Translated by Thibault Jacquot-Paratte
Photo by Jolanta Daubaraitė
AUGUSTĖ JASIULYTĖ
Born in Vilnius in 1993, Augustė Jasiulytė dropped out of high school, worked as a travelling magnet saleswoman, and as a carpet merchant in Finland, before earning a bachelor’s degree in Scandinavian studies from the University of Vilnius. Her plays Mėžinys and Atgėdinimas won 3rd and 2nd place at the Alytus national theater competition in 2020 and 2024, and the latter was selected to be featured in the 2025 Dramokratija Festival. Her writing has been published in literary journals, the 2021 Literatūrinės Slinktys anthology, and she represented Lithuania at the 2022 international Slamovision competition in Nottingham. A travelling polyglot, she was published in French translation, notably in Bref (Ed. Du blé, 2017), Ancrages (2021), and Lppdm (2023), and received 1st place at the 2022 Cineffable international lesbian and feminist film festival poetry contest in Paris. In 2024 she received a writing grant from the Lithuanian Culture Council for the completion of her novel Atgėdinimas, and won 2nd place at the Lithuanian national children’s book competition for Žiurkėnytė Gilė.
Until the next thunderclap
For Mona from Agnès Varda's film “Vagabond” (1985)
I'm wandering in a graveyard. On the graves shine alternating advertisement screens. Letters swim along or against the current, then briefly disappear and again blazing, rhythmically advertising: A TOMBSTONE IN 24 HOURS, APPLE, MICROSOFT, AMAZON, META, TOMBSTONE THROUGH MONTHLY SUBSCRIPTION. I move closer to one of those inscriptions. Instead of the epitaph shines the slogan: “Coca-Cola – enjoy life”. In the dream, I come to the understanding that low-income people have only this as a means to bury their loved ones.
“One must survive until the next thunderclap” – I awoke, pulling by their tails the last threads of the dream. Today's the day. I'm leaving the sanatorium, because if not today then only in seven years... From the gym, I borrowed a tent and sleeping bag, stuffed a hiking backpack full with clothes. I made sure I had my passport; in the bag's inside pocket I shoved a note pad, pens, a pocketknife, bread, my phone and my wallet.
Ambling left and right I crossed town until when, by the bus stop, I noticed the lone flaring of the Čeburekinė greasy spoon's sign. Its walls were clad with orange wood panels and bedecked with a variety of hodgepodge: Chinese landscapes, dusty Christmas and Easter decorations. Behind the bar hung a bleary-eyed Virgin Mary who, when glanced at from the other side changed into a crucified Jesus.
First I'll hitch hike through Poland, I'll reach Germany, and then I'll try to find a job in Denmark. Marčius taught me that you can get by well enough by cleaning up after music festivals, with all the beer cans laying in fields. Thanks to my medicine, the future was unobscured by even the slightest doubt. Every cell of my body was focused on absolute clarity of action.
Behind the bar, cheeks and lips overly made-up bright red, worked a woman. I ordered a cup of coffee and sat down to wait at the nearest table. At the surface of the coffee I was brought floated... a dill blossom! Was it the magic of this place? Otherwise, they wished me luck hitch hiking. As I was sipping my coffee came stomping to the bar a flushed middle-aged guy with a hedgehog haircut. The barmaid poured him a shot glass of vodka. The man downed it in one swig, then asked the woman for a hard candy and turned towards me.
– A vi turist? [Are you a tourist?] – he asked, baring a few silver teeth.
– You could say that, I answered in Lithuanian.
– Menia zovut Andrej. A kak vas zovut? [My name's Andre. What's yours?]
– Goda.
– Chatite što ja pokazivaju vam... [Would you like me to show you...] relic? Eto, vapšče, nu, nu kak skazatʹ... [That's not, no... how to say...]
– Em, what?
– A vi?.. po-russki niponimajete? [And you, you don't understand Russian?]
I shook my head even though I understood every other word in Russian. The man quieted down, licked his pale lips, and composed himself before squeezing out the question in Lithuanian.
– Eto ne problema [That's not a problem...]... I know many languages. Would you like it if... if I showed you my relic?
– Sure. Show me.
– Ni here, ni here, my girl, answered the guy.
– Where, then?
– Eto maja mamačka [It's my mom...], I'm going to see her now, and after that, to Poland.
– I'm also traveling to Poland!
Furrowing his brow, Andre let out:
– Davaj sdelajem tak, ja otvezu vas v Polʹshu a vy mne kupite butylku vodki?[Alright then, let's do it like this : I'll drive you to Poland, and you'll buy me a bottle of vodka?]
