the man grunted. He cocked his head sideways as he spoke to me, as though he had difficulty hearing me through his left ear.

‘Do you know him?' I asked. ‘His name is Jonas.'

‘Might do,' the man said, looking shifty. ‘Depends.'

Not wanting to explain my business to a stranger I was a little annoyed at the man's obtuse approach.

‘What does it depend on?' I asked sharply.

He shifted his broom from one hand to the other and wiped his brow with his sleeve. He leaned closer and I could smell his foul breath. I leaned away slightly. ‘It depends on what you're wanting him for.'

One of his eyes strayed around a little loosely while the other pinned me suspiciously.

‘When I was here a couple of nights ago,' I said, ‘I left a bag behind. I asked the staff last night, but they said that this Jonas would be the one who picked it up.'

He nodded. ‘Well, that'll be me you're wanting then.' He looked up into the sky, thoughtfully. ‘A bag, you say.' He rubbed a thick finger along the heavy scar across his cheek. ‘What kind of a bag might it have been?' His eye fixed me again.

‘It was a plastic bag. Just an ordinary bag, one of these new supermarket ones. It had some papers inside. A whole lot of paper.'

The eye did not leave me now. He seemed to be considering whether I was joking. He breathed his foul breath over me, edging a little closer. ‘You're telling me you're looking for a plastic bag full of paper?' he said. ‘Paper?'

‘It was important,' I said impatiently, not wanting to have to go into a full-scale explanation. ‘They were documents,' I said, pronouncing the word with great gravity.

‘Oh, ah,' he said, fingering the scar again. ‘
Nu
, well, if they were documents, then I understand,' he said. ‘Documents,' he repeated to himself, savouring the word. ‘
Nu
, so they were documents that have gone missing, eh? Well!'

I waited, hoping his ruminations were leading somewhere. ‘So?' I asked finally. ‘Did you find them?'

He was startled by the aggression with which I spoke to him. He stepped back, wiping his hands on his dirty jacket. ‘Did I find your documents? Well, I don't know if l did. What night did you say it was?'

I told him.

‘No, no,' he said, shaking his head. ‘A plastic bag you say? No, I don't think so. But wait.' A thought struck him. He looked around to see that nobody was listening. He leaned forward, forcing me further back into the doorway. ‘There was a bag the other day,' he whispered, conspiratorially. My heart leaped. Noticing my joy he seemed heartened. He nodded his head enthusiastically. ‘Yes, yes, there was one,' he said, excited. He gripped my arm. ‘Wait!' And he held up one of his spade-like fingers. He turned and disappeared around the side of the building. I followed him.

A short dark alley-way led around the side of the café. The alley-way gave out onto a small courtyard. On the left of the courtyard bins overflowed outside the back door of the café. Wooden walkways sagged around the second floor of the bare brick buildings. The courtyard was cobbled. Weeds and grass grew through the cobbles, pushing them up. Whilst the street had been smartly plastered and painted, these courtyards remained untouched. They lay in sad neglect, falling slowly to pieces as the whole city, only a few years before, had been.

Jonas ducked inside a doorway. I stood on the uneven cobbles, waiting, relieved. The next day opened rosily before me. We would lunch at the new café opposite the Filharmonija. I would be able to give her my opinion of her husband's writing. I would be able to watch her across the table. The way her dark hair fell over her shoulder when she let it loose. The way her elegant fingers rested on the table. And those eyes. I would feel the slight pressure of our feet under the table.

Jonas reappeared from the café doorway, grinning hideously. In his hand he held a large plastic bag with a semi-naked woman printed on the side. He held it up to me with a flourish, his good eye glinting in the dull light of the courtyard. ‘There!' he declared.

‘That's not it!' I cried, sagging with disappointment. The idiotic grin on his face made me angry. He regarded me nervously, noticing my anger and disappointment.

‘No?' he said, crestfallen.

‘No!' I shouted at him. I took the bag from him and emptied its contents with one fierce shake. A pair of old shoes bounced on the cobbles and lay among the weeds. Jonas looked at them stupidly.

