All the Lights (18 page)

He’d been looking for a Lithuanian all around town. He’d met a whole lot of Russians and he’d asked them about Lithuanians.

Kak dyela?
How are you? Do you speak Lithuanian?
Nyet?
Do you know anyone who speaks Lithuanian?

He’d bought a whole lot of men vodka on his search for a Lithuanian, and he’d drunk a whole lot of vodka himself.

When he got the tab he made sure they didn’t see all the money he had on him. He’d taken everything out over the past five days – all their savings, seven thousand eight hundred marks – and sometimes he imagined his wife laying the bank statements out on the table in front of her and resting her head on her arms (a little place for the weekends, that’s what she’d always wanted), but the image didn’t touch anything in him. He wandered the streets of the town by the sea, and he felt as if he’d always been there.

He’d met Ukrainians, Poles, White Russians. Out by the canal leading to the small port was a snack van. That was where they usually stood around drinking beer and vodka, and when he came in the morning it was tea and coffee.

Kak dyela? Khorosho.
Yeah, yeah. A Lithuanian? Zids is Lithuanian. Zids isn’t here right now.

So he waited for Zids at the snack van by the canal leading to the port. He drank beer and vodka, looking at the rundown yachts and ships moored on the banks of the canal. It was getting dark but Zids didn’t show up.

The men spoke Russian; he could only understand the odd word now and then. Two Poles were standing to one side speaking Polish. He didn’t understand that at all; the only word he knew was
kurwa:
fuck.

Zids didn’t show up and he walked slowly along the canal into town. It was nearly dark now, even though it wasn’t even five yet. He was cold and he thought for a moment he’d go back and drink another vodka, but then he saw all the lights of the Chinese restaurant and behind it the town steeple. Next to the church was the hotel he’d stayed in when he arrived in town days ago, but now he was staying somewhere else – his training course had been at the hotel; that was the only reason he’d come. He’d only gone along on the first day, listened to the presentations: market expansion, new scanners, customer service, optimising sales … He’d thrown the slip of paper confirming his attendance for the first day in the canal the first night but it hadn’t fallen in the water, landing on the deck of one of the run-down ships.

The ships. He’d looked at the ships for a long time. Now they were gradually disappearing in the darkness as he walked away from the canal over to the church. He did a detour around the hotel, even though the training course had long since finished and his workmates had all gone home again. The morning after the first night he’d been with her, he’d packed his suitcase and disappeared. A couple of his workmates had called after him as he walked past the breakfast room, but he’d carried on walking out of the revolving door. What had happened to him – was it just her? He hadn’t fallen in love, he was sure of that much; or at least he thought so. All of a sudden he didn’t know if he’d ever been in love. All he knew was that he couldn’t go back home anymore, that he’d stay here in the town where she was. He felt the money in the inside pockets of his jacket – how much had he spent so far? – but he didn’t want to think about that, about what came next; it seemed to him as if he could stay here forever.

He took out a stick of chewing gum, unwrapped it and flicked the wrapper away, and put it in his mouth. He didn’t want her to smell the vodka. He’d stopped smoking four days ago because she didn’t smoke. He’d offered her a cigarette from the nice leather case his wife had given him last year, back when he’d been made deputy manager of the Processed Foods section, although actually only deputy to the deputy.

He couldn’t help thinking of his wife as he opened the cigarette case carefully and held it out to her. She was standing in front of him, handing him the case with a smile and saying: For you, darling, for your promotion. It was all still there in his head: his wife, his flat, his job; but the longer he stayed in this town where
she
was, the stranger and further away it all seemed to him.

Cigarette? She’d shaken her head and said first
Nyet
and then
Nein
and then
Danke
. He’d lit one up for himself but then put it out again, washed his hands and rinsed his mouth with the mouthwash next to the sink in the bathroom. He’d looked in the mirror and imagined how he’d put his face up to her hair, in a few minutes, and he’d waited and looked in the mirror until he thought he couldn’t stand it any more.

He waited for the traffic light to turn green and then crossed the road. There was a bar on the corner; he’d asked about a Lithuanian in there as well. He heard snatches of words again as he passed the door; it sounded like there was Russian among them again, but this time he kept on walking. He’d go back to the snack van by the canal leading to the port early next morning. Then he’d wait there for Zids, wait as long as it took until he showed up.