The guy, blushing, repeated the same question in Lithuanian. Without lengthily weighing it, I walked over to the bar and with my meager savings, bought a good luck charm.
Good, very good; the man, not hiding his delight, shoved the bottle under his arm and stood up; to my car, pojdiomte, pojdiomte. [Let's go, let's go.]
I dropped into the leather seat of the black Audi, relishing in my unmeasured, stupid, and life-threatening actions, as if defying a mother who, all my life, every day, would say “one has to be afraid”. Andre started the car. The whole drive, he blabbered something in Russian. Still, I drew my knife out of my backpack and shoved it into my coat pocket.
Could I really leave the sanatorium when I had decided to? I remember how once a week my butt would sink into the black leather armchair: “Sigita, I don't feel anything... that's the feeling: that my life never even started...” language evaporated from me. To return to my body, I had to molt words, thoughts, memories, about everything that, until then I had known about myself and the world; give way to the sensors of my nerve endings, give myself to cold, heat, hunger, weariness...
Off the highway, having turned onto a gravel road: the car slowly jerked along the edge of a forest. Most likely tired of talking to himself, the driver switched on a radio broadcasting Russian pop. The car stopped near a cabin, interrupting the shrill female vocals.
– For already fifteen years, people have been living here without electricity! No refrigerator, no television. The radio, we can listen to with batteries. And for light: only candles and kerosene lamps.
We hiked up to the small ebbing wooden house. I surmised that Andre started speaking Lithuanian so well on account of the vodka that had warmed up his tongue.
– Mamačka [Mom] is still praying.
Around the cabin hung a pleasant, clean, bucolic smell. The man pulled out the bottle of vodka, rocked it between his palms, caressed it like a genie's lantern, and, spitting greasy swear words went outside, this time returning with a small plastic bag.
– Don't you think... I take care of my mom. Not one of us brothers – the ones that are left – come... not even to visit her. Ja odin, ja odin. [I'm the only one, I'm the only one!]
From the cupboard above a washbowl filled with water, Andre fetched a plate, then cut up bacon and bread.
– Parasites!
The man opened the window and with a wet hack shot out the phlegm. Then, he closed the window and, as I refused to drink with him, filled up a glass with vodka, raised it almost above his head, and shouted: Budʹte zdorovy! [Cheers!]
Andre was sipping his second glass, when into the kitchen teetered, scarf wrapped around her head, a granny, wrinkled like a dried up apple, and skinny as a bone.
– Mamačka!
The man started speaking with his mother in Polish. She didn't say a word.
– Mamačka was born before the First World War! Let's go, I'll show you around the house.
I stood from the bench and followed.
– Vot, here's the wheel, and here's the coffer – Andre gestured to the corner where stood a spinning wheel next to a trunk – before, mamačka had geese, sheep, a cow, chickens. What didn't she raise! And now, if not for me, then she'd only eat greens. When she still talked, she used to say that she's old, and that hunger is for the young.
In the hall stood an ornate wooden wardrobe and an old foggy mirror. Like in a museum, all of the cabin's things gleamed with cleanliness, and on the windowsills, behind white drapes, in their pots, thrived geraniums. In the entire house there were only two small rooms and a large parlor. Andre lead me into one of those two rooms: in the penumbra, on golden candle holders burned two tall candles, and on the wall hung an icon representating Christ's Stations of the Cross.
– Mama blows her entire pension on these candles... Home, in the village, there was an Old Believer's church. Mamačka worked there as a chorister and cleaner. Before the Soviets came, she buried all the relics in the forest. The church was closed at first, and later demolished, said the man.
– What's this? I asked, pointing my finger at jars on a shelf.
– Oh... those jars... Andre marked a solemn pause; remedies against all ills!
– And what are they made of?
– That's dust from the Old Believer's church. I said that my mom was born before the war? She is turning, this year, one hundred years old, repeated Andre; her secret: this dust. On Trinity Sunday, once a year, she drinks one spoon of this church dust mixed with water.
– And, where in Poland are you going? I found myself not having asked.
– Not far, behind the border. Mom wants to visit graves... One day these candles will cause a fire, he mumbled under his breath; if I just put them out, soon again she'll light them up. Like with a child...
Andre checked if the gas was really shut off, and extinguished all the candles. Then, by the arm, he lead his mom outside and set her down on the back seat of the car.
– And in Poland, you're going to see friends? asked the man.
– Yes, I lied, seating myself in the seat next to the driver's.
We got moving towards Poland. The car clock showed eleven AM. I wondered, when everyone would notice that I disappeared. In my head I mulled over the chain of unusual coincidences that lead me to the present moment. It felt like I dozed off just a few minutes, but the clock showed noon.
We crossed the border. After some time going down the highway, the car turned onto a narrow path. I thought that Andre had stopped for a smoke, but he turned towards me, grabbed my elbow, and started to bend down towards me. I felt the rancid smell of his mouth. I turned to the old woman for help, but she was staring into blankness. With my free hand, I pulled out my knife and stabbed the aggressor's forearm. Andre cursed, and let go of my elbow, and I grabbed my backpack; I don't remember how, I opened the door and rushed off. My feet drove into the mud. Out of breath, I fell to the ground, and only then did I dare turn around. No one was chasing me. Electricity sparked through my whole body. It seemed like something inside me soon, soon, would pop; rang out my mother's voice: “You're already so unwell. Do you have your Lexotamil?”
Hoisting my backpack on my shoulders, I walked along the mushy, manure-reeking road side. Not a single car passed by. There weren't any road signs or directions to be seen. It was chilly, the sky was threatening rain.
On foot I trudged towards uninhabited cabins. I found, based on their appearance, the least rotten, with a veranda beneath a roof. I set my backpack on the ground and settled onto a wide wooden bench. Into my jeans started to seep the humidity; I slipped into my sleeping bag, and at once warmed up.
Surrendering to the wailing of the wind, the trees creaking, swaying, straightening and anew leaning on one another. All of a sudden it got dark. I checked how much water I had in my canteen, broke some bread, and strength regained, deeper buried myself into my sleeping bag. I let my thoughts wander from one memory to the next, while images and even sounds in my head quieted. The winds, still stronger, chasing clouds; further the sky was gutted by lightning. After a few short minutes I heard a thunderclap. Again everything came to a hush.
To save battery, I would keep my phone turned off. The screen lighting up, one after another dinged missed calls, messages, welcoming my arrival to Poland. Switching on the internet, into the search bar I typed: “Where in the world is there the most thunder?” Again, I turned off my phone.
And what if one had to survive only until the next thunderclap?
Questionnaire
What prompted you to write your first piece and publish your work for the first time?
During my Scandinavian studies, I was drawn to the northernmost university in the world, Tromsø, by a fascination with the Kven minority in Norway. During the Easter holidays, I hitchhiked through northern Norway for weeks – snowstorms, freezing cold, a Sámi music festival, breathtaking landscapes so beautiful they brought me to tears. The North opened me, and after that, I simply couldn’t stop writing. It was as if something had been set in motion, and I had no choice but to follow where the words led.
How much influence do you draw from the Lithuanian literary tradition?
I always loved the language of Žemaitė and Donelaitis – their words made my mouth water – but I wasn’t especially interested in Lithuanian literature when I was in school. I was also never really impressed by some Lithuanian writers who, in my opinion, overused metaphors, making their texts feel pretentious. It’s only in the past 5–7 years that I’ve truly developed a deep interest in Lithuanian literature. However, the biggest influence on my writing comes from Scandinavian authors I discovered during my studies. Their storytelling, style, and way of seeing the world have shaped me the most.
Do you find it important to belong to a community of writers?
A very important step for me was being admitted to the Literatūrinės slinktys festival for emerging writers. It was the first time I felt like I was stepping into a community of writers. However, I still didn’t quite feel like I truly belonged anywhere, so I decided to create my own community. I started an online writing club (Rašymo klubas), and for over a year now, we’ve been writing together for an hour twice a week and sharing our work as well as giving each other feedback.
Support is incredibly important to me – I believe that creativity flourishes in a space where people lift each other up.
In your opinion, what place does literature hold in today’s culture, which is dominated by imagery and visual media?
I regret to admit that people are reading less literature nowadays; it’s truly sad. Of course there is great cinema, photography, painting, and other forms of visual expression, but those aren't the dominant form of visual media referred to here, I think. The written word awakens the imagination, allowing it to create its own images – something visual media simply cannot do. However, I remain hopeful for a counter-movement, like those we’ve seen in history – a shift towards slowing down, reconnecting with the written word, and finding value in deeper, more contemplative forms of expression.
Name one favorite, currently active foreign author.
One of my favorite foreign authors is the Norwegian writer Erlend Loe. He was a huge inspiration for me to start writing. The first book I ever read in Norwegian was Naiv. Super, and for the first time in my life, I thought, “Maybe I can write too.” I even had the chance to meet him in Vilnius, and later, when I lived in Oslo, I used to see him almost every day riding his bike – we were practically neighbors.
Do you see yourself with a career in literature in the future? Would it be enough to sustain you financially?
I’m a dreamer, yes.
