YOUR HAIR IS BEAUTIFUL
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.