The Last Girl (6 page)

At eight o'clock there was a short rap on the door. I looked up. Irrationally I immediately supposed it was her. My heart thumped wildly. I sat petrified in my chair. After a few seconds the rapping was repeated. It could not have been her, she did not have my address. I shuffled over to the door.

‘Who is it?' I shouted. My voice sounded strange to my ears, it had been so many hours since I had last heard it.

‘It's me,' a voice replied. Grigalaviciene. I fumbled with the lock thankfully. She looked in at me through the doorway.

‘You're still alive?' she said, looking like she had sniffed something foul.

‘As you can see,' I said, quite jovially, attempting to indicate with a sweep of my hand how vigorous I still was. My hand hit the open door, bruising my knuckle.

Grigalaviciene pushed into the apartment, propelling me with her hand against the wall. I did not. stop her. She nosed around like a suspicious dog.

‘We were wondering,' she said caustically. ‘What with all the fuss you were causing the other night.'

I did not answer. I closed the door and, cradling my knuckles in the palm of my other hand, followed her into the apartment. She picked up my waste bin, which was overflowing.

‘You missed the rubbish van,' she reprimanded.

‘I wasn't feeling too well,' I said.

‘Shouldn't wonder,' she satd without a smile.

Grigalaviciene was probably younger than me. She did not like me to think this though. She was perhaps seventy, but it was hard to place her, she could have been anything from sixty to eighty-five. She had lived in these apartments at least as long as I had. She was not married. Maybe she had been once, but that had been a long time ago. I studied her wrinkled, sour face. Her lips were puckered up, giving her the expression of continual prudish distaste. She was wearing a pink housecoat.

‘When you didn't appear yesterday we thought you'd really gone and done it,' she said. She had made her way to the kitchen and put a small pan of water onto the stove. ‘I was just saying to old Adamkiene, it looks like Daumantas really has overdone it this time. Did you hear him? she says to me. How could I not hear him? I said, shouting like that for everybody to hear. I don't know.' She shook her head. When the water boiled she spooned two generous heaps of Russian tea into a couple of cups and poured on the water. I stood in the doorway of the small kitchen watching her, a little amused, though her voice was not helping my headache.

‘Here,' she said, turning with the steaming cup. ‘Drink this. I bet you haven't any shopping in, have you?' She pulled open the cupboard doors and tutted over the crumbs and empty shelves.

‘What do I want shopping for?' I said, taking the cup.

‘You don't need to eat?' she spat at me.

‘I buy what I need for the day. What's the point in getting more?' I wandered back to the front room and let myself down into my chair.

‘And today you don't need anything?' Grigalaviciene said, following me, slurping her hot tea noisily.

‘It's just after eight, I haven't had the chance to get out yet.'

She grunted derisively. I watched as she pottered around the room, tidying it. She picked up items of clothing and hung them neatly over the backs of chairs. She straightened the carpets and took a small dustpan and brush and collected the fragments of glass from the bottle I had broken two nights earlier. All this she did clicking her tongue angrily and muttering to herself. A little irritated I said, ‘If you're talking to me, you'd better speak up because I can't hear you.'

She turned angrily, brandishing the dustpan full of glass. ‘It's not enough that I have to clear up my own apartment, I have to come up and clear up after your drunken orgies.'

‘I never asked you to,' I said belligerently, my head sore.

‘I'm just supposed to watch you killing yourself, am I?' she shot back. ‘That would be a good Christian attitude, wouldn't it!' She marched off into the kitchen and emptied the glass into some newspaper, which she folded carefully before putting it into a plastic bag. ‘You're going to have to wait till tomorrow for the rubbish,' she called from the kitchen.

‘I know when the rubbish van comes,' I said.

She wandered back out of the kitchen rubbing her hands. ‘Well, it's a bit tidier now. That'll have to do for the moment. I'm busy, I can't go chasing round after you all day long. I'll pop down to the shops later to get a few groceries.'

‘You don't need to,' I said.

She grunted derisively again, as though I was an imbecile. She poked about on my desk, rooting among the papers.

