Romualdas Lankauskas
The woman was truly beautiful and her children, a fair-haired boy and a graceful girl, were like their mother – cheerful and glowing with good health and a youthfulness that had not yet reached its end, although she must have been about thirty-five, if not more. Her husband was obviously much older – a small man with a tired face, yet nimble, good-humoured and full of the joy of life, which he wanted to share with everyone. I quickly became friends with Benedict. He was open and talkative.
‘It’s great here, isn’t it?’ he asked me, arranging his fishing poles. ‘And what peace!’
‘The lake is wonderful, but still, it’s not the sea,’ I said. ‘Nothing compares with the sea.’
The house where we were spending our holiday stood on a hill. The lake sparkled below – a blue jewel in a ring of green trees.
‘No, don’t say that,’ said Benedict as he sharpened his fishing hooks. ‘Of course, Palanga is a nice resort, but I don’t like it. Too many people, too much noise. You can only really relax beside this lake. This is already our third year holidaying here. And the perch! Good Lord! Early yesterday morning, I caught three. And one weighed more than a kilogram.’
‘You don’t say,’ I doubted.
‘You don’t believe me? Then ask my wife. I’ll call her.’
He shouted.
A window opened and a woman’s beautiful face appeared.
‘Good day,’ I greeted her, bowing my head.
The woman smiled at me.
‘You’ll be spending your holiday with us?’
‘Yes, I’ve already made arrangements for a room with the landlady.’
‘Will you stay long?’
‘Perhaps the entire month, if the weather is nice.’
‘Lucia, he doesn’t believe that I caught three perch yesterday, each about a kilogram,’ Benedict said in a slightly offended tone.
‘Yes, he caught them,’ the woman assured me. ‘Benedict catches something every day. I’m tired of cleaning them. I give the smaller ones to the cat.’
‘You see, and you didn’t want to believe me,’ Benedict said triumphantly. ‘So get your fishing poles and let’s go to the lake. I’ll show you a spot where there’s perch aplenty. You won’t catch anything if you don’t know where to look. At first, I’d come home with very little. But now, I’m thoroughly convinced there are many fish in this lake.’
‘So what if there are a lot of fish,’ the woman shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m bored. We must go to Palanga next year.’
‘Lucia, you know that the doctor advised me not to go to the sea.’ Benedict turned to me and said: ‘You see, I’ve been sick with TB. I worked very hard, I was exhausted, and I caught that cursed disease. I was afraid I might kick the bucket, but I was treated at the sanatorium and recovered somehow. I feel reasonably well now. The air is good here among the pine trees. My lungs will get better and I’ll be able to go back to work.’
‘Lord, but it’s boring here,’ the woman sighed. ‘You won’t be able to tolerate it for long. What are you going to do when you grow tired of fishing?’
‘I’ll go sailing. It’s my favourite sport.’
‘Ah, sailing,’ she smiled. ‘Perhaps you’ll take me along.’
I remained silent, disconcerted by her request.
‘Of course he will,’ Benedict said cheerfully, ‘if you fry him some fish. He’ll go fishing with me and won’t come back empty-handed.’
We walked to the lake, carrying our fishing poles, cans full of worms and nets to hold the fish in the water. As we walked down the hill, I felt the woman’s eyes following me. I was tempted to turn around but didn’t, and I quickly began pushing Benedict’s rowing boat into the water. There was a wet rope on the bottom, coiled like a snake; one end was tied to a heavy stone. Benedict used it as an anchor.
I rowed and Benedict sat on the bench opposite me, his bare feet thrust forward, his old pants rolled at the ankles, talking about himself, his wife and his children. You couldn’t help but think he was one of those rare people fortunate to have a happy family. Many would undoubtedly have envied him.
We rowed out to the other side of the lake for here, according to Benedict, was the kingdom of the perch. We dropped anchor, cast our fishing lines, and before long, my bobber submerged. I pulled out a small perch.
‘Perca fluviatilis,’ I said.
‘What?’ Benedict didn’t understand.
‘It’s the Latin name for perch.’
Benedict laughed.
‘You must be a naturalist, since you know the Latin names.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’
‘I may be uneducated, but the fish like me better,’ he chuckled as he pulled out large perches and mullet. Meanwhile, I had to satisfy myself with rather puny specimens. ‘But, don’t be discouraged. Tomorrow we’ll get up at sunrise and catch some roaches… What is the Latin name?’
‘Rutilus rutilus.’
‘Indeed, we’ll catch some roaches and then we’ll get the perch.’
‘From your lips to God’s ear,’ I said.
