Clemens Meyer: All the Lights

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.