The Last Girl (9 page)

The telephone was ringing as I put my key into the lock. I fumbled clumsily. Pushing open the door, I hurried quickly over and snatched the heavy receiver from its cradle.

‘Yes?' I panted.

‘Daumantas?' Jonas' voice asked. ‘Yes.'

‘Well? Have you given it some thought?'

I loosened my collar and clenched my jaw. Anger would accomplish nothing. I struggled to control the bitter edge to my voice.

‘I've given it some thought,' I said.

‘Good, good,' he said, sounding genuinely pleased. ‘I knew we could come to some kind of a deal.'

‘I didn't say that I had agreed to do a deal,' I cut in. ‘I've done some thinking, as I said, and what I was thinking was that one hundred dollars was a ridiculous sum to demand.'

Jonas paused, masticating my comment. He came back cautiously. ‘Well, it depends what it's worth to you.'

I sucked my teeth and held back a comment.

‘Let's meet again, maybe we can fix a price that we're both happy with?' Jonas suggested.

‘I want to see the manuscript,' I said. ‘I want to know you've actually got it. I want to know you're not just stringing me along.'

Again Jonas paused. Finally he said, ‘I'll have to see about that. The Red and Black, then, in an hour?'

I looked at my watch. ‘Fine.'

*

The Red and Black was transformed by its early evening clientele. The bar hummed. Music pumped from the sound system, red lights flicked across the tables. Slick young men leaned against the bar chatting, arrogantly loud. They wore suits and flashed smart, fake designer watches at the girls. The men wore their hair cropped very short, as the girls wore their skirts. Small-time mafia types and girls looking for a good time. I felt out of place and wondered why Jonas had chosen this bar.

Arriving first again, I sat at a table in the corner, out of reach of the flash of red light. Sipping slowly at a brandy, I debated how best to deal with Jonas. I doubted threats would achieve much. If I wanted the manuscript it seemed inevitable that I would have to negotiate with him. I decided to offer him the fifty dollars and hope he would accept.

Jonas staggered in through the door and made straight for the bar. He ordered a vodka and downed it immediately. Ordering another he glanced around. He did not see me. He frowned and mopped at his brow with a handkerchief. For some more minutes I watched him before he saw me. A broad, crooked smile broke across his face. Lurching over from the bar he collapsed at my table.

‘Didn't see you here,' he said jovially.

I was in no mood for chat. His face glistened in the blinking lights of the bar. I fixed him with a stare. ‘Did you bring the manuscript?'

He stared at me for a few seconds, his eyes blank. Finally the thoughts seemed to arrange themselves into a vague order in his drink-befuddled mind. He scratched his crotch.

‘Na, well, listen, Steponas,' he said. ‘I asked Iv-' His hand flew to his mouth, covering the indiscretion. ‘I've just got this,' he said. He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his trouser pocket. With trembling hands he attempted to open it out and straighten it. As he did so, the paper tore. I snatched it from his hands and opened it myself. It was the front sheet of the manuscript.
Disease, a novel by Kestutis Rimkus
, was typed in small letters. I folded the sheet again and slipped it into my own pocket.

‘Where's the rest of it?'

‘Well, you'll get that when you've paid for it.'

The drink seemed to have made Jonas nervous. He was not as assured as he had been the previous morning. I felt that if I pressed him he would give more.

‘Have you got it?' I asked. ‘Where did you find it?'

‘Well now…' Jonas laughed nervously. The sentence was left unfinished.

‘What about another drink?' I asked.

His eye lit up. He nodded and lifted his empty glass. I clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave him a smile. He grinned.

‘Well, a little drink and then we can do business,' I said. His face shone with relief.

I took my time getting the drinks. I ordered a bottle and a couple of new glasses. Jonas sat at the table, his eye flicking nervously around the bar. He was smoking a cigarette when I got back. I lit one myself and poured two drinks. His I poured full, so that the vodka spilled slightly over the lip. My own was shorter.

‘To business,' I said and raised my glass. He raised his. We downed the drinks and I poured another immediately. He was well ahead of me. If I paced myself he would be under the table before it had even begun to hit my system.

‘You seen those girls at the bar?' I said, nodding my head in their direction. I filled his glass again. He laughed crudely. ‘Bit expensive for the likes of me and you though,' I said.

