The Russian Passenger

by Gunter Ohnemus

  Sonia said: Aliosha’s using the police to trace us.

  How do you mean?

  Think, she said. No one saw us in that clearing. No one registered the make of your car, still less made a note of the number. The only person who could have done so is the driver of the green BMW. Aliosha has failed to find us for three whole days. The Mafia may be everywhere, but they can’t look everywhere at once. The police can, so Aliosha is using them to look for us.

  Although the “Wanted” photo wasn’t a very good one, that meant we had to quit our hotel as soon as possible. We couldn’t use my taxi either, of course. It would be found the next day at latest, and then the police and Aliosha would be looking for us in Rheims.

  It was almost midnight. If I stole a car now, it wouldn’t be missed for at least six hours. Possibly longer.

  Where shall we go? Sonia asked.

  Luxembourg, I said. Your neighbour’s blue Peugeot is still there. Nobody knows it, nobody’s looking for it. Besides, driving back to Luxembourg is the last thing Aliosha will think we’ve done.

  You really are developing a criminal mentality.

  I’ll be back in an hour at most. Pack our things.

  The night porter was behind the reception desk. I told him we unfortunately had to leave right away and settled the bill.

  A quarter of an hour later I was outside the hotel with an old red Golf, and ten minutes after that we were on our way to Luxembourg. We’d spent a couple of minutes chatting casually to the night porter in case he got any unwelcome ideas.

  We reached Luxembourg by six a.m. and parked a few streets away from the blue Peugeot. Sonia got in behind the wheel of the Golf and I made for the Peugeot on foot. It was child’s play. The petrol feed had become detached.

  When we were sitting side by side in the Peugeot, Sonia looked at me enquiringly: What now?

  I don’t know, I said. You’re the mafioso’s girlfriend.

  Stop that! she said.

  It won’t be long before they find the Golf here in Luxembourg, which means they’ll think we’ve returned to Germany. So we ought to do the exact opposite and drive back to France.

  The police will think that, Sonia said. Aliosha won’t. Aliosha will expect us to do exactly what you suggest and drive back to France.

  So?

  So we’ll make for Germany. Aliosha is far more dangerous than the police. Incidentally, maybe you should stop shaving.

  I’d look like a criminal.

  You are a criminal. You stole a car last night, remember?

  Russian humour, I said.

  Yes, she said.

  What about this Peugeot? I said. It’s stolen too, isn’t it?

  Not really, said Sonia. She had drawn out fifty thousand dollars and mailed them to her neighbour’s address in a Jiffy bag. So you see, she said, she can easily buy two Peugeots for that.

  Instead of going to ground in a big city, we made for as unlikely a destination as possible: a holiday area. To be more precise, an area in the Black Forest south of Freiburg. It was called the Markgräfler Land, and I’d never heard of it. This was Sonia’s idea. Staufen, Müllheim, Sulzburg, Badenweiler. The only place I’d heard of was Badenweiler. Sonia thought we could use a few days’ holiday to unwind. We might even take the waters there, she suggested with a smile. Apparently, Badenweiler was an old Russian stamping ground.

  The Markgräfler Land was a brilliant idea. I doubted if the Mafia had heard of it any more than I had. We drove there via Metz, Strasbourg and Colmar, never using the autobahn, and were lucky enough to find a room in a converted farmhouse that catered for tourists. We had a meal and went straight to bed. A perfectly normal end to a holidaymaker’s day. Except that now we always carried our guns.

  Naturally we were afraid of being recognized. Holidaymakers tend to have plenty of time to read the newspapers. Time to scrutinize those around them, too, but so did other people. We wouldn’t be truly safe anywhere, but we were probably safest as tourists.

  The next day we got up late and drove into Badenweiler. We immediately bought some German newspapers, but there was nothing new in them. Because we had very little German currency left, Sonia changed some of her French francs into marks. The cashier asked for some ID, so she slid the Catherine Marchais passport across the counter.

  We bought ourselves some bathing gear and went to the local swimming baths. Afterwards we had a so-called Roman massage. Together with about twenty other people, we wound up swathed in white sheets and reclining on slabs like Roman senators. Or cadavers in a morgue.