He saw the railway bridge at the end of the street; her house was a little way before it. He walked slowly down the dark road. The town was small and he’d been walking all day. A couple of people walked past him; he shoved his hands into his coat pockets. He touched the leather case holding his cigarettes. He took it out and dropped it on the ground. Someone was bound to find it, the next morning when it got light and people went to work. He walked towards the bridge, looking at the dark houses on either side. Only a few of the windows were lit up. The little port was on the other side of town. I bet most people live over that side, he thought; they want to see the sea when they look out of the window.

The house was forty or fifty yards ahead. He looked up at her window; it was dark too but she always had the blinds closed, even during the day; he knew that. He stopped still. What if Zids smoked? He’d offered cigarettes to the Russians he’d asked about a Lithuanian. A nice leather cigarette case like that made a good impression. He went back but he couldn’t remember where he’d dropped the case. He squatted down and looked along the pavement. All he saw was a pair of shoes, belonging to a man coming towards him. He got up quickly, walking towards the house, almost running. He was at the door, pressing the bell. Once, twice. He heard the man’s footsteps coming closer; he rang again. Once, twice. He heard the footsteps right behind him, the buzz of the door-opener, he pushed the door open, just a tiny gap, squeezed into the corridor, pushed the door shut again and leant his back against it. He waited and listened.

It was quiet outside. Had the man carried on walking? But then he’d have heard him. Or maybe the man had walked past the door at just the moment when he’d pushed it closed behind him, and that had drowned out the sound. He listened to the darkness of the corridor, standing like that for a few seconds, and then she opened her front door on the fourth floor. He tried to make out her footsteps; they were very quiet because she wore slippers, and she’d be standing by the door when he got up there. How often had he been with her now? Six or seven times? He wasn’t counting; he wanted it to seem perfectly normal when he went to see her. He felt along the wall, wanting to switch the light on, but then he left his hand on the brickwork and didn’t move – now he heard her, thought he could hear her, the quiet tapping of her little feet. He switched on the light and walked slowly past the letterboxes on the wall and up the stairs.

She was standing in the door, one arm against the doorframe. She was wearing a pale blue bathrobe, open at the front, and he saw the red bra and the red panties she’d been wearing on the first day too. He said: Hello, it’s me again, and she nodded and smiled. She did smile, didn’t she? She took a step aside and he walked in past her. She smelt faintly of sweat. He stopped in the little hallway and said: How are you,
kak dyela
? and she said, fine, and he heard her closing the door and then locking it. Once, twice. He took off his coat and she took it off him, and he tried to lean on her for a moment while she was behind him, but she walked past him to the coat hooks. And you? she asked. Fine, he said and turned around to her and looked at her tiny slippers. Shower? she asked, and he said yes, and started taking off his shirt. Now she was behind him again and pulled the shirt over his head, and he said thank you and raised both his arms. She took his shirt and went into the living room. He watched her through the doorway. There was a television on, the sound down. There was a calendar on the wall above the television, from the new year already. 1995. A couple of horses, green landscapes.

Long today? she asked.

How
long, he said.

She laughed. Yes.

Four hours, he said. Four hours again. She put his shirt on the arm of the chair. He took off his shoes and went in the bathroom in stockinged feet. He watched the door as he showered. He took a long shower but she didn’t come in. He’d have liked to shower with her, back on the first day even, but he hadn’t asked her. He dried himself and looked in the mirror, like the other days. He saw himself taking some of the mouthwash next to the sink and rinsing his mouth out. He put his trousers and his vest over his arm, went out to his coat in the hall and took a couple of notes out of one of the inside pockets; he trusted her.

In the living room was just her bathrobe over the chair; he laid his trousers next to it and went through to her.

The bedroom was small and dark, only one lamp lighting it up on a table with a CD player on it. A couple of CDs lay silvery on the table, without their covers. The blinds were down, a black vibrator on the windowsill.

She lay on her front, her hands next to her face. He sat down next to her on the bed and she turned her head a little.

Four hours, he said, sliding the money next to her hand. She turned on her back and made a little fan out of the notes. Too much, she said, and he nodded and smiled at her and put his hand on her dark hair and said: For you.
Tibya.

She moved her head and his hand slipped onto her forehead. Baiba, he said, and she folded the notes together and got up and went over to the living room. He took off his socks. They were slightly damp from the bathroom, and he put them on the floor next to the bed. Baiba came back in. She went over to the CD player. She always listened to electronic music, techno or something, no vocals. He hoped she really was called Baiba. On the first day he’d called her Sissi, like it said in the newspaper. Sissi from Lithuania, brand new, young!

