The Russian Passenger

by Gunter Ohnemus

  Our stop was only fifteen or twenty yards beyond an intersection, and the bus still had several intersections to cross, but the driver put his foot down and turned off so sharply that we were all thrown sideways. Several of our fellow passengers were hurled against the seats on the left-hand side. Hey, what are you playing at? they shouted, and one young man yelled: Stop! Stop, you fucking asshole! The driver yelled something back – I didn’t catch it – and laughed. I threw myself at Sonia and held her tight. I felt preternaturally strong and huge like the colossal barrier that had once shielded Jessie. Now they’ve got us! I told myself. They’ve got rid of the real driver and hijacked the bus, that’s why it’s all taken so long. I had a sudden vision of the Chinese in the massage parlour.

  The people on the bus continued to shout and protest until they forced the driver to pull up. We opened the door and jumped off. Nearly all the other passengers got off at the same time. I took Sonia’s hand and we ran and ran until we were out of breath.

  My God! Sonia panted. What was all that?

  Maybe just a change of route, I said. On the other hand, maybe they planned to hijack the entire busload and pick us out later.

  Wouldn’t that have been a bit overcomplicated?

  Yes. Perhaps it was just a change of route after all. Or the driver simply flipped. But perhaps they don’t want to grab us yet. Perhaps they’re using these Chinese to unnerve us. Perhaps they only want to keep us dangling, blind us to what’s really going on. I don’t know. All I know is, we’d better be more careful. We should steer clear of anyone who looks Chinese.

  Sonia looked round. In this city? she said. That’s a tall order.

  Yes, I said. Maybe that’s just it. Maybe the Chinese are simply meant to hem us in until we go mad.

  When we were sitting in a restaurant an hour later, Sonia said: Harry, I think that business with the bus was just a coincidence. The driver flipped, that’s all. We mustn’t drive ourselves insane.

  Saturday

  With Susannah in her garden after jogging. More precisely, in the doorway leading to her garden. It was cool there. We were drinking Scotch. Susannah had showered and put on a dark brown dress with an abstract floral pattern in grey. If only this could be my life, I thought. If only I didn’t have to be scared of Chinese bus drivers, I thought. If only a volcano would suddenly erupt à la Pompeii, and nothing would ever part us again. Susannah and I would sit gazing at each other for all time, an eternal memento of love in the twentieth century for all who came after us. Susannah Timmerman and Harry Willemer. Fritz. We would still be sitting there even if love became extinct, and people would wonder what we’d been doing a few hundred years earlier – wonder why we were holding glasses in our hands, and why our faces wore a smile. They would debate all these matters in sage dissertations.

  The smiles of love, Susannah said once.

  She looked at me thoughtfully. Your eyes are filled with death, Fritz. You must start to live again. I sometimes think you’re back in the land of the living, but then I see death in your eyes once more. I’ll bring you back, though. You’ve simply got to mingle with people again, you and Sonia. I almost said you and your little Russian, but that would be unfair. You must mingle with people, that’s all. I’m throwing a party next Saturday night. A house and garden party for forty or fifty guests, complete with Chinese lanterns and all the trimmings. I’ll rent some of those gas heaters restaurants install on their terraces so diners can sit outside when it’s chilly.

  Too risky, I said. I don’t mean the gas heaters, I mean the party. In my head I could already see the lanterns. Green, red, blue, yellow. Will anyone from Europe be there? I asked. Anyone who reads European papers and might recognize us?

  No, said Susannah. They only read the financial section and the stock market reports. The only person who might be dangerous from your point of view is a professor of German language and literature from the East Coast, but I doubt if he reads newspaper reports of Mafia crimes. He comes from Ohio and is married to a German. A very nice girl. Guys like him always marry their personal language laboratories.

  At that moment Susannah was both seventeen and fifty-two and everything between and before. Guys like him always marry their personal language laboratories! She sat there in her incredibly elegant gown, with her black eyes and her dark red hair, which is so dark that the red is just another form of black, and in that dark red hair are a few fine, almost invisible strands of grey that prove what I’ve no need to be told – that the red is genuine – and her face once more wore that ironical smile, and the whole world and the whole of life were just a wonderful game.

  Susannah Timmerman, I said, you’re the greatest.

  She laughed. I know. That’s precisely why I’m here on earth.

  Who am I supposed to be at your party? I mean, how will you introduce me?

  Oh, she said, I’ll simply tell everyone you’re Fritz from Munich. He’s lent me four million dollars, and in return he’s being allowed to use my son’s credit card. As for your Russian girlfriend, we’ll tell them she’s little Sonietska from the Mafia – or shall we say the KGB? – and she gave you the four million you lent me, and in return I’m letting her use one of my own credit cards. OK? They won’t believe a word of it.

  So what will they believe?

  They’ll believe you’re my new lover. Besides, I’ll dance with you all night long. That’s my plan, anyway. As for your little Sonietska, she’ll simply be your little Sonietska.

  Monday

  At the party on Saturday, Susannah introduced me to some of the guests as they arrived in dribs and drabs. Later on, with a discreet little jerk of the chin, she steered me in the direction of this or that person standing somewhere in the garden or the house.