  Later, over dinner, Sonia talked about Anton Chekhov, who had died in Badenweiler around the beginning of the twentieth century. Chekhov is one of her favourite authors. In his last letter he stated that he’d never seen a single well-dressed German woman; German women’s lack of taste was depressing. Sonia told me that with a hint of satisfaction.

  Rather out of place in a farewell letter, I said.

  No, Harry, by Chekhov’s standards it was a perfect farewell letter. He was a seeker after beauty. What I like best in women is beauty, he said once. As for humanity in general, he thought its most important attribute was civilization as manifested in carpets, well-sprung carriages, and perspicacity.

  That I can’t deny, I said, and she went on to describe his last moments. The doctor sent for some champagne to assist the dying man’s breathing. Chekhov sat up in bed and announced, in German: I’m dying. Then he picked up his glass, smiled at his wife, and said: It’s a long time since I drank champagne. He drained the glass, lay back, and died. The room was absolutely silent except for a huge moth that kept colliding with the light bulbs. Then, all at once, the cork flew out of the half-empty champagne bottle with a loud pop.

  What a death, said Sonia. The pop of a champagne cork. Suddenly she turned serious. While we’re on the subject of Germans, is there anyone you should warn?

  How do you mean?

  If Aliosha doesn’t find us soon he may abduct someone. Someone who means a lot to you. He’ll try to lure you out into the open.

  Ellen! Ellen, I thought. My whole body started to hurt. But then I thought again. They couldn’t find Ellen. Ellen lived in Scotland. She had a different name, not even the name of her parents, and there was no document on which we both appeared apart from Jessie’s birth certificate, and Ellen had that. Besides, I couldn’t remember if my name really did appear on it. It was a long time since we – or I, at least – had been touch with any of our old friends, and none of the people I’d met in the last twenty-four years knew anything about Ellen. It wasn’t good for a person to be alone – Ellen was right – but I had no friends. There was no one Aliosha could abduct in order to lure me out. I played squash with a dentist, a chemist and another taxi driver, and I occasionally had a meal with them. I also belonged to a shooting club – air pistols only – and worked out at a gym once or sometimes twice a week, but no one there knew me well. My only contacts were male, which was the way I wanted it, and even they were pretty limited. Sport and an occasional beer. And I went jogging because it’s an aid to marksmanship. You can control your breathing better, keep it nice and shallow.

  Such was my world, if you could call it that. You were made for women, my dear boy, my mother had said, You were made for love, and now, for more than two decades, my only acquaintances had been men. I always steered clear of women. Or nearly always. But there were many faces in the street that reminded me of Jessie. No, reminded is wrong, but I often imagined they were Jessie, or could be. Jessie would now have been three years older than Ellen and I were. Once more the car left the road, glanced off the tree, inflating the airbags, turned over several times, righted itself, and came to a stop.

  No, there was no one Aliosha could abduct in order to coax me into the open. My flat contained almost nothing of a personal nature – I had my address book with me – and certainly no clue to Ellen’s existence. Anyone searching the place would find nothing.

  But Ellen would have to be told. I woul
d have to tell her, reassure her. It might occur to her that someone would use her to trace me.

  It was late when we left the restaurant in Badenweiler. I went to a phone booth and called Scotland. Ellen’s answering machine cut in and I hung up. No, there was no reason to worry. She was out, that’s all.

  Next morning I called the firm where she worked. Ellen was in Hamburg, they told me. I said I was her uncle and they gave me her number.

  Harry, she said. Harry.

  You know what’s happened?

  Of course, she said. The papers are full of it. Everyone’s looking for you. Who’s this woman?

  A customer, I told her. It’s all down to bad luck. I got mixed up in this in the craziest way.

  Yes, she said. Of course you couldn’t help it and it’s all a big mistake, right? Of course you didn’t kill those two mafiosi. Of course you’re entirely innocent. You’re quite incapable of killing anyone.

  No need to be sarcastic, I said. It all happened just the way it says in the papers. I simply wanted to tell you not to worry. No one can find you. There’s nothing to connect us. If they search my flat they won’t find any clues to your existence.

