The Literary Salon.

Drungilas, Zydrunas

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Zydrunas Drungilas's first book, Kita stotele (Next stop), is a collection of texts in various genres, some verging on science fiction, some with recurring characters, subtitled "an explosive mix of absurdity."

No, you won't succeed in sinking into a leather armchair and immersing yourself in pleasant sensations--you're mistaken if you think so. It will be a painful disappointment; you'll even have to undress, and perhaps experience a bit of humiliation. It's guaranteed that you'll lose something, although it won't necessarily be worth anything (it won't seem that way to you). Maybe you shouldn't go? Not unless you really like strange experiences.

At the very beginning, she said, "How do you prefer it, with a shaver or a scissors?"

"Well, you know best. Anything will do."

Then she asks pleasantly if she should leave it long on the ears, on the back, or on the front. Of course, I want as much as possible; it's winter, after all. Besides, I don't have a hat, and it would be nice to still look youngish.

"I'll take it off the back with a shaver. There are too many exclamation points, ellipses, and silences, and the ends are split--you don't look serious."

"What do you mean? Wait a minute, please ... that's my style!"

Then she firmly presses my shoulder with her hand and says, just as pleasantly, "You put yourself into my hands from the start. You'll have to live with it; try to feel some pleasure. It won't take long, after all."

I try to inhale her scent. I can't smell; she doesn't smell at all--no scent, no soap or sweat, and this intimidates me even more. The apparatus quietly vibrates somewhere by my neck. It's nice, one way or another, although I try not to relax. I watch what she's doing.

"And how do you want it on the ears?"

"Leave it."

"Hmm, maybe it's just me, but it seems you don't have an ear for literature at all. Everything's drowned out by shrubbery and undergrowth. Yoo-hoo! Do you hear me?" she shouts, lifting my vegetation.

"I hear," I say, cowering.

"What do you hear?" she shouts.

"I hear you."

"That's the problem," she says in a calm voice again. "Do you hear yourself?"

"I hear myself, sometimes. I do listen. Really, I'm not lying," I say to her. "Particularly when no one's shouting in my ear."

"I'll take you at your word."

And then, maybe for a joke, maybe seriously, she pinches my ear, or maybe catches it with the scissors.

"Oh! Ouch!"

I sink my nails into the armchair.

"Those thickets, it's hard to see through them. No big deal; some hydrogen peroxide will fix it."

And she's right. My ear hisses pleasantly. It really is no big deal. It's better not to joke around with professionals, especially those with sharp instruments in their hands. I still don't know if I've done the right thing, trusting my appearance to someone I don't know. But that's not all of it.

"How's the view? You're looking at the world through a thicket, too. A lot of fog and unsuccessful comparisons; there's nothing concrete. A thick layer of gel. You don't really think something will come of it?"

"All right, take it off." I wave my arm sadly, heaving the cape. "You know better."

"Hold on. Why are you waving your arm sadly? Just wave it," she objects again.

"That's the way I am!" I get a bit angry. "You're not going to change it."

"Okay, I won't change it," she says, and attacks the thickets. Her fingers sink in deep.

I can't be angry about what she's doing, and she's doing it with enthusiasm. Off with branches, climbers, and grapevines, off with Semiramis's hanging gardens. I notice that my appearance in the mirror is starting to become clearer. Was that really gel? Is that really me? Grayish, somehow.

"Well now, how's that?" she puts her head next to mine.

"The form is clearer, the view more obvious, but there's a lot of gray," I assert. Why hadn't I noticed that earlier?

"That's fixable, too," she says, and turns on a fan. "What colors do you like?"

"You know, I like other colors, too. Actually, I like them all, but you just can't have one color overwhelm the others."

"You're right. But you need a bit of passion, so I suggest strands for you, then I'll revitalize you with a deep reconstruction mask."

"Reconstruction?" A lump sticks in my throat.