The next morning, Benedict woke me very early (the sun had not yet risen) and by six o’clock we were on the lake, which was covered in a greyish mist. The morning was foggy and very quiet. Not even the smallest wavelet disturbed the surface of the lake and only once in a while did a fish hunting its prey splash in the reeds or a duck screech upon awakening. The air was filled with the scent of water. I washed my sleepy face and then suddenly I felt the first demure rays of sunlight. In my heart I felt at peace and contented. Beyond the noise of the city, beyond the heat and humidity, I was once again where I wanted to be, a place where you could feel the wonder, the mystery and the infinite vitality of nature from which we sometimes so foolishly distance ourselves, drowning in the smoke of diesel and tobacco, losing ourselves amid stone walls and strange and indifferent people. My efforts at fishing were not as successful as Benedict’s, whose fishing pole had already twice curved down and twice I saw and heard a heavy perch, flat as a slab of silver, fall into the bottom of the boat. I had snagged a large perch myself – both of my bobbers had shot like bullets toward the bottom – but I was unable to pull it out; it escaped right at the side of the boat and dived into the depths. Benedict tried very hard to console me, for I was very upset, and pointed out the mistakes I had made.
Perhaps I misunderstood his instructions that morning because I didn’t catch anything. The roaches died and I threw them back into the water. I sat in the boat in a sour mood.
Benedict pointed the tip of his fishing pole at the largest of the perch.
‘This handsome predator is yours,’ he said.
‘No, keep it for yourself.’
‘I said it’s yours, and not another word. I’ll tell my wife to cook it for your dinner.’
Benedict’s family was already up by the time we reached the shore. The children were playing in the orchard. His wife, seated in a wicker chair, was embroidering a silk handkerchief. She wore a dress with a deep neckline and I noticed that she was wearing lipstick and had done her hair differently. Now she looked even more beautiful, and Benedict’s homely and unhealthy countenance was much more conspicuous. His face was a matt grey, like the faces of those seriously afflicted with tuberculosis.
The woman looked at the fish with disgust.
‘I’ll have to struggle with those perch again. Cleaning them is miserable: my hair smells of fish and my hands look like they belong to a laundress.’
‘I’ll help you,’ I said
‘Do you know how?’ She laughed and rose from her seat. ‘Very well, bring the fish behind the barn. That’s where I clean them.’
Benedict went up for a nap.
There was a board in the grass behind the barn. It was covered with fish scales. I placed the perches on the board. The woman brought a knife and fork. She knelt down beside me.
‘Pierce the tail with the fork and hold it firmly.’
Fish scales flew in all directions and her strong, bare arms worked so close to mine that I wanted to touch them and feel the softness of her skin. A gold wedding ring glittered on her finger and she wore another with a precious stone. She smelled of expensive perfume and even the acrid smell of the fish did not smother its aroma. On one occasion she leaned against my shoulder and it smouldered for a long time as if it were sunburned.
She then threw the cleaned perch into a bowl, looked at her scale-covered hands, took off her apron and asked me if I could see what had fallen into her eye. Her eyes were large, blue and clear as lake water. My fingers trembled when I touched her eyebrow.
‘I don’t see anything,’ I said.
‘Oh, it’s all right now,’ and she gave me an enigmatic and curious smile. ‘Thank you. It must have been a midge. When I’ve cooked the fish, I’ll bring it to you.’
She walked away, stepping carefully with her bare, suntanned and strong legs. The cat was devouring fish innards in the grass. I decided to go for a swim and then for a ride in the sailboat that the village yacht club had let me use.
The wind had picked up and the boat leaned dangerously to the side when a squall rose in the middle of the lake; I nearly capsized when I tried to turn it around. I would have died of shame if the young men had run from the yacht club to help me and found me floundering beside the boat. Nevertheless, I made it safely to the shore, fastened the boat to a post at the pier and hurried back for dinner. I was ravenously hungry.
Benedict’s wife brought me a fatty fried perch and some freshly boiled potatoes. I tasted it and licked my lips.
‘Delicious.’
‘I can’t even look at fish.’
She stood and watched me eating for a while, then left the room humming a melody. Benedict’s wife – what a woman! Why had I not met her while she was single? I would’ve proposed instantly.
I don’t exactly remember when it happened, it must have been Saturday. The landlady went to the market, Benedict went to the village to buy some hooks and lead weights, and the boy and girl ran off to play with the yacht-club guard’s children.
It was drizzling outside. I was reading in my room. Benedict’s wife, that beautiful and lovely woman, knocked on the door and asked if I could put up a rope up in the barn so she could hang the laundry. If it weren’t for the unexpected rain she would have hung up the washing outside. But it didn’t look like the rain would stop any time soon.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you, Leonard.’
‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘I’m happy to be of service.’
I put the book, an interesting work on the habits of bugs and beetles, to one side. I took the rope from her hands, found some nails and a hammer and went to the barn to look for a suitable place to drive in the nails. The acrid smell of freshly mown hay filled the barn. I stretched the rope from one wooden wall to the other.