  I see, she said, and her tone was still sarcastic. No clues to my existence.

  They’re all in my head and my body, if you want to know, I said. I sometimes feel like one big, open wound.

  Yes, she said.

  We hung up.

  I’d left the phone booth and taken a few steps when I turned back. It had occurred to me that there was one other person I ought to call. My hairdresser. I like the man. He’s one of the old school, incredibly polite and obliging. A bit obsequious at times, but utterly sincere for all that. Utterly. He could easily have cut my hair in half an hour, but I always sat there for an hour or more. Sometimes I told him cabby’s anecdotes. We talked about the weather and politics and growing older and recipes. I used to describe the big parties I went to with my friends and what we got to eat there. I lied and lied until his mouth started watering, and after a few years we reached the stage where I put together Christmas menus for his family. I used to enjoy cooking when my life was still a life, so these Christmas menus – menus concocted for a family of strangers – became my way of sharing Christmas dinner with someone. They were absolutely thrilled, he would tell me when I turned up for my first post-Christmas haircut, and he always paid me special compliments, like: My wife almost swooned with pleasure.

  I had given up cooking and never ate at home unless I was ill, which didn’t happen often. You go to the dogs if you eat on your own. I only ate in restaurants.

  He answered the phone at once, of course, being alone in the salon.

  Harry Willemer here, I said, and without giving him time to reply I told him I wouldn’t be able to come again for the time being, he could guess why.

  It’s incredible the rubbish they print in the papers, he said. I don’t believe a word of it.

  Quite right too, I said. It’s all balls. Just a big misunderstanding.

  * * *

  Our stay in the Markgräfler Land was uneventful, although I was always looking over my shoulder to see if anyone was behaving oddly or watching us too closely in restaurants or elsewhere. Sonia was the same, I could tell. She used to talk in her sleep. Once she woke me up and said: Take it easy, no need to shout. Everything’s all right.

  The day after we arrived it was announced on TV that my car had been found in Rheims. Nothing more about us after that, but there was a press report that my flat had been ransacked. The red Golf had also been found in Luxembourg. That’s a trick, said Sonia. Aliosha must have had your flat searched the day he discovered your identity. They’re bound to have left everything the way it was. They can work very neatly when they want to. Now they’ve turned the whole place over as if they were conducting a thorough search. Aliosha is simply trying to unnerve you.

  I called Ellen again. She already knew about the flat. There are no clues, I repeated. You’re quite safe. As safe as anyone can be in this world.

  Yes, she said, as safe as anyone can be. Then she said: I’m afraid, Harry.

  There’s no need, I told her. You’re quite safe.

  No, she said, I’m afraid for you.

  You’ve no need to be afraid on my account.

  Will they kill you? she asked. They’ll hunt you down for evermore, Sonia had said. They’ll never give up until they get you.

  Will they kill you? Ellen asked again.

  They’ll try to, I said.

  * * *

  But our days in the Markgräfler Land were peaceful. I started to shave again. I only have a few grey hairs on my head, but my beard is very grizzled. I didn’t like that, so I started shaving again. We behaved like tourists, sat on the terrace, walked to Staufen, bought ourselves some clothes in Müllheim, went to a barbecue given by our landlords. I can really recommend this area, Sonia said with a smile.

  To die in? I said.

  Not until the champagne cork goes pop, she said, still smiling.

  At a restaurant one night I had to go to the men’s room. A few moments later a man came in but paused just inside the door. He was probably staring at my back. I began to tremble slightly. I was utterly defenceless. It was an unpleasant notion, being killed while peeing. The man didn’t come right in. He retraced his steps to the washroom and turned a tap on. The water went on running and running and I waited and waited, and when I opened the door to the washroom all was quiet and deserted. Except that the tap kept on running.

  I couldn’t sleep that night. Lying beside Sonia, I felt my hatred of Aliosha steadily mounting. I was sorry about Dmitry and Viktor. The nightmares in which I relived that long moment in the clearing when I walked towards Dmitry, gun in hand, firing again and again, were filled with anguish. Anguish and compassion and tears. And horror at having acted as I had.