‘What are you after there?' I asked.

‘Where do you keep your money?'

‘I'm not telling you where I keep my money.'

‘Suit yourself, you can pay me when I come back.'

I sighed, irritated, and pulled out my wallet. I took a creased five Litas note out and tossed it to her. ‘Here. Just buy some bread and milk.'

She picked up the note and poked it into her pocket. As she turned to leave she noticed the pictures of the women on the wall.

‘What's all this then?' she asked, her voice alive with the expectation of gossip.

‘Nothing for you,' I said angrily.

‘Nuh!' she said, nose in the air, and shuffled off to the door not looking back.

‘Grigalaviciene!' I called as she disappeared through the door.

‘What is it?' she shouted back, not reappearing.

‘Thank you,' I called testily. She grunted.

As I sat in my chair by the window, watching the build-up of clouds, the hours passed slowly. The thought of the missing manuscript gnawed at me. I had arranged to meet Jolanta for lunch at the Filharmonija café on Thursday. That gave me two days.

Hour after hour I paced the floor of my apartment. I half thought about sending Grigalaviciene out to the café, but in­ the end decided not to. By early evening I could stand it no longer. Despite the shaking of my hands I pulled on a thick coat, buttoned it up to my chin and left the apartment. The stairs seemed unusually steep and perilous and I had difficulty descending them. I clung tightly to the banister, my eyes straining at the steps in the dim light of the stairwell. Hearing my door, Grigalaviciene poked her head out.

‘Where are you going?' she asked.

‘Mind your own business,' I told her.

‘You trying to kill yourself or what?'

‘I'm just going for a walk.'

‘You're not in any fit state to go wandering around in the darkness,' she said. I noticed something akin to concern in her rough voice. I sighed and carried on down the stairs.

‘Don't blame me if you kill yourself,' she shouted, slamming the door behind her.

The night was not cold but I could not stop shivering. My legs felt weak and my head ached. I pressed slowly on through the dark narrow streets of the ghetto towards the café at the corner of Pilies Street, where I had been drinking. The streets were quiet. The café, though, when I got there, was quite busy. Mainly young students drinking beer. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of coffee and cakes. I pushed through the chairs to the counter where a harassed young woman dashed from the coffee machine to the cake stand and back.

‘Yes?' she said as I got to the front of the queue, displaying none of the new manners the West had brought. I hesitated a moment. Behind me the queue had grown longer, stretching back to the door. I felt a hand against my back.

‘Two nights ago,' I began. ‘I was drinking here.'

‘What do you want?' the young woman cut in.

‘I left something here,' I tried to continue. ‘I left a bag here, a plastic bag. It had papers in it.'

‘I'm sorry, I don't know anything about that,' she said annoyed. ‘Do you want something or not?'

The hand against my back had become more persistent in its pressure. From farther back in the queue I heard a young male voice calling, ‘Come on, granddad.'

‘It's very important,' I said.

‘I'm sorry,' the young woman said again. ‘I don't know anything about it.' Her eyes had already started to wander to the customers behind me. Feeling helpless, I quickly ordered a coffee. As she stood at the machine making it, I continued, ‘I think the bag was blue. It is very important, it didn't actually belong to me.' But she could not hear anyway above the explosive splutters of the coffee machine. She slopped the coffee down in front of me.

‘Litas,' she said, and while I fumbled for my wallet she had already turned to the couple behind me with an apology. I laid the crumpled note on the counter and took my coffee. In the corner there was a seat and I made my way over there. A sweat had broken out on my face and I felt faint and sick. My hands shook so much, as I crossed the crowded room, that still more of the drink slopped over the side of the small cup into the saucer. At the table I slumped into the metal chair and rested my head in my hands. I closed my eyes and tried to stop my head swimming. After a couple of minutes the nausea began to subside. I felt exhausted.

It had been a mistake to come to the café at this hour; it was crowded. As one group left, another pushed in loudly through the doors. I glanced at my watch. It was eight o'clock. I sipped the coffee slowly, hoping that the crowd might thin out, taking some strain off the girl behind the counter.