  That’s Ahmed over there, she told me, indicating a short, rather tubby man with a swarthy complexion. He’s a Palestinian married to a fat Texan housewife. He speaks with a strong Texan accent. Ahmed is in clocks and watches – fuses for time bombs, probably. Wherever there’s dancing, he’s there. He loves dancing with great big Western women. It’s nothing to do with sex or eroticism. He gets a kick out of leading them, that’s all. I always dance with him a couple of times. He’s a very nice person – time bombs aside. My God, Fritz, when I think of it: a German, a Russian and a Palestinian – what a mixture! Our archenemies.

  Susannah delivered a little speech when all the guests were there. Then she took me by the arm and introduced me. This is my friend Fritz Brisante from the South Tyrol. He produces an excellent Chardonnay. She gave me a long, ironical look that said: Now make something of your new identity!

  Before I could say anything she made the following announcement: Fritz is going into a Buddhist monastery for a few years. That’s why I shall only dance with him tonight.

  No! Ahmed protested. You must save one dance for me!

  Everyone laughed, and Susannah danced with Ahmed.

  Watching them, I wondered how it would have been if I’d lived with Susannah. Would everything have turned out exactly as it had? Would we have been as happy and unhappy as Ellen and I were? I don’t know.

  When we were dancing together she said: It’s true what I told you recently. I should never have let you go back to Europe. I pretty soon grasped what sort of person you are. I mean, we were only sixteen and seventeen – only children, but we very soon stopped being children. Suddenly it was all so different. It was as easy as it had been at first, and as difficult, and I pretty soon grasped what sort of person you are. One could already tell. She looked at me with her eyes wide. I should never have let you go back to Europe.

  I laughed, and she laughed too. But you were a minor, she said.

  Then she said: I didn’t have to wait for some prince or Mr Right, I realized that very early on. My family was much too rich for that. Besides, I had a few assets of my own. I could have had any man I wanted. That’s the way American women look at things, and it’s not so bad. But I wanted you because you’re different. With most m
en it’s wham bam, thank you ma’am. The same goes for most husbands. They aren’t all that interested in women and prefer to hang out with the other guys. But you’re different, you’re genuinely interested in women. It isn’t wham bam, thank you ma’am with you, even though it was always very, well … very stimulating.

  Or exciting? I said.

  Yes, she said, if you like. It was always very exciting.

  Mostly, I said.

  Yes, mostly, she said. If you like.

  No, always, I said. For me, always.

  Mostly, she said. Mostly is pretty damned often.

  She became serious again. A few of the people dancing nearby were listening to us. Susannah had never been the subdued type.

  Let them listen, she said. They may learn something. Still dancing, she took hold of my left earlobe and drew me closer. I think I know why you’re the man you are: you’re half woman yourself. I mean, there’s something inside you that responds to what women are. It’s the same with all men who get on well with women. Ultra-masculine men and gays are only interested in their own sex. There’s nothing in them capable of responding to women.

  Oh Susannah! I said.

  I know, she said. You’re a very good boxer. I saw you once in the school yard. You only had to show what you were capable of and that was enough – you didn’t have to throw a single punch – and you’re probably an excellent shot, and you feel at your best when you can fight, and you probably kill three mafiosi every few years, but you’re still half woman.

  And you? I said. What are you then?

  She looked at me and laughed. Hadn’t you noticed? I’m just the same as you – roughly half man. And if I were a man and you were a woman, everything would probably have gone exactly the same way. There would have been no difference. Nothing would be different now. Isn’t that great? Maybe our ethnic chemistry is wrong. No, not ethnic, that’s nonsense. It’s our historical chemistry that’s wrong, but our molecular balance is right – if there is such a thing as molecular balance.

  She beamed at me like someone who has just registered an extremely interesting patent, then leant forward and sang, slowly and softly, in my ear: If you were the woman/and I were the man … Then she straightened up and looked at me challengingly. It took me a moment or two to catch on. Then I leant forward and sang, very softly: If I were the woman/and you were the man …

  I sang softly, but not softly enough for Sonia, who was dancing beside us with a red-haired man. You Americans, she said loudly, you really do have a song for every occasion.

  Susannah was rather irritated by this remark. Come on, she said, let’s stroll over to those trees. I’ve no objection to people eavesdropping, but they ought to keep their comments to themselves.

  We drank a glass of Chardonnay beneath the trees. Almost as good as your South Tyrolean, said Susannah. A bit oaky, but a lot of modern wines spend too long in the cask. Or is it oak shavings that do it?

  Earlier on, I said, someone asked me about my vineyard. I had to explain exactly where it was.

  I know, said Susannah. Then, very abruptly: Is it like that with Ellen too?

  What?

  Your molecular balance.

  I’ve never thought about it. There’s probably no such thing as molecular balance. Only molecular weight.