  It was different with Aliosha. Aliosha wasn’t someone whose path I’d crossed by chance, and who was trying to kill me. Aliosha was death. Chance didn’t come into it. Aliosha was as much my destiny as death itself. He was after me, just as death is after us all, and he would not give up for years, decades, a lifetime, not for all eternity, until he had caught up with us.

  Aliosha was death, and I hated him without knowing him. I feared him, and I felt this boundless rage welling up inside me. A rage so immense that it outweighed my fear. I sat up in bed. What does this goddamned Russian killer think he’s up to? I bellowed into the darkness. What does this torturer think he can do to me, the dirty bastard? What kind of people are you, you goddamned Russians?

  Harry! Harry! Sonia turned the light on. Hush, people will hear you!

  When we were lying side by side again in the dark, I noticed she was weeping. Why do you hate us so much, Harry? So terribly? All that hatred and contempt of yours. Why do you hate us so much?

  We lay side by side in the darkness, the way she had lain beside her grandmother as a child, and she talked and talked the way her grandmother had, recounting the terrible story of the siege of Leningrad. Nine hundred days, Harry – they besieged and bombed and shelled the city for nine hundred days. A million people died, six hundred thousand of them from cold and starvation. The German gunners often ceased fire for half an hour, and then, when they could count on people having ventured out into the streets again, they opened fire once more. Do you know what it’s like when you think you’ve escaped death, only to go out into the street and encounter it after all? Do you know what it’s like to be shelled continuously, day and night? And do you know what it’s like to starve? To be so hungry that your body starts to devour itself, and it hurts, it hurts all the time, and the only antidote to your pain and despair is death? Do you know what it’s like? No, you don’t, and neither do I. I wasn’t born until many years later, but my grandmother knew what it’s like and so did my parents – they all knew, the living and the dead and the dogs and the cats and the trees and stones. But the dogs and the cats didn’t know it for long because people were so hungry
they ate them.

  In the end Leningrad was almost denuded of dogs and cats, and there’s the story of this old man – there were many who did what he did, but his is the story everyone knows, the old folk still tell it – the awful story of how he strangled his cat and ate it, and he felt so terrible afterwards, he hanged himself, but the rope gave way and he fell to the ground and broke his leg and couldn’t get up, so he froze to death instead. You, Harry, would no doubt call that a typically Russian story, full of brutality and inefficiency, but it only looks that way. Brutality and inefficiency had nothing to do with it, just utter despair and weakness. My grandmother understood that. She knew it all and understood it, both then and afterwards.

  Yes, my grandmother knew what you and I don’t know. Do you know what people did when their hunger became too great, when the city was stripped bare of anything alive to eat? They took straps and belts, leather belts, and boiled them till they were soft, and then they ate them. How many calories in an old leather belt? Tell me! How many stomachs can it fill?

  And then something happened which my grandmother didn’t tell me about. She never spoke of it, no one did, they were all too ashamed, and I won’t tell you either. I’ll only tell you what someone once said about the worst period of the siege: Leningrad was in the hands of cannibals. Nobody knew what went on in people’s homes. I’ll say no more about it, Harry, but that’s what you Germans drove us to – not you, Harry, and not me, the Germans didn’t drive us to those lengths, we weren’t even born – and at some stage, in the winter of 1941–2, even the rats abandoned the city, or so it was said. I don’t believe it myself, but people said so.

  In winter everything was transported on children’s sledges – food, corpses, everything. There were hardly any cars left. The city was silent, eerily silent, my grandmother said, as if God himself had died, and people lay starving in their beds and dreamed of caviar, and the frozen corpses were so stiff they made a metallic sound when thrown into the back of a truck, but my grandmother didn’t tell me that, not about that sound, but she did tell me how people went to the hospital and simply died in the waiting room because they were beyond help, no one could help them – no doctor, no mother or father or God – and she told me the story of the little boy who took his family’s last reserves, a few crumbs in a biscuit tin, and fed them to a mouse because the animal’s hunger meant as much to him as his own. Why hasn’t anyone written a story about that boy, I wonder?