Clemens Meyer - All the Lights

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.

He stepped out from under the bridge, seeing his shadow on the pavement. He pulled his hands out of his coat pockets and then he ran. His footsteps echoed in the road but the man didn’t turn around. And when he was right behind him and the man wanted to turn around — he must have heard his footsteps now — he shoved him in the back with both hands, pushing so hard that the man fell. He stumbled over him, holding himself up by the wall, and the man doubled over, clutching his hands in front of his face. What are you doing, please, what …?

You filthy bastard. She was waiting for me, you filthy bastard. He kicked out at him, but then he saw it wasn’t the man who’d gone into the house before. He was much smaller, lying there on the ground, and his jacket was completely different. The man before hadn’t been wearing a yellow jacket.

Please … please …

He reached for the man’s jacket, feeling the wallet in the inside pocket, then he let him go and ran down the road, over to the other side of the little town, where the canal led to the port.

•

So you’re looking for Zids, said the man sitting opposite.

Yes, he said. He’d been with her again, only a few hours ago.

You’ve found him.

Good, he said. She’d smelled of sweat again, only very faintly, but he smelt it clearly and it didn’t go away when he laid his face against her hair and breathed into it.

What do you want from Zids? asked Zids. He had almost no accent.

I’ve been looking for you for a long time.

Zids laughed. I’ve been busy. What do you want?

You speak Lithuanian, don’t you?

Yes, said Zids, sometimes.

You’re Lithuanian, aren’t you?

Yes, said Zids. What do you want?

If you speak Lithuanian …

Yes, I do, said Zids.

You are Lithuanian?

Yes.

I want you to translate something for me.

Why? asked Zids.

Just because.

Zids laughed and leant back. Just because.

It’s very important, he said. He’d taken her bathrobe and undressed her. Come with me. He’d taken her hands and pulled her towards the bathroom. No. She stood before him naked, shaking her head. Three showers today, she said, stroking her hair and her skin. He took the small bundle of money and put a couple of notes on the chest in the hallway, then he opened the bathroom door and said: Come.

Very important,’ said Zids, drinking a slug of his beer. How important?

He took the couple of notes he had left and put one of them down on the table in front of Zids.

Hey, hey, hey! Zids picked up the note, folded it up and pushed it back at him. What do you take me for? Money? For nothing? Let’s play a bit of dice for your money, then I’ll translate whatever you want.

Just a few sentences. Please, he said. He’d stood under the shower and held her tight, stroking her black hair over and over. She trembled although the water was so hot it was steaming. Everything’s fine, Baiba, he said, I’m here.

Just one little game, said Zids, putting the dice shaker on the table. Then he picked it up and shook it next to his head like a bartender, and the dice rattled and shook. The two men standing by the counter came over to them.

Tavo gražūs plaukai, he whispered. He was lying in the dirt by the tracks. The man was punching him and he pressed his face into the ballast. No, no one was punching anyone. He was alone. He turned his head cautiously. He could hear trains nearby. Tu esi geras žmogus, he whispered. He didn’t know what that meant any more. Your hair is beautiful or you’re a good person. The piece of paper was gone. In her flat. Linkiu sėkmės, he whispered.

He laughed — he knew what that meant. Good luck. Something hurt inside him when he laughed. She didn’t want his piece of paper, she didn’t want his words — the words he’d got from Zids in her language. It was raining. It was cold and steam came out of his mouth. Now the drops turned white, melting on his coat and his face. The man slapped him in the face. No money, eh? Don’t want to leave? She stood by the calendar on the wall, gathering her bathrobe up over her breasts. Baiba, he said, and the man raised his hand but didn’t hit him. If she doesn’t want a shower, she doesn’t want a shower, he said. Was he Lithuanian like Zids? No, she’d said something to the man in Russian when he’d come into the flat. She’d spoken Russian when she was holding the receiver too. He’d been sitting on the couch, the piece of paper in his hand. Your hair is beautiful. She’d pointed at him when the man stood in the doorway. Baiba, he said, but she walked up to the man, pressed herself tight up against him, put an arm around him and spoke Russian, in a very fast, high voice, and pointed at him and the piece of paper he was still holding in his hand. Tavo gražūs …