You’re beautiful, Sissi, he’d said, but he didn’t know how much she understood.

One hour, hundred fifty. Only with condom.

Yes.
Krasnaya,
he said. He hadn’t spoken Russian since school. Do all Lithuanians speak Russian, or only a little bit? He took off his watch and put it down on the windowsill next to the black vibrator. He had to find Zids, Zids from Lithuania. Baiba, he said, and then she lay next to him.

You are really called Baiba, aren’t you? he asked and she nodded. He put his finger on the tip of her nose and said her name again. He stroked her bra, and she reached behind her back with both hands and unfastened it. He stroked across the scar between her breasts, like a small triangle. The first time she’d taken off her bra he’d just sat there for a long time, looking at the scar. He leant forwards and touched the scar with his lips. Maybe she had an operation as a child, he thought, a heart defect or something like that, maybe she’s twenty now or twenty-two or a bit younger. He kissed her breasts, then he lay on top of her. He pressed himself against her and felt her breathing. ‘No,’ she said and moved beneath him, perhaps she couldn’t breathe properly, and he let her go and laid his head very lightly between her breasts. He had to find Zids. He stroked her legs cautiously, he slipped his hand under her panties, then he had one finger inside her, he pulled it out again, moved his hand beneath the fabric and over her skin and the slim strip of her hair and pushed his little finger inside her and felt her warmth on his little finger. He didn’t move it, there was just his little finger inside her and the music and her quiet breathing. He’d never felt his little finger inside a woman, he couldn’t remember it, didn’t want to remember anything. Everything’s fine, Baiba, I’m here. But she kept her eyes closed and he took off her panties. He held them in his hand for a while, then he put them on the windowsill, next to the black vibrator and his watch. Three hours and forty minutes. She opened her eyes and sat up. They were both on their knees now, facing each other. Her hair fell over her face, and he leant his forehead against hers. Your hair, he said, it’s so beautiful, but he could see she didn’t understand him. She leant forward and pulled his pants down. Zids, he had to find Zids.

He looked at the ceiling. The room was dark but the light from the street lamps fell on the wall next to the window in thin strips.

Baiba, he said quietly, but he wasn’t asleep any more and she was gone. There were two more beds not far off from him, and in them were men; he could hear them breathing in their sleep. He’d been sleeping in cheap builders’ accommodation for a few days now; almost everyone living here was Polish. He hadn’t found Zids; he’d been with her or lying in bed. What if his wife had reported him missing to the police? But disappearing wasn’t a crime. Now he hardly thought of the town where he’d lived all those years. He looked at all the lights on the wall. Your hair’s so beautiful. He said it very quietly – he’d say it very quietly in her language when he lay next to her again. But he had to find Zids, he’d look for him again, and he didn’t have much money left. Sissi from Lithuania, brand new, young!

The man was there; he’d seen him from a long way off. He was a good way ahead of him and he knew straight away that he wanted to go to her. He broke into a run but it was too late; but he kept running anyway, running down the dark road, his mouth wide open. He stood outside the door to her building, the light still burning inside and then going out. He held his hand on the doorknob, pressing so hard that his fingers went white. He raised his hand very slowly, then put it on the bell. He waited, then pressed the bell. Once, twice. Then he pressed the bell all the way in and left his finger on it, one, two minutes. Sometimes she’d got up and turned off the bell. The ringing. Sometimes he’d been lying on her and not moving and heard the ringing. One, two minutes. No, nobody would ring for that long. But the ringing was still in his head, and he wished she’d moan loudly or call his name. Sometimes the telephone had rung too, over in the living room. He stood outside the door and shoved both hands in his coat pockets. He called her, from a phone box, just before he went to her. All she ever said was yes, and then he hung up and left. He stood outside the door, both hands in his coat pockets. Five minutes, ten minutes. Then he went to the railway bridge a few yards along. He leant against the wall under the bridge, watching the door. Then he looked up at her window, but he knew she always had the blinds down. He wished he had his cigarette case now. A train crossed the bridge and he ducked, drawing up his shoulders. The rumbling of the train was above him for a while – it must be quite a long train – then it got quieter and then it was gone. A couple of people walked past him. They walked faster when they saw him but he took no notice of them, only looking at the door across the way. Another train came and he started getting cold, his teeth chattering. He wanted to look at his watch but it was gone. One hundred fifty. Only with condom. The light went on in the corridor. Just afterwards a man came out of the door. The man buttoned up his jacket as he walked down the road. You bastard, he thought, you bloody bastard.