  Maybe not in science, said Susannah. In love there certainly is. And there are people like you and me. We aren’t entirely men or entirely women, but something in between. I went through a bad patch a few years ago. I was feeling completely drained, burned out. The analyst I consulted was scared of me. I guess he’d never come across anyone like me before. At one stage he said: You must dismantle the masculine aspects of your personality, Susannah. I really did scare him stiff. He was always wanting to try out this primal scream therapy on me. He kept suggesting it, but we never did it. I think he was apprehensive of my primal scream – scared it might simply blow him off the face of the earth.

  We laughed.

  When we were dancing again she said suddenly: You aren’t scared of me. You aren’t afraid I may blow you off the face of the earth. You’re made for love. You are.

  I’ve lived alone for over twenty years, Susannah. I’m not made for love. I destroyed all that in an instant, and our child is dead.

  Yes, she said. You did something terrible, but that doesn’t alter the fact that you’re made for love. That’s something indestructible.

  Nothing’s indestructible, I said.

  We danced and talked to other people and ate and drank, and Sonia chatted to the red-head she danced with most of the time.

  I organized this party just for you, Fritz. I wanted my friends and everyone to see you. You may be going into a Buddhist monastery, but they all think you’re my latest lover – and you’re just the opposite. I want to dance with you tonight, only with you. But it isn’t our last dance. I’m going to get you out of this. The United States still has the edge on the Russian Mafia, even though it’s common knowledge that they’ve been operating here for ages. At all levels.

  Later, when we were sitting side by side on a couch, she said softly: I am a woman of heart and mind. With time on her hands. No child to raise. You come to me like a little boy. And I give you my scorn and my praise. Do you know it?

  Of course I do.

  That song didn’t exist in our day. It only came out around ten years later, by which time I already had a child of my own to raise. But now I’m back the way I was – time on my hands and no child to raise. Carey turned thirty this year, and there’s no daddy or mummy to wrest me away from you. As for the German–Jewish dialogue, let’s leave that to the professional philosemites and the professional Jews, okay?

  Susannah, I’ve ceased to be the kind of man who ought to live with a woman. It’s just not on where I’m concerned, not any more.

  What about Sonia?

  Sonia and I can’t help ourselves. We’ve been shackled together by force of circumstance.

  So have we. What’s more, it’s not too late to do something about it. Anything but too late!

  We didn’t speak for a long time. Then Susannah asked: How would you say “woman of heart and mind” in German?

  It’s untranslatable.

  What was Ellen like, Fritz? What is she like? How would you describe her?

  I’ve never described Ellen to anyone, I said. I’ve never ventured to. It’s never occurred to me to do so.

  You mean she’s taboo? Is it forbidden to describe her?

  Yes. Maybe. “Woman of heart and mind” is a pretty fair description. But I’ve never tried to describe someone called Susannah Timmerman either. I’ve only ever told a few stories about her.

  That’s good. So in Germany there’s someone who can’t be described in German.

  Ellen lives in Scotland these days.

  Oh yes, I’d forgotten.

  She’s registered at the department of “Aliens & Firearms” section.

  Susannah laughed, and the room and the house around us disappeared. Suddenly we were sitting on the couch with the night sky overhead. Life without Susannah was unimaginable. Without her laugh, her eyes, her hair. Without her this and that. Without her voice.

  Talking of what is and what isn’t translatable, she said, I read a lot of German literature while I was learning the language. Much of it is, well … peculiar. I won’t say boring, but it’s often unsociable. You often get the feeling that some spindle-shanked little gnome has been sitting at his desk, scribbling grandiose ideas in solitude. Then again, it can be wonderful. I learned a lot of German poems by heart.

  She hauled me up off the couch and out into the garden to dance. Here and now, Fritz, she said, time is standing still for us. I feel quite dizzy, and at the same time very remote, like a dark blue sky. I’m nothing but dark blue air.

  We danced, but she still hadn’t finished with German literature. There’s a story she said, a really touching story, one of the best short stories I know, I can’t remember the author’s name, Hebel or
Hebbel, which describes how a miner at Falun in Sweden –

  It’s Hebel.

  What?

  The author’s name.

  Yes, of course it is. Anyway, this miner and his girlfriend intend to get married, and it’s all arranged, but a rockfall buries the miner in his mine, leaving the young woman on her own, and time goes by, maybe fifty years go by, and she grows old and grey and wizened and walks with a stick, and one day – in 1809, I think it was – the miners excavate a new shaft and come across a young man’s body that has been completely permeated with ferrous sulphate, so it’s quite undecayed and unchanged, and the old woman sees the dead body of her sweetheart looking as young as he did fifty years earlier.

  Susannah looked at me. I didn’t tell the story properly, but you seem to know it anyway. I cried my eyes out when I read it. And now, today, I feel it’s like that with us. It hasn’t been fifty years but thirty-five or thereabouts, and I don’t walk with a stick and I’m not old and grey and wizened, far from it, but we’re like the two people in that story. You’re back here with me, my young miner, but you aren’t dead and you aren’t a young miner any more. You’ve been alive the whole time. And you’ve lost your innocence. But now let’s dance.

  * * *

  Sonia and I got back to the hotel at three in the morning. When I said goodbye to Susannah she put her arms round my neck. I’ve got time, Fritz, she said. I’ve got plenty of time. The rest of my life.