But he didn’t. The three of us took ourselves over to the diner, bringing our rucksacks. Our new acquaintance ordered food, and vodka for himself. While we ate he talked. “You should get married,” he said, looking Grand unblinkingly in the eye. Grand only smiled. “Get married and get on with having children. They will be there to support you later on. Myself, I married at nineteen and already have a son helping me. I’ve got a daughter too. What a stunning little daughter I have!”
Grand was not directly facing him and his smile was fairly non-committal. I could tell he didn’t believe a word of it and, like me, was trying to work out what all this was leading up to. Our man started getting into his stride and telling us about an accident he and his family had been involved in. His mother-inlaw had been killed and after that his much loved little daughter had developed a stutter. He didn’t know what to do about it. His face was flushed, his neck too, and the part of his chest you could see through the unbuttoned collar. A swollen vein was throbbing under his cheekbone. We listened in silence and when we had finished our meal he produced a wad of banknotes.
“Tell you what,” he said, “Why don’t I give you five hundred roubles? Money always comes in handy when you’re on the road.” We exchanged glances and started protesting rather feebly that we couldn’t possibly, but our benefactor was emphatic. It was a wad of fifties. He counted out ten, put them on the table and looked at us. “My name is Pyotr,” he said. “Perhaps you’ll remember me one day.” He downed what was left of the vodka and left.
After waiting long enough for him to get out of sight, Grand stood up and said quietly, “Let’s get out of here”. He swept up the money, crisscrossed the two rucksacks over his head and rushed out of the café. I looked longingly at our sugar daddy’s untouched meal and helped myself to the remaining slices of bread.
We fled from the market and made our way through back alleys, doubling back on ourselves. We changed the fifties in kiosks, buying trivial items. Grand was constantly looking back, focused and purposeful, but nobody came after us.
We left the town as unproblematically as we had entered it. The driver of a foreign car who picked us up asked loudly and incredulously where we were going and why we chose to travel this way. “I can’t understand you,” he said. “I like comfort and independence.” “This is independence,” we replied. “The freedom to go where you like and sleep where you like.” “No! It’s far better to have your own car.” “Property is unfreedom,” Grand said, and the driver laughed.
He had a sturdy black Jeep which was spacious, soft and quiet. Sounds sank into the beige leather upholstery. The way he drove meant you had no sensation of the roadway beneath the wheels and could forget about everything outside the windows. It was like flying. In the blacklist of vehicles renowned among hitch-hikers for never, or only exceptionally, giving lifts, Jeeps occupy the number one spot. To every rule, however, there are exceptions and this was one of them. He shrugged off our questions about where he had come from and where he was going. “Compared with you, just across the street.” Then he started talking about all the countries he had visited. He talked a lot but in a great rush, and gaps suddenly appeared in his tales. As if forgetting what he was about to say, he would fall silent, carrying on after a pause from the same place.
At the boundary between two provinces he stopped, leaned back in his seat and said, “That’s it. I’m not driving any further. I need to sleep.” “Aren’t you going to Tyumen, then?” “I’m going to Sochi. From Irkutsk. Do me a favour, I’ve been driving for eighteen hours. It was good talking to you, but there are limits.” We dutifully got out. He stretched and started doing some relaxation exercises. The road was empty, the sky cloudy, and it was evening. I miserably breathed in the damp air.
“Get you a meal?” he asked, heading for the café. We’d already put on our rucksacks but were tempted. Grand shrugged uncertainly and looked across at me. I thought he felt it was awkward to refuse and wanted me to do it for him. “No,” I said firmly. “We’re in a hurry to get to Tyumen.” “As you will,” the driver said, shrugged and walked away.
We went back to the roadside but got no further that night.
“Turn, look them in the eye and say to yourself, ‘Stop!’” “And what will happen?” Sergey asks, looking at me anxiously. “Everything depends on your intention,” I reply seriously. “If it’s strong a vehicle will stop for you.” “I just say ‘Stop’ and nothing more?”
I feel mildly irritated. It’s quite early and we’ve just come out. “No, you have to raise your hand as well. Get it?” He shrugs uncertainly. “Let’s get started, then. It’s best to put the bag down. No, not too far away or you won’t be able to find it again. Put it beside you. Now turn to face the traffic, look the drivers in the eye and say: ‘Stop!’”
“Stop!” Sergey says obediently. “You don’t have to say it out loud. It’s an order you’re transmitting. You can do that mentally. What matters is that you should want it. It’s a good idea to raise your hand or they won’t know what you’re standing here for. And smile.”
“Should I have my hand open or closed?” Gods give me patience! Now I’m glad I took Roma’s advice and came here by train. He said that if we wanted to hitch, it would be better to do it on the way back or we might spend all day getting here and not have time to get home. Sergey is not someone it would be a bundle of laughs being stranded with on the highway at night.
We stand there and Sergey dutifully holds out his hand. He’s in front and I can’t see his expression. I try not to think about him and focus on the vehicles. It’s the hottest part of the day, there’s a lot of traffic, but they all drive by without so much as a glance in our direction. Oh, road, could you not just send us one car to take us straight back to Moscow? A nice long-distance one. Actually, no. This mole would learn nothing from that. I’m going to have to put up with getting covered in dust with him on the verge.
What a great, happy feeling this is! Even the wind, that special highway wind that gusts with every vehicle which passes, pleases me, even if it does sometimes snatch the cap from my head. The smell here is so familiar and dear to me. It’s just Sergey… He is a sorry sight, standing there with his arm limply outstretched. In the morning he was in the kitchen waiting for me, looking ready for inspection, all washed and ironed and the only thing missing was the customary bunch of flowers. Instead he had an empty travel bag in his hand. His tone of voice and his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept all night. We fare-dodged on the train. He had actually done that before in his life. In the city he was gallant and pretended to be my boyfriend. He talked enthusiastically about a forthcoming tour of the chamber orchestra he was playing in now, and tried surreptitiously to take my arm. I found that comical, removed my arm and put my hands in my pockets. I felt bereft without the familiar rucksack on my back.
By now his spirits are failing and he is starting to regret having got involved in all this. He stoops with embarrassment and is almost certainly worrying now about what the driver in each car is thinking of him. He needn’t worry. Nobody is paying us any attention or they would have stopped. Before you brake, you need to have opened your heart. How can I explain that to him?
“Sergey, ask yourself what you’re offering these people. What do you have that you’re going to give them?” “What? But I asked you if we have to pay? You said we didn’t and I’ve brought almost no money with me.” He turns to face me, upset. “I’m not talking about money, I’m talking about you.” “What about me? What do you mean? Is there something wrong with the way I look?”