by Frank Wynne
‘I vas here on a picnic vith my father. But it looked completely different then.’
‘Yes,’ explained Bernard. ‘Nowadays you can’t sail into the city this way. The sluice isn’t navigable. But we can carry the dinghy to the other side – in fact why don’t we?’
Not without some mild puffing and panting, the three gentlemen carried the rubber boat across a bank of earth, over the stone rim surrounding the sluice, and dropped it back into the water beside the bindweed-choked ruins of a building that looked like an old granary. The view they now had in sight delighted Winterhaus in particular. In a dense tunnel of greenery, there before them lay the brown thread of the Motława river, reflecting the Gothic brickwork of church and town hall towers among the clouds.
‘I have made a decision – I brought ze treasure,’ said Winterhaus, and to Anusewicz and Bernard’s amazement, from his inside jacket pocket he brought out a little canvas sack, with the old coins jingling inside it like a heavily laden swarm of bees getting ready for flight. Anusewicz and Bernard exchanged glances, but there was no time to investigate why Winterhaus had brought the money with him, or when and in what imperceptible way he had done it.
As the motorised dinghy sailed under the bridge at Elba˛ska Street and passed the ugly tower blocks on Kamienna Grobla, the landing stage and the old granaries on Chmielna Street, Mr Winterhaus took his father’s coins out of the grey bag at random, and sorted them into three piles, monotonously chanting:
‘This is for me, this is for Mr Benek, this is for Anusevicz. This is for me, this is for Mr Benek, this is for Anusevicz.’
Unseen, they slipped past Ołowianka, and at the level of the Polish Hook, where instead of embankments, granaries and buildings, huge ships’ hulls began to surround them, Anusewicz felt worried that they may have gone too far, and may not be allowed to sail here in such a cockleshell, especially one made of rubber. Bernard was of a different opinion: they’d go and see the walls of the fortress and then turn back level with the monument, because if you want an outing, that’s an outing, and as for navigation, he used to sail here ten years ago on the pusher-tug ‘Buhaj’ and knew every buoy here, as well as all the customs men and the port police. As they reached Westerplatte, Mr Winterhaus finished dividing the coins and handed the brothers-in-law their shares of the treasure.
‘We must celebrate this,’ said Benek, extracting a hip flask from his inside pocket. ‘Well, here’s to reconciliation. Look over there, Mr Winterhaus – that’s the monument to our heroes, they were the first people in Europe, Mr Winterhaus, to tell Hitler: No pasaran.’
‘Oh yes, I know it vasn’t like Czechoslovakia here – ve could even hear those shots at our house.’
‘And that’s where the battleship Schleswig-Holstein was moored,’ said Anusewicz, pointing.
‘On a nice, friendly visit, herzlich willkommen!’ added Bernard, turning the rudder so that the dinghy described a wide semicircle and was now sailing towards the city.
The little tin cup from the hip flask did the rounds smoothly from hand to hand, and soon the harbour smell of grease, rather dirty water and fish was mixed with the aroma of the coffee that Anusewicz poured into a mug from Barbara’s thermos.
‘A beautiful day, a beautiful day,’ repeated Winterhaus. ‘I never dreamed about anything like this.’
‘Life is more beautiful than dreams,’ said Anusewicz confidently, ‘as you can see for yourself.’
He was going to add something else, but the dreamy Winterhaus began to chant in a pure, strong voice:
Das Wandern ist des Müllers Lust,
das Wandern, das Wandern
and tossed his head to encourage the brothers-in-law to join in with him, at which Anusewicz and Bernard chorused:
das Wandern, das Wandern
at which Winterhaus even more joyfully jumped to the first line of the second verse:
Vom Wasser haben wir’s gelernt
and in a now perfectly harmonised trio all the sailors chorused:
Vom Wasser haben wir’s gelernt,
vom Wasser, vom Wasser.
And although it wasn’t a rushing stream, beside which there should have been a mill and a half-timbered house, but a port canal, where from the banks instead of fir trees steel cranes shot into the sky, at that moment all three really did feel like wanderers descending from the mountains and coming across an enchanting, isolated farmhouse, and there inside…
However, the song was never finished. At the words about the master and the mistress, something grated on the port side, hissed and puffed, and seconds later the dinghy began to sink surprisingly quickly in the dark-green swirl of the Motława. Bernard didn’t even have time to unhitch the motor, which with a hiss and a gurgle dragged the floppy sheet of rubber to the bottom.
‘Jesus Christ, Mr Winterhaus! Can you swim?’ cried Anusewicz.
But doggy-paddling in hectic circles, Winterhaus hadn’t heard the question, though he kept repeating:
‘Mein Gott, mein Gott, all is lost, alles.’
And indeed, there was nothing to save. The little sack containing Winterhaus’ coins and the plastic bag filled with Bernard’s share had gone to the bottom just as rapidly as the dinghy burdened with its motor. Only Anusewicz, who had parcelled out his portion among all his jacket pockets, had not lost anything, but when they started swimming towards the quay, all this ballast weighed him down dreadfully. He kicked off his shoes, and once he had recovered a bit of vigour after the initial shock, he tried using one hand to empty his brim-full pockets. But it wasn’t easy. His jacket had gone as stiff as armour, and Anusewicz found that he was having more and more difficulty keeping above the surface. Finally, with immense effort, he pulled first his left, then his right arm out of the sleeves, and now, very much lighter, he was the last to swim to shore.
Struggling and striving, they finally overcame the slimy ledge protruding from the quay. They lay on the grass and stared at the sky in silence.
‘It has all drownded,’ said Winterhaus at last.
‘When I get hold of the Ruski who sold me that army surplus boat, I’ll smash his face in,’ threatened Bernard.
They got up and went on their way, Winterhaus holding one salvaged shoe, Bernard barefoot, and Anