An excerpt from the novel The Room

Translated by Kotryna Garanašvili

*

Then the phone rings, notifying me that Amanda has appeared on my match list. She is leaning on the table with both hands, her stomach bare, the edge of her panties sticking out above her trousers. A straight parting, a pretty face with clear skin, her eyes melancholic and somewhat wild, looking up at the camera from below. She’s 24—seven years younger than me.
          How about a coffee, I text, skipping punctuation because I’ve already learned that Gen Z might take it as an offense.
          When, she replies.

I suggest a time, and she suggests a place: the Central Department Store.

I have a wash and get ready, then order a Bolt. The driver is Armenian and speaks Russian. His language is so unclear, it’s as if it’s traveling through radio waves from Yerevan.
          “Smotri, tam nomer, SSSR (Look at that number plate, it says USSR).” He points to a car in the next lane. I can’t make it out—it’s too far.
          “Kstati, ja rodilsia v SSSR (By the way, I was born in the USSR),” I say. “V dekabrie 1989 goda (December 1989).”
          “Ja tože (Me too),” he says, “v 1982. Togda liudi byli khoroshi (1982. People were good back then.)”
          “Khoroshi? (Better?)” I say. “Mozhet byt, no mozhet, chto i seichas khoroshi? Nekotorye (Maybe, but they might still be good now? Some of them),” I add, not wanting to offend him.
          He says something, probably in Armenian. He laughs.
          “Veselo (Funny),” he says.
          “Veselo,” I agree, “a ya edu na svidanie vtorgovij centr (And I’m going on a date at the shopping center).”
          He laughs.
          “Eto majo chudozhestvennoje issledovanie (This is my creative research),” I say. I’m not sure he understands.
          Near the Green Bridge, a black Audi pulls in directly in front of us.
          “Vot pizdastradatel! (Look at that fucker!)” the Armenian shouts. “Bezhit k babam! (Rushing to the whores, are we?)”
          He drops me off at the department store. I stand outside, next to a terrible four-meter-tall acrylic statue of an angel, its neck wrapped in a scarf.
          I’m waiting outside by the grinning angel, I text Amanda.
          Ill be on second floor by elevator
          I go up. Second floor—but there’s no one by the elevator.
          Where r u, she texts.
          I’m on the second floor, by the elevator. Next to the café. Where are you?
          No reply. I look around.
          The café is completely empty, except for one girl sitting at a table in a white turtleneck. She’s looking at her phone, smiling. I can’t see her face properly. I move closer, but I’m so short-sighted that I still can’t tell if it’s Amanda. I’m standing two meters away, and she’s still staring at her phone, texting someone.
          I’m at VERO CAFE, by a table, I text.
          No reply.

I take a step toward the girl in the white turtleneck. I lean in close enough to see her face now. She puts down her phone and looks at me, her smile fading. She looks like the girl in the photos. She looks like her but isn’t quite her, and I can’t tell if it’s her or not. With makeup, they’re all a bit similar. Without it, they become different people. The few seconds I spend staring at her aren’t enough for me to be sure.
          “Hi. Are you Amanda?”
          She flinches, as if a shiver has just run through her body.
          “No, no. No.”
          “Sorry.”
          I walk away, straight to the counter.
          “Is this the second floor?”
          “Yes, it is,” the barista says, smiling because he gets it. Baristas always get it.
          “Is there another CDP in Vilnius, by any chance?”
          “No, this is it. The Central Department Store.”
          I wander aimlessly, read the shop signs.
          I circle the entire second floor, go up to the third, come back down.
          Where are you? I’m on the second floor, by Narvesen, Kristiana…
          She doesn’t reply.
          I leave CDP and stand outside again, under the hideous angel. “Every Angel is terrifying,”^[1] I remember Rilke saying. I always remember Rilke at the wrong moment.
          Then I get a text from Amanda.
          Sorry, it was me. Just got rly confused. Maybe another time
          Who were you? The girl in the white turtleneck?
          Yes
          I sit down on the angel’s pedestal.
          What made you so confused? Did I look different?
          She doesn’t reply. I remember that girls are sometimes afraid to reject men in case they get angry. So they don’t write anything. They think they’re doing the right thing.
          So I add:
          You can tell me, it’s all right, I swear I won’t get mad
          She doesn’t respond.
          Or offended.
          She still doesn’t reply. So I add:
          As you can see, I didn’t recognize you either:)
          I immediately regret adding the smiley face at the end. A sign of weakness. Now she’s definitely not going to reply.
          I get up and walk across the White Bridge on my way home. Then I get a reply:
          U cant come up to a girl u dont know and talk to her that way
          I turn around and quickly head back into the CDP. I start running, take the escalator up to the second floor.
          In the café, her table is empty.

*

The love they sing about in songs ends in a marriage that becomes the butt of jokes. True art is born from sexual tension. This was known and lived by many. Kafka, Picasso, Schiele, Toulouse-Lautrec, Rodin, Updike, Gary, and, of course, Hemingway, Remarque, Kundera, Flaubert, Beigbeder. Pizdastradateli, as the Bolt driver would say—martyrs for vagina. Fowles, who had done a decent job of masking his urges in earlier novels, revealed his true face in his penultimate work, Mantissa. It’s nothing more than the sexual fantasy of an old man on his deathbed. Houellebecq openly admitted that wet pussy matters more to a writer than any intellectual conversation. Even Rilke, in 1915, wrote seven poems about the phallus—“a joyous pillar that holds up the curved sky of our room.”^[2]
          They tried to create true art. Some succeeded, others not so much. But they tried. And they suffered.
          Once, I read a Catholic pamphlet about relationships. It said that there are eleven communication channels through which couples can exchange information. Verbally as well as through sign language, tone of voice, scents, clothing... But Guillaume Apollinaire wrote about nine doors to a woman’s body: eyes, ears, mouth, nostrils... Nine doors, eleven channels. This is probably why we fail to communicate.

I’m a sculptor, and I spend most of my time in the workshop carving anything that’s at hand. Oak logs, linden trunks, ash, pine, granite. Sometimes I take on props for films or advertisements, but mostly I carve tombstones.
          Every time I put down my tools, I pick up my phone and look for a woman I can meet that evening.
          This is my creative research. This is my way of studying life, which is otherwise buried under the dust of stone, wood, and styrofoam. Everything in my workshop reminds me of death because most of the sculptures are related to the deceased—if not tombstones, then busts of the dead or memorial plaques. Dating is a way to remind myself that, beyond Thanatos, there is also Eros. Maybe I’ll write about this one day.
          I constantly check dating apps, of which I have a few.
          When I see the red number gleaming in the corner of the app, my heart skips a beat. A small surge of happiness hits when a new match appears or someone texts me and an equally small disappointment when I’m deleted. I stop working when the phone rings.

A girl called Sundrop.
          What’s with the name? I ask.
          I’m Sandra, she replies.
          I spend five minutes trying to think of a reply. Then I go back to carving. I keep thinking intently as I carve. My mind is constantly occupied with a search for idiotic phrases.
          I’ve got it.
          Then I, Mykolas, will be My call.
          :D
          She sends back a laughing emoji, which means success. No point in waiting.
          Want to meet up tonight?
          She doesn’t reply.

I start carving again, but the phone won’t let me—I pull the respirator down to my chin, lift the protective glasses to my forehead—I just matched with a woman wearing sunglasses and boasting an ample bosom in her photos. Her job is direktor sisek (director of boobs).
          Privyet (Hello), I text her. Mne ochen nravitsa tvoya firma, mogu li ya ustroitsya na rabotu menedzherom proyektov? (I really like your company, could I apply for a project manager position?)
          Poka tolko vakansiya massazhista otkrita (We’re only hiring for a massage therapist right now)
          Budet li kasting v Vilnyuse? (Will there be any job interviews in Vilnius?) I ask.
          Xaxaxa, ya uzhe uyekhala (Hahaha, I already left), she replies.

Never mind. Before I have time to wipe the fog off my protective glasses, Rusnė appears on my match list, taking selfies in mirrors, her legs covered in tattoos like bruises, she’s twenty-four.
          One trick I learned is to lure them out of the dating app and into Messenger, WhatsApp, or Telegram, and then send a voice message. It’s a bold move—they don’t expect it. Chatting with them on other apps alone makes you stand out. And sending a voice message is really intimate. Asking for their number is even better.
          Hi. Will you give me your number? I ask Rusnė.
          She sends me a link to a song which has a number for a title.
          1-800-273-8255
          What kind of clever trick is this, I wonder? Has she encoded her number this way, trying to see if I’ll get it? But the number is not Lithuanian. Still, I try calling, changing the first four digits to the Lithuanian code. But there’s no connection.
          Turns out, it’s actually a song title. Alessia Cara and Khalid’s song about suicide prevention. The title is the phone number for suicide prevention lifeline in America.
          This isn’t your number, I text her.
          But it’s a good number, she replies.
          Yes, the suicide prevention hotline. It will definitely come in handy.
          XDDD, she responds.
          Score, I think. She’s laughing.
          I fkn cracked up, she adds shortly after. Satisfied, I go back to carving. Ten minutes later, Rusnė texts again.
          I’m still laughing tbh.

Making a girl crack up is an actual success, an achievement. Make me laugh and I’m yours, says every second profile. Other girls say they appreciate a good sense of humor. But from there, a long and tiring path lies ahead. I’ll have to make her laugh many more times. Eventually, her messages will start pouring in. She’ll reward me by texting about what she’s up to at the moment, how she’s working out at her Pilates club and how the scent in the bathroom reminded her of watercolor and the scent of watercolor reminded her of school, that she ate a protein bar when she got home, that she put on a pair of mismatched socks today. When she’s texting you like this, chances are you’ve become her main recipient—her personal suicide prevention lifeline. Now all that’s left to do is to keep patiently responding and stay the course. But as I was saying, the path ahead is long and slippery. One wrong step, one thing turns her off, and she’ll ghost you, leaving your message on read. A few days pass, and that’s exactly what happens with Rusnė.
          Shall we meet? My message is left hanging, unanswered.

I’m swiping through other women’s profiles. Their interests are coffee, tea, beauty, world peace, deep conversations. Women with Maltese Bichons, whose poop they’ll let you pick up—if you’re good. Women who are dead center in every picture. The narrow gap between them and the center in the occasional picture where they’re slightly off is the exact equivalent of the freedom they’ll allow you in life. A centimeter. Normal is boring. A little bit of crazy makes life perfect, they say. They all stand in touristy spots, balancing on one foot, arms flung toward the sky. Crazy.

I remember my first date. Meda and I had been texting endlessly until she finally sent this message:
          I’m in Vilnius and will have time from 6 to 7 PM. Could we do a meeting then?

Before meeting her that day, I watched a Woody Allen film. At six, she arrived on a motorcycle. She stopped by an Iki supermarket, not far from my place. When she took off her helmet and got off the bike, I was surprised—she was taller than I had imagined and more beautiful. Kind, smiling eyes.
          “You look great. Different than in your photos.”
          I couldn’t believe I said that. I tried to change the subject.
          “What year is your bike? It’s so retro!”
          “Eighty-four.”
          “And it still runs?”
          “It runs.”
          “Is it comfy to sit on? What’s the engine capacity?”
          What an idiot.
          “Let’s take a lap around the block?” I suggested.
          “Sure.”
          “Is sculpture your hobby or your job?” she asked.
          “It’s my life,” I answered in an overly dramatic tone. My voice even gave a small quiver.
          “Oh, I see.”
          Talking to her, I felt like Woody Allen; even when he’s not acting in his films, one of the actors is always embodying him, and after watching his film, you feel like Woody lingers in you too for a while.

          “So, where do you work?” asked Meda.
          “There’s this warehouse, about the size of these two buildings put together…”
          She was looking at her phone.
          “…they used to make Lenins there.”
          No reaction.
          I fell silent. She wasn’t interested.
          “And that’s how you make a living?”
          “Yes, that’s what keeps me alive—sculpture.”
          “Oh, look, a dead pigeon.”
          “Yes, I just said ‘that’s what keeps me alive’, and here’s a dead pigeon, ha ha… Yes, I’ve been making sculptures since chi—”
          “Someone’s dinner,” she interrupted.
          “Yes, someone’s, ha ha.”
          “What did you study?” I asked her.
          “I’m a carpenter.”
          “Wow. So you make furniture?”
          “Not anymore. Now I’m studying engineering.”
          “Do you design tables?”
          “No.”
          “Interesting, interesting. So where are you going next with your bike?”
          “I have a piece of land in the countryside.”
          “What’s out there?”
          “I live there. In a camper.”
          “Are you planning to move there?”
          “Yeah, maybe. There’s nothing there for now. No water supply, so I’ll drink from the river.”
          We made a loop around my block.
          We came back to the motorcycle. While she was putting her helmet on, I looked at it again, this time in silence.
          She drove off without saying a word.
          That night she texted:
          On one hand, I like people I like, and I want to be friends with them. On the other hand, it’s such a relief that I don’t have to.