By nine business in the café seemed no less hectic and I was beginning to despair. I knew that it would be sensible to go back home and come again in the morning, when things would be quieter. My eyes had been on the young woman behind the counter continually. She did not stop. Her long hair was tied back neatly, but as time wore on, strands came loose and flapped across her face. Perspiration shone on her forehead. Occasionally she forced a smile for a customer but otherwise her expression was strictly businesslike. It was a bit of a surprise therefore to see a real broad smile cross her face when the door pushed open just after nine, setting the small bell tinkling once more. Following her gaze my eyes jumped over to the doorway. A young man entered, his dark hair swept back, a scarf flung around his neck. He waved to the girl across the heads of the customers. It took me a few moments to recognise him.

He made his way to the back of the café and disappeared through a doorway. The girl called out to him as he disappeared and he shouted something back I could not hear above the noise of the chatter. My heart jumped with a spasm of joy and relief. I got up and pushed through the chairs and tables, excusing myself. Passing the counter I made for the door through which the young man had disappeared.

‘Hey!' the girl called after me. ‘You can't go in there.' She leapt out and grabbed me before I managed to push through the door. I tried to shrug myself free, but she held my sleeve tightly.

‘Where do you want to go?' she asked. Recognition flickered across her face as she looked at me. A wearied, intolerant tone inflected her voice. ‘That door is for staff only. If it's the toilet you want, it's out through there.' She indicated the direction with an impatient sweep of her hand. ‘I'll get you the key.'

‘It's not the toilet I want,' I said, equally impatiently. ‘I need to speak to that young man.'

‘What young man?' She frowned. The perspiration on her forehead glittered in the harsh light. She was so close I could feel the heat of her body.

‘The young man that just walked through these doors,' I said. ‘I must speak with him.'

‘Gintas?'

At that moment Gintas appeared, looking clean and fresh in a white shirt. He stopped short seeing the two of us, there, in the small passageway. The young woman looked at him relieved.

‘Everything OK?' Gintas asked.

‘He says that he wants to speak to you,' the young woman said, rolling her eyes, not caring that I saw.

‘Really?' he said, puzzled.

‘You were working here two nights ago,' I told him. ‘I was in here having a drink or two.' I recalled, as I said this, his politeness in the face of my abuse. I felt a blush of shame pass up across my face. I pressed on. There was no indication in his eyes that he remembered me. ‘I left something very important here, in a bag. It was a blue bag, plastic. Inside there was a manuscript. You see, it wasn't mine. It's very important that I get it back. A young girl gave it to me to read.' I tailed off, seeing the confused look in his eyes.

‘I'm sorry.' He shook his head. ‘I don't recall there being anything left.'

I grabbed his arm desperately. He was a little taken aback by this but remained polite. He gently removed my arm. I let it drop.

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘Only this means so much to me.' Suddenly, feeling the hopelessness of it all, I turned to leave.

‘Wait,' the young man stopped me. ‘Last night, you said?'

‘No,' I said. ‘Two nights ago.' I paused. The young man obviously wanted to help and was searching around fruitlessly in his memory.

‘I had too much to drink,' I said.

He laughed. ‘A lot of people have too much to drink here.'

‘You told me I had had enough. I told you that I would tell you when I had had enough. I was unpleasant. I'm sorry about that.'

The young man's face suddenly lit up. Then he frowned. ‘I remember,' he said, clapping me on the shoulder. ‘You're right, you were a bit unpleasant.' He laughed.

‘And do you remember the bag?' I asked quickly.

He thought. But then he shook his head again. ‘No, I'm sorry. I don't remember any bag.' But he caught my arm. ‘Listen, I'm not really the person you should be speaking to. I don't really do any cleaning up here after hours. You should speak to the cleaning staff.'

‘Are they here now?' I asked.

He shook his head. ‘Jonas comes in the morning. Come here at about eight in the morning and you're bound to catch him. If anybody knows, he will.'