She brought in a basket of laundry and began hanging it. I stood nearby, giddy from the smell of hay and her closeness. Suddenly, she burst out laughing, she laughed long and loudly, and then, as though bereft of strength, she collapsed onto the hay and stretched out her strong brown legs. Her dress slid upward. I saw her round, tanned knees and in that instant I saw nothing but them and a hot mist covered my eyes.
I turned around and practically ran out of the barn. Her laughter rang in my ears for a long time. Soaked through, I walked aimlessly in the rain. Finally, I went to the yacht club, sat on a bench and stared at the surface of the water, grey and stippled by the falling rain. A profound sadness overwhelmed me.
After that hot and rainy afternoon, she no longer spoke to me. She would greet me coldly, yet politely, on her way to her morning ablutions by the lake. Benedict and I would fish all day and now I fried the catch myself. Often we heard the rumble of a motor on the lake; a red motorboat would speed past us. A large, corpulent man in a green shirt sat at the wheel. That motorboat belonged to the chairman of the co-operative; he dashed about the lake like a madman, throwing out jigs and setting his bobbers baited with small live fish with which he always caught large pike.
I didn’t like him, I don’t know why. But Benedict found some common interests to talk about and even invited him for dinner. Benedict’s wife began to smile again – not at me but at the chairman of the co-operative, who spoke charmingly and was very deferential.
At that time the blueberries in the forest on the other side of the lake had ripened. Every day the women and children would return with full baskets.
‘We should pick some berries too,’ said Benedict’s wife.
She was washing her legs in the lake. Benedict and I had just returned from fishing and were winding up our fishing poles. The chairman of the co-operative was tinkering with the motor on his boat. He raised his head.
‘If you like, I can take you to the other side of the lake.’
The woman glowed with pleasure.
‘When?’
‘Right now. I’ll just fill the tank with gasoline,’ he said, scratching his broad hairy chest.
‘What are you waiting for?’ said Benedict. ‘Call the children and go.’
They cast off. The children were thrilled but the rumble of the motor soon engulfed their cheerful voices. The boat lunged forward and took off, spraying white foam in its wake. It soon disappeared from view. Benedict went off to clean his perch. He whistled as he walked up the hill.
If I had kept a diary I would be able to read in it now, more or less, the following intermittent entries:
Wednesday. Benedict’s wife returned in the evening with a basket full of blueberries; the children had gathered mushrooms. When she cooked them, the whole house was filled with their aroma.
Thursday. They went berry picking again. Today, Benedict seemed out of sorts for some reason. He didn’t joke with me and he didn’t catch much while fishing; he let go of two large perch.
Saturday. This afternoon I went sailing, wanting to practise turning about in a strong wind. At the north end of the lake, beyond the peninsula, I passed the chairman of the co-operative and Benedict’s wife sitting in the red motorboat. She pretended not to see me. In the evening, Benedict walked in the yard for a long time and smoked many cigarettes, although he had told me he quit smoking when he became ill with TB.
Sunday. The beautiful woman is blooming like a flower. She went berry picking again today. She and the chairman of the co-operative can be seen on the lake with increasing frequency. It’s as though Benedict doesn’t exist.
Tuesday. Benedict no longer goes out fishing. His face has become completely grey. He looked very ill and appeared to not have slept well.
Wednesday. In the early morning, Benedict rowed out onto the lake alone. He didn’t wake me. Before noon, someone noticed his empty boat drifting on the lake.
All efforts to find Benedict were unsuccessful. Members of the yacht club looked for him, as did the fishermen and the chairman of the co-operative in his fast motorboat. Benedict disappeared without a trace. Presumably, he fell out of his boat and drowned. No one’s to blame. He should have been more careful. After all, the lake is so deep! Maybe he didn’t know how to swim.
That’s what people said at the lakeside, consoling his weeping wife. She sobbed and sobbed, wringing her hands, and the wind carried her cries into the distance. I went down there to that spot on the shore where Benedict’s boat was floating and, looking into the bottom of the boat, I saw neither the rope nor the heavy stone he used as an anchor when fishing for those big perch.
Translated by Ada Valaitis from Romualdas Lankauskas, Pilka sviesa, Vilnius: Vaga (1968).
Romualdas Lankauskas (born 1932) is a prose writer, dramatist, translator and painter as well as one of the founders of Soviet-era abstract Lithuanian art. In the 1970s and 1980s he became known as the master of the laconic short story, writing against the cultural groove of the Soviet era. His works explored forbidden themes, putting him at odds with the wardens of Soviet ideology. Throughout his career he composed over thirty short story collections, novels and travel essays. He founded the Lithuanian PEN centre in 1989.