In my disappointed fury I felt like beating him, and if I had been younger I might have given in to the impulse. He hobbled around in his old ripped shoes, red-faced. It took only moments for him to recover, however, and then he swore and shook his fist in my face. I demanded he tell me where he kept lost property. It soon became clear that it was dealt with according to its value. If it was something he felt to be useful he took it home, the rest was thrown away. I had little doubt as to the fate of my bag.

‘No, no.' He shook his head. ‘Describe it again,' he said. ‘A blue bag, the other morning.' He shook his head again. ‘I certainly didn't throw it into the bin. I would have remembered.'

I left him scratching his scar ruminatively.

‘If I come across it,' he shouted after me, ‘who should I call?'

I stopped. There was little hope of it appearing. I turned, though, and taking a pencil from my jacket pocket wrote my telephone number on a scrap of paper. Holding it up in front of his good eye he examined it, then nodded.

‘I'll look around today,' he assured me. ‘You never know, it might turn up.' He tucked the scrap of paper into his shirt pocket. I turned then and left with no hope.

Be that as it may, for the rest of the day I did not go out. I hung around the apartment, my ear cocked for the telephone. The minutes dragged like hours and the hours were endless. The telephone sat like a squat, dark toad in the corner but failed to croak. By nine p.m. he had not rung. I kicked around the kitchen drinking brandy from the bottle, taking measured sips despite my desperation.

Had I really expected he would call? At nine thirty I approached the toad and grabbed it firmly. I dialled the number on the small menu sheet.

The receiver buzzed in my ear. On the third buzz it was snatched up. Distantly I heard the sound of shouting. A young woman's voice came on the line. It was the same girl I had spoken to earlier. I asked for her father. Dropping the receiver onto a hard surface, causing it to echo sharply in my ear, she shouted. Moments later Jonas grunted into the phone. I noted at once that he was drunk.

‘Daumantas,' I said.

‘Who?' he shouted down the line, aggressively.

‘Daumantas,' I repeated, enunciating each syllable with pedantic care. ‘We spoke this morning. The bag?'

‘What?' Jonas shouted back, stupidly. ‘What the hell are you talking about?' He turned his mouth only slightly from the mouthpiece to shout back into his own apartment.

‘Turn that music down! Blyad!' The line clicked and then growled in my ear. I slammed my receiver back onto its squat body.

Aware that it was almost twelve, the time we had arranged to meet, I trudged slowly up Castle Street. I could not force myself to walk faster. With each step I longed to turn back and make my way home; I could not face telling her I had lost the manuscript. Somewhere a church bell began to toll and the sound rolled across the rooftops. I glanced at my watch; it was twelve o'clock exactly. I hurried a little then, not wanting to be too late, but the streets were crowded and it took a good ten minutes to reach the Filharmonija. As I drew closer I glanced ahead gloomily to the restaurant where we were due to dine. Tables had been placed outside and the wind caught the edge of their cloths, lifting them, revealing legs suggestively. I braced myself and, like a man on the way to the gallows, forced my feet on.

The small restaurant was bustling with activity. I glanced around the diners, searching out her face; hoping, fearing, I would see her. I sat by the window, close to the door. Not studying the menu, I gazed out past the brightly blooming window boxes. It was quarter past twelve. I rehearsed my speech.

Late the previous evening, after my call to Jonas had convinced me there was no hope left, I realised I would have to tell her. I had half entertained the idea of pretending I still had the manuscript, explaining that I had not yet had the chance to read more than a few paragraphs of it, but that what I had read was good, that it had caught my imagination, the idea of the moral dislocation of war. It would be a good excuse to meet her again. But it would only delay the inevitable. The bag was not going to reappear. I could not doubt her response: disgust and fury at an old drunkard.

No waiter came to serve me. I watched for her. She had been late for our previous meeting, I remembered. Where was she? Another bookshop? I pictured her looking at her watch, suddenly noticing the time. Rushing out.