‘Oh, I don't know, they pay cleaners well these days,' he joked.

I laughed loudly and watched as he downed the vodka. I refilled as soon as his glass hit the table.

‘Come on,' I said, taking my own glass, ‘you're not keeping up.'

We downed the drinks.

‘It wouldn't be bad though, would it?' I said, making a vulgar gesture with my hand. He laughed, his face glowing, bathed in sweat.

‘The one in red isn't bad,' he said, smacking his lips. ‘Look at that arse!'

His lips hung fat and loose, his eyes rolled and his head began to bob. He wiped his face with his hand, attempting to clear it. I could see he was having trouble focusing on the girls. I poured him one more drink and then began.

‘So, now then, about the price?'

He turned to me, grinning stupidly. Spittle dripped from his lower lip. He nodded his head slowly, churning the words over, gradually making sense of them.

‘The price?' I said slowly and clearly, worrying that he had gone too far.

‘Hundred,' he lisped.

I shook my head definitely. ‘No, too much. Not that I'm against paying, you see,' I clarified slowly, carefully, making sure he followed. ‘I'll pay. It's only right I should give you something for finding it. Where did you find it?'

He shook his head. His lips worked, but he had difficulty getting his voice together. Tentatively the words emerged. ‘It wasn't me.' He paused, grinning. ‘I didn't find them.'

‘Oh,' I said. ‘Who did?'

‘Ivan,' he said. ‘Ivan had them.' He laughed as though this was hilarious.

‘Ivan?'

Jonas' head slumped forward onto the table. I lifted him up. I slapped his face, but he was unable to control his eyelids.

They slid heavily over his eyes. I let his head drop. Leaving the dregs in the bottle, I slipped out into the cool darkness of the evening. Ivan, who was Ivan? I pondered who might have got hold of the manuscript and how they knew it would be important to me.

It was two hours later that I realised what, in fact, I had learnt from Jonas. I was in a small cafe in the ghetto, listening to a middle-aged woman picking out tunes on an old piano. The cafe was quiet. A couple of men sat with their drinks for company. I had taken a table by the window )ind smoked my cheap cigarettes, trawling my mind, searching for a clue to the identity of the mysterious Ivan. Fishing in my pocket for matches, I pulled out the front page of the manuscript. I opened it out and flattened it on the stained tablecloth.
Disease, a novel by Kestutis Rimkus
. It struck me then, suddenly. Rimkus. Could it possibly be? Had he used a pseudonym?

I jumped up from my seat, almost spilling my drink. The woman looked up from the piano. I stepped over to the counter where a small, thin young man was stacking cups. He did not look up as I approached.

‘Do you have a directory?' I asked him, breathless with excitement.

He looked up, questioningly. His eyebrows rose and his forehead furrowed. He poked at his thin, wire-framed spectacles. ‘What?'

‘A directory? A telephone directory?' I asked.

He straightened and glanced over to the corner of the cafe, where in a dark doorway a telephone rested on a broken wooden shelf. Beneath the telephone was an old, dog-eared directory. Taking it I returned to my table and thumbed through it. Finding the R's I ran my finger down the page. There were only a few Rimkuses, no K. Rimkus.

Taking out my stub of a pencil I scribbled down the five telephone numbers that there were for Rimkus. It was quite possible that they were living with their parents, his or hers. It was possible to trace them. I slipped the front page of the manuscript into my pocket.

I finished one more cigarette, then pulled on my jacket and headed home. Passing the Gaon I gave him a slap and a grin. ‘I'll find her,' I assured him. He looked on stonily. It was not yet ten o'clock when I got back to my apartment; I would have time to make some calls before I went to bed.

I pushed the light switch at the bottom of the stairs but nothing happened. I pushed it again, but the light did not come on. Slowly, in almost pitch darkness, I felt my way up the stairs. On each landing the faint light from the street lamps illuminated my path, but between floors I had to shuffle carefully, taking one step at a time. It took almost five minutes to reach my floor. I pulled the keys out of my pocket. As I put the key into the lock, I heard, behind me, a shuffle. I turned quickly to the darkness.

‘Somebody there?' I called.

