Chapter 1
He was standin’ right in front of me. He took off his Adidas sweatshirt…
He came up to our table.
To try on a sweater.
The market’s full of sweaters and they’re all the same, all the same price, but he came up to our table.
Here first of all.
And second of all – who tries on sweaters at the outdoor market, especially when there’s no mirror? Especially when it’s November.
If it doesn’t fit, you can come back another day, and we’ll exchange it.
But he was tryin’ it on.
He was tryin’ it on right in front of me, having taken off his A-di-das.
Monika was here with me for company, and Aunt Margarita was walkin’ around somewhere with stuff to do.
But he was standin’ right in front of me, having just taken off his Adidas sweatshirt, and…
…and then it dawned on me. The light went on so brightly I got scared. That white sleeveless t-shirt, that so-called undershirt which everyone wears around town in summer, that t-shirt, even if it wasn’t black, but white, that shirt was just like Johnny’s from Dirty Dancing.
What does Dirty Dancing have to do with anything here? Well, since I first saw that flick, I can’t get it outta my head, and now it’s like a volcano’s gonna explode, ‘cause I finally connected the dots and get who the actor reminds me of.
Johnny’s name is Raimis.
And now Raimis is wearing a white t-shirt and tryin’ on a sweater right in front of me.
There’s this one Michael Jackson video that begins like a horror flick. But then it shows Michael Jackson himself watching the horror flick in the movie theater. Everyone around is all afraid, his girl is clutching his arm, but he’s just smilin’ and chowin’ on popcorn. I probably looked the same watching Dirty Dancing, maybe not smiling so much – but my face all focused and lit up by the screen.
Though at first in that Dirty Dancing it’s all in this fancy resort with a girl whose parents are annoying and all the events are like at your auntie’s sixtieth birthday party. There it’s all American, but it still feels like any old family party over here. People are having fun, though it looks a bit like they forgot how to actually have fun. In the movie, there’s this family that’s come for a visit: the dad’s a doctor, the mom’s I don’t know what, and two sisters. One of those sisters, the one who sometimes even reads a book, is called “Baby.” She doesn’t care about those family parties, that whole carnival of fun, but wants something real. That something real comes in the shape of a dancer. The dancer’s name is Johnny.
It so happens that Johnny’s dance partner can’t quite dance anymore. So Baby – called Kroshka in the Russian, Mažylė in Lithuanian – I can just make out the original under the dubbing… Beib… Baby… Well, that Baby offers to take his partner’s place. Yeah, I would too. Though it doesn’t seem like there’d be any chance. I mean, I don’t know how to dance, and look at how long those dancers’ legs are… They’re longer than my cuz Gražkė’s relationships with any number of her boys. Who’s ever seen a dancer with short legs?
Oh, what’s the difference what happened when? I don’t know if the plot can tell you anything. The whole thing just fits me. The movie seems to talk to me and me alone. Just think: one of them works in the summer, dancing, and the other reads a book and mopes about not knowing what to do with herself. One is from below, you know, without any standing in society, without any money, a real uncertain type, and the other has this dad trying to set her up with these college students to marry her off to high society. So they both rise up against the annoying crap around them: Baby against her family’s fantasies and restrictions, Johnny against the resort’s rules. ‘Cause when you think about it, what are a resort’s rules in the face of true love?
And Baby’s path looked to me a bit like mine: from those large, innocent eyes, from that kind of clumsy girl, to a passionate dance partner. That’s gonna be my path too, just that I haven’t started on it yet.
If I had to tell you about it, what I remember most about the movie is how it made me all melty. I don’t know how you watch a movie like that in a crowded theater. It’s like you suddenly realize that somethin’ is changing, like in the Michael Jackson clip when he becomes a werewolf, and you feel somethin’ melting inside of you like snow. You’re changing, and you understand that when you get out of the movie you won’t be the same as before. But nobody else sees what’s inside of you. Everyone else sees the movie and it seems like they just see it. What gives? Nobody gets worked up about it like me. Sometimes, I didn’t even see the movie ‘cause I’m thinkin’ what to feel about the guy next to me whose elbow I’m touchin’. What does that touchin’ mean? I just seem to be melting. Everyone hears my heartbeat. Everyone feels the hot waves washing over me. I’m a burning fire whose name is Edita.
So yeah, Dirty Dancing is a movie with a real man, Johnny, who knows how to lead a woman in a dance. And not only there.
Johnny knows a lot more than that. So that’s what’s down with Dirty Dancing.
When I got outta the theater I knew that I know Johnny.
I was probably in love with him already, but could only admit to myself after the movie that he is my fate.
Johnny’s name is Raimis.
And now he’s standing right in front of me, wearing a white t-shirt in the month of November.
Well, not anymore.
While Dirty Dancing was playin’ in my head, he managed to try on the sweater already. Now I just see Raimis’s back growing distant in the crowd.
My eyesight blurs. I take a deep breath.
Monika asks me if I’m alright.
I’m lookin’ at Raimis’s disappearing back.
“That was Raimis, from your yard, right? Hey, you OK?” asks Monika, again.
I take another deep breath.
Everything’s blurry. Sweatsuits, sweaters, t-shirts, scarves, hats… everything’s ripplin’ like the images of Tibet I saw on TV. There, they’ve got these poor little houses with lots of colorful little flags stretched from one house to the other. But here I don’t see any mountains on the horizon. I don’t even see Southside’s high rises from here. Raimis is out of sight too, and I’m standing like I’m frozen solid.
Yeah, Raimis is from my yard.
“Take the money,” says Monika.
But now, he’s from somewhere else, not from my yard.
He’s from Dirty Dancing.
I suddenly see what I hadn’t seen before. What maybe no one else, no girl, has seen or understood. I guessed his secret. Now I feel how close we are, I feel the connection…
Of course, nothing really connects us. Nothing, except for the fact that we’re here, in this city, and we’re tied with those invisible colorful garlands of flags that stretch across the whole city, from the marketplace to the Southside apartment blocks. You could say that one of the yards of those blocks does connect us. And that’s where we’ll meet, Johnny.
I look around – a huge crowd in the market. Everyone’s lookin’ for Italian quality at Chinese prices. People believe they can find it. How? I don’t know. Their hope is as unbreakable as Stalone’s stubbornness to be the best boxer. And if they find somethin’ here, buy somethin’, then my hope to be with Raimis isn’t so empty, ‘cause I got plenty of stubbornness, and I got patience too.
At the table next to us, selling cassettes, they’re playin’ this incredibly sad song, the one by that singer with a shaved head and big eyes. In the MTV video, her eyes are all shifty like it hurts her to look at the camera. Her eyes are so big that it looks like they can fit all of our sadness and sense of loss. I don’t think it’s a funeral song, but it’s super sad. Maybe the saddest thing isn’t when someone dies but when they disappear in a crowd of strangers…
How will I get with Raimis? That question just seems third-rate at this point.
“I’m fine, Monika,” I tell her. “It’s just this song…”
“That song is wicked sad,” agrees Monika. “Listen, I’ll put the money in this box…”
I grab hold of Monika’s hand. Not because you don’t put money into little boxes around here. You don’t. Money needs to be kept closer to your body, in a fanny pack. And Raimis’s money needs to be closer to the body too, or more exactly – closer to my body.
Aunt Margarita comes back, and you can smell the peremechs1Peremechs, also called belyashes, are a fried dough pastry usually filled with ground meat and onions, originating in the Tatar and Bashkir ethnic regions of southern Russia. from far away. One is for me, one for her, but she offers hers to Monika. Monika smiles and declines ‘cause she’s just here to keep me company and has to take off soon. It’s gettin’ cold and she needs a longer jacket. Her parents told her, “Maybe you’ll find something good at the market. If not, we’ll go to a boutique.” A boutique… I’m afraid to set foot in them, and I’m not even talking about the prices…
“Take the peremech and hand over the money,” says Margarita.
No.”
“Why ‘no’? Just take it.”
“I don’t want any peremech.” Though, to tell the truth, I just didn’t want to give up Raimis’s bills. The peremech was neither here nor there.
“You’re all pale, take a bite.” Aunt Margarita pressed the peremech into my hand, and with my other hand I stuffed the money into my pocket.
When I do something like that, I see myself as if from the side, like in a movie, and I’m an actor. With the money in my pocket, I need to quickly change the subject. What should I ask my aunt? Say something, Edita, now! Quick!
Should I ask, “How much are peremechs today?” Though inflation can cause prices to change every day, you can’t talk about that forever.
“I read an interesting story in the paper,” I begin. “How two sisters decided to see what they would look like dead. They didn’t just imagine it – they bought everything they needed: coffins, flowers, clothes, and they even hired a photographer. He took all these pictures of the older one lyin’ in the coffin from all these different angles, and then the younger one decided she wanted him to get a few shots from above. She brought a step ladder, like you use to pick cherries, and the photographer climbed up and asked for more money. The sister didn’t really wanna pay, and they were arguin’, so the older one couldn’t take it anymore and sat up in her coffin and cried out, “Enough!” The photographer got scared and fell off the ladder, broke his camera and his flash and ran away, scared out of his wits.
“So where is the money for the sweater?” asks Margarita.
Just then, someone starts asking for the price of undies. I can feel myself take a step back. Look, life’s just too short to haggle over the price of tighty-whities.
“Why are you standing there as if you swallowed a stake? What’s wrong with you? Talk to the customer.” Aunt Margarita wouldn’t have been a teacher if she weren’t tryin’ to make me a successful entrepreneur.
“Well, if I’m so bad at talkin’, why’d you ask me to come to the market, huh?” That’s what I say to her in my mind. Instead, I just motion with my hand to show how my mouth is full of hot peremech.
Before stating her price, Aunt Margarita lets out a tirade: “You think we’re the robbers here? We pay customs, taxes, and we have to pay for our spot here too, and we have to drive everything from here to Pabalius…” It all ends with her explaining how her husband wears the same undies, and they’re very comfy, no pressure marks, and he won’t wear anything else now… three litai for two.
She wasn’t exactly lyin’. The undies are like see-through. They’ll be gone after a few washes. So there’s nothin’ there to rub you or press. What difference does it make that she’s been divorced from that husband for years?
So I’m holdin’ the peremech in both hands, and my aunt is about to take the money straight outta my pocket, sayin’, “I need change.” Right, the undies are three litai and she’s gonna give bills back as change.
“Ow!” I cry.
My fingers squeeze the peremech and the meat slowly presses out like the caramel in a Mars bar commercial. It drops to the ground, grease drippin’ everywhere. I hold it out towards my aunt and she instinctively takes it. I see the grease drip on her hand like in some slow-motion scene in a movie. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, how did that happen?” Most importantly, Aunt Margarita’s hands are all greasy and she won’t be stickin’ them in any pockets. We look around for something to wipe them with. Raimis’s bills stay where they are. I grab a newspaper, clean my hands, and pass it to my aunt. “I have to go,” I tell her. “Monika asked me to help her. She’s lookin’ for a new jacket.”
Aunt Margarita is wiping her hands with the newspaper.
“I’ll keep the money for that one sweater,” I say, slapping my pocket. I want my aunt to be able to add everything up alright at the end.
She nods. I disappear.
On my way home, I couldn’t believe how I managed to stand up to my aunt and keep Raimis’s banknotes. It’s usually impossible. I’m amazed how things go with her. I think I’m sayin’, “No,” but I hear my mouth sayin’, “OK.” You can’t wrangle over anything with her. Maybe I’m too kind-hearted. Yeah, too kind. That’s the only reason I help Aunt Margarita. For a second there, with the peremech in her hands, I saw her flustered face and thought she might lose it and never invite me back to the market to help. But everything turned out OK.
The real reason I come to help is so I can explain to my parents why I don’t ask for money and how I help pay the electricity and other bills. I needed to establish my kind-heartedness. When I enrolled in the vo-tech high school, I started knitting stuff, then helping my aunt… and no way do I work in a video store.
The video rental store is no outdoor market. In a market you need to shout about your Italian sweaters, how cheap they are, you’ve gotta grab people by the arm and just about stick your goods under their noses. In the video store, the door jingles and the clients come up and ask you what you have. Even if they don’t really know what they want, they’ll still end up leavin’ with a couple of movies. In the market, though, they scream and shout and then some schmuck comes up and starts haggling. Nobody haggles in a video store. At most they start an argument over whether to rent Kickboxer or Bloodsport.
In the market, everyone’s lookin’ for Italian sweaters, def not handmade local ones, and what they want are good ones, by famous designers. And the prices? Those can’t be much more than for Lithuanian ones. It’s not hard for us to take a Turkish or Chinese sweater and sew on a label that says “Made in Italy,” which you can buy on any street corner. That’s all you need to do to make people happy – they get what they wanted. Tibetan monks don’t achieve happiness so easily. There you have to sit still, like forever, and not eat, not even want anything. But not wanting anything and feeling happy are a lot easier with a sweater “Made in Italy” than without one.
If some granny decides to come back and complain that the sweater shrank after the first wash, then it’s easy enough to answer back and put her in her place. I mean, she bought shit for peanuts while expecting a good product that would last for life. So how did it shrink? Nobody else had their sweaters shrink, only you. Nobody comes back here with any complaints, so maybe you just washed it at too high a temperature? Did you read the label first? So you see, you didn’t pay attention to how gentle and sensitive this material is, and now you come and complain. What can I do about that? Should I give you a new sweater every time you wash the old one? That’s not how this works, you understand.
The granny gets it. She really didn’t look at what the label says. She walks away promising herself to always look at the label. There she’ll see that besides “Made in Italy” there’s nothing else written. So you see, the market is not the video store. You buy something here – you won’t be returning it after a day because it shrank. That’s not how this business works.
These days, everything seems to be about what to buy and where to sell. If someone writes a novel about this time, then it’ll be full of undies, panties, bras, and these peeps who search for Italian quality at the price of peanuts. And I don’t wanna read any novel like that. It’s not interesting. I like movies. I’m interested in another world.
Movies don’t show those little details. They get to the heart of the matter. And that’s something just now I can really feel and smell. Believe me, I’m not talkin’ here about any peremech.
I take the money out of my pocket. I sniff it. Honestly, it has no special scent. What matters is that I know whose bills they are. I feel Johnny in them – my Raimis. The warmth of Raimis’s hand, the scent of his skin, his energy – it’s all in those bills. Invisible threads have tied us together, or those invisible garlands of flags. Now, there exists something that will pull us together. If he held that money in his hand, that means he’ll hold my hand. I can feel how our feelings are gonna burst out of us – not like grease from a peremech – but like a fountain. You’ll see.
Our story will be like a big, beautiful Hollywood film.
