TE15 Lithuanian Honey Cake

Tautvyda Marcinkevičiūtė

JAZZ I’m in a hurry, I’m already late for the jazz concert, and I have no idea what could happen in that jam-packed hall, face to face with the executioner who tediously consults his assistant and reads the sentence from the notes that only he can see, maybe taking pity, or maybe opening an artery, chopping off a head, compelling everyone to howl with horror and fascination—that executioner whose name is Music! But the jazz goes on breaking like this crown of dandelions my son has asked me to make, crying through his clarinet, not caring that I don’t have time for it. After a few minutes the dandelions will wither, individual as sounds that some musician has played or sighed, though he’s not likely to remember them, or be remembered for having played them one time only. But the futility of this job, weaving a crown of dandelions, gives me a certain pleasure that I don’t quite understand, feeling feverish and glancing at the clock whose hands don’t show the time that’s still left, like life after death. Because what kind of concert could evoke the jazz of life?

Translated by Julie Kane, Rima Krasauskytė, and the author


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