"Don't worry, it's an ordinary procedure. You'll feel the difference."

I really do feel the difference; even my stride loosens up. I raise my shoulders--they are loose and thrown back. My appearance in the mirror is perhaps a bit too variegated for my taste, but maybe that was just from a distance; I'll check it out at home, who knows, maybe I'll like it.

"Where's that load of yours now?" she smiles.

"Nails," I said. "The toenails would be good, too."

"Do you have an appointment?"

"I do."

"Then come this way."

And she leads me into another room--a smaller one, but just as typical, nothing fancy--to a colleague who also seemed pleasant and smiled at me.

"Sit down, take off your shoes and socks, soak your feet in the bath."

I sit down, take off my shoes and socks, soak my feet in the bath.

"You take everything literally, don't you?" She continues to smile. "Order, structure, no distance. But that's not a big deal. In time an inner ear will appear; you'll begin to distinguish yourself from others, and others from yourself."

"I have it." I turn my head. "I already have it. The gardens and grapevines fell."

"You'll have to wait yet, to get really soaked in all that."

"I'm soaking, I'm soaking!"

I watch her preparing files, scissors, and other unrecognizable instruments. I feel my feet wrinkling, my skin blushing.

"Really, you feel your skin blushing?" she wonders.

"I'm blushing myself, you know so much," I said. "Both of you."

"Thank you," she says. "Dry off your feet."

I lift my leg. I've never lifted a leg in front of a woman before. I turn my foot so she can see it better. She takes it in her hands.

"Your nails are ingrown."

"And what does that mean?" I try to pull my foot out of her hands, but she's holding it firmly.

"You're into yourself, you're hermetic. You probably think you're resistant to the influence of political discourse."

"That's all I need! I'm not interested in politics."

"Nothing's that simple," she says, and picks up a tool with a rough surface, maybe diamond. "I'll rub your sole."

She rubs my sole softly, so softly that I try not to think about politics. Politics is a dirty business. I start laughing about politics. Hah-hah-hah, what foolishness. My skin is thick, my nails are ingrown. Rubbing softly at first, she starts grinding, shaving, peeling: skin, rinds, and peels fall in spirals.

"But."

"But?"

"But you'll rub away all of my resistance to influences."

"In that case, you'll have to concentrate more," she says. Then she picks up a narrow, half-sized file and starts running over all five of my toes like a violin bow.

"I hear music."

"You ear has appeared, that's great," she praises me.

"It's just that you play very well."

"I dreamed of playing a cello when I was a child."

I think it would be worthwhile to turn into a cello at least once in your life so that wonderful sounds would reach the ears. I start relaxing a bit. She catches my mood.

"Stress is good sometimes, too," she says.

"Sometimes," I say, "but one needs to relax, too. One wants to feel the fullness of the moment."

"Everything comes to an end." She doesn't give in.

"Everything comes back around." I don't give in, either. "I think I'll come here again."

"We'll be expecting you," she says, finishing the procedure.

And she really does wait. I've already forgotten this incident, and they're still waiting. I know this because it's already tough to see or hear anything through the thickets.

Vilnius, Lithuania

Translation from the Lithuanian

By Elizabeth Novickas

Visit the WLT website to read--and listen to--another story by Drungilas illustrated by Maria Johnson, our book review editor. Also, check out our Q&A with Elizabeth Novickas on the challenges of capturing Drungilas's humor in English.

Zydrunas Drungilas did his graduate studies at Klaipeda University in Lithuania and the University of Illinois at Chicago. He is currently editor of the weekly cultural journal Siaures Atenai in Vilnius, Lithuania. Between rare but memorable visits to literary salons, he has been seen wandering the streets of Vilnius in a state best described as inscrutable.

Elizabeth Novickas worked in a number of fields before returning to her first love, literature, Her translation of Giedra Radvilaviciute's essays (see page 73) was published in 2013 by Dalkey Archive Press.