There was no answer, but a figure moved into the fringe of my sight. I caught a glimpse of the pale hem of a skirt.

‘Grigalaviciene?' I asked, then hopefully, quickly, ‘Svetlana, is that you?'

The figure stepped forward and her face swam into the faint light cast by the street lamps. Jolanta.

‘Jolanta?'

‘Steponas,' she whispered, so quietly I could scarcely hear. She did not move forward. For a silent moment we stood in the darkness. I was bewildered by her sudden presence.

‘Well,' I stammered, ‘you didn't come.'

‘No,' she said. Then after a moment she added, ‘I'm sorry.'

‘No, no,' I said, ‘you don't need to be sorry. I was worried. I was just worried that I would not see you again.' I paused. ‘I didn't know how to find you.'

‘No,' she said simply.

I unlocked the door. Pushing it open, I held it for her.

‘Come in,' I said, flicking on the light. She stepped back quickly. Puzzled, I waited. She moved forward slowly as though the light hurt her. As she moved into the thin arc of light spreading from my doorway, her face was illuminated. I gasped. Hearing the sharp intake of breath, she turned her face from me and squeezed by, looking down at the old wooden tiles on the floor. I closed the door behind her and locked it. She stood in the hallway, resting her head against the bricked-up doorway, her back to me.

‘What happened, Jolanta?'

She did not answer. She allowed me to take her coat. I hung it up on a peg and showed her through to the front room. I put on the soft corner lamp and sat her in my chair by the window. Tears welled in her eyes She held a handkerchief to her face and her shoulders shook but she did not make a sound. I stepped into the kitchen and boiled a pan of water.

Returning with coffee, I leant down beside her. Her eyes wore dark rings and her left cheek was swollen and yellow. A cut ran down the side of her face and another curved around her beautiful, delicate nostril. She turned her eyes away from me as I examined her, but she allowed me to look.

‘Who did it?' I asked.

Not answering, she took the cup gratefully from me and wrapped her fingers around it, drawing it close to her, as though to comfort her. Taking my own coffee, I sat on the chair by the desk. I drank quietly, waiting for her to choose the time to talk. She sat in silence in the soft ring of light cast by the lamp, cradling her cup, occasionally putting it to her lips to feel its warmth, but drinking little. I was not to hear her story that night.

‘I'm tired,' she said, after a while. She looked at me beseechingly. ‘Could I…'

‘Of course, of course,' I said. ‘Stay here. I will change the sheets for you.'

‘I don't want to cause you any trouble,' she said. ‘You were the only person I could think to come to. I will sleep on the sofa, here.'

‘Don't be silly,' I said, getting up.

‘But how did you know where I lived?' I asked from the doorway.

‘The telephone book,' she_ said. ‘Of course.'

I pulled the old sheets off the bed and laid new ones that Svetlana had cleaned for me the previous week. They smelt clean and fresh. I touched the soft surface of the bed as I tucked the sheets in and was glad she would be sleeping there. She seemed almost to be sleeping when I returned to her. Her swollen eyes were closed in their dark sockets. I shook her shoulder gently. She opened her eyes and I saw that she had not been sleeping. A tear ran down her cheek. I wiped it away, feeling the softness of her skin

‘The bed is ready for you,' I told her. ‘You should go and get some rest. Tomorrow you will feel better. Would you like me to call anybody for you? Or perhaps you would like to call yourself ?' I indicated the telephone. She shook her head.

‘The bathroom…' I said, but she had already started for the door. She half turned and I read the look of complete exhaustion in her eyes.

‘I'll go straight to bed,' she said. ‘Thank you.'

‘There's no need to thank me.'

She stumbled into the bedroom and pushed the door closed behind her. The bedsprings squeaked as she sat down. The easy chair by the window was still warm from her body. I watched till the light disappeared from beneath the door and then sat on, thinking of her sleeping. Behind that door. I longed to offer her what comfort I could.

Much later I made a bed of the sofa, uncomfortable with its unfamiliar hardness. But I did not sleep. In the darkness I lay thinking of Rachael. When by two thirty sleep still had not come, I went to the bathroom. In a small cabinet was a box of sleeping pills. I took one with a glass of water. For a further half an hour I lay watching the shadows on the ceiling. Gradually the shadows thickened and I slept.