*

I haven’t dated anyone for six months. Finally, I get it sorted with Amelija. We meet at half past nine in a small bar by the town hall. She orders white wine, and after a moment’s thought, I ask for the same. When she’s surprised that the white wine is served in red wine glasses, I can’t help but compliment her attentiveness.
          “Yes, because you see, red wine glasses are bigger,” Amelija explains. “Or is it the other way around? Maybe the opposite? No, but these are the white—these are the white wine glasses, no doubt!”
          “Are you a wine lover?”
          “I like beer too, especially in the summer when it’s hot. It’s so refreshing.”
          “Actually, I’ve heard people say that, especially my colleagues who weld and cut metal in the workshops all day long. Beer o’clock, they say, time for a cold one, save water, drink beer, bottoms up.”
          She’s smiling.
          “Alright, so what do we need to discuss?” I say, looking at the wine glasses. Then I add: “I’m nervous because now I have to say something, you know.”
          “I always approach it with a certain curiosity, like a regular meeting—it’s not something, you know, like a date, I just go to them as I would go to meetings, with this certain...”
          “Curiosity.”
          “Yes. But I feel a bit embarrassed to be on dating apps, knowing that my pictures are seen all over Lithuania. So I’d usually hide my profile. Or else you might be spotted by some guy down in Pornsville.”
          “And then he reaches out and invites you to visit him in Pornsville.”
          “Yes. I haven’t used dating apps much in Lithuania because there’s always that moment, you know, when people judge, they see you there, and they judge you. I’ve used them more often abroad.”
          “Because no one knows you there.”
          She nods.
          “And you? Do you like it?” she asks.
          I take an overly long pause. I look at my hand, twirling the wine glass by the stem, at the scattered cardboard coasters on the bar. I run my finger over the intricate rubber coaster, soaked in spilled beer, and I hear my traitor of a voice, stammering unconvincingly:
          “I don’t like it... but having them... creates... intrigue... That having... yes, I’m on the apps, but I haven’t been on a single date in six months...”

          “And you never hide your profile?” asks Amelija.
          “Now I have,” I reply with a sad smile.

When you’re on dating apps, you give off the same kind of rotting stink you can smell in men’s communal showers. To a woman, there’s nothing more repulsive. As Milan Kundera wrote, a woman will never forgive a man for seeing another woman, especially an unattractive one. But this is much worse. And the more I try to downplay my experience on dating apps, the more I feel like I’m rotting, sinking deeper into the bar stool, while Amelija seems less and less damaged, and more beautiful. She smiles innocently, her shiny, soft hair falls in waves around her face, as if it’s sculpted, framed by a fringe. Her features are perfect—there’s no other way to say it. I’m not trying to avoid the cliché, because that’s exactly what my thoughts are: clichés. And she’s nine years younger than me, which is a lot. What can I offer her in return? I wonder. I’m stealing her youth, not daring to look her in the eye.

We step outside, and Amelija lights a cigarette.
          She should belong to Gen Z, but she feels different. She doesn’t slip into half-English when she speaks, even though she works in logistics at an international company. And what’s next for her? She wants to become a psychotherapist—she’s interested in Jungian psychology. Jung was Swiss, and the Swiss only care about one thing—that everyone leaves them alone so they can keep enjoying their comforts. And then, out of nowhere, I tell her I read a psychology book, Lost Connections, which demystifies depression.
          “What does demystify mean?” she asks suddenly.
          “It argues that depression isn’t just a lack of hormones, that you can’t explain it solely by low serotonin and dopamine levels. That it’s mostly shaped by social and psychological factors, and that it can be healed by a change in circumstances, a reconnection. With society, meaningful work, other people, values…”
          She says something very quietly. I lean in to hear.
          “But when I do coke or take ecstasy,” she continues in a normal voice, “then the next day, I really feel that serotonin crash.”
          “So hormones also play a role.”
          “They do, for sure,” she agrees. “Sorry, I’m going to the WC.”
          She stubs out her cigarette and heads to the bar’s restroom.
          WC. Woman and cigarette.
          “Time to go, I think,” she says when she’s back. “It’s a Wednesday, after all. Work tomorrow. And it’s already ten.”

As I walk her to the bus stop, I stay a step behind (the sidewalk’s too narrow for two) and ask if she’s read Irvin D. Yalom. I talk to her back about the difficulties of being a therapist that he described. Over her shoulder, she tells me that A’dam is a magical city because her knees always hurt when she’s in A’dam, and I add that a friend of mine went bald in A’dam, and somehow the local windy climate was to blame. Just then, the bus pulls up. She quickly says goodbye, turning slightly and brushing against me, then runs off, boards the bus, and rides off in the same direction I’m walking. I glance inside the empty bus—there’s only her, sitting alone and staring at her phone, without looking up at the deserted street.

Back home, I try to delete my profiles on Bumble, Tinder, Badoo, Down, Facebook Dating, and amoretas.lt. I have to prove multiple times that it’s me and not an impostor. But is it really me? Perhaps by deleting these profiles, I’m deleting myself? Perhaps it’s the impostor trying to erase what has now become my identity?
          I try to pick out the squares with fire hydrants, the ones with bushes, the ones with pedestrian crossings.
          I fail.
          And once again, it’s just me.

 1. Translated by Edward Snow

 2. Translated by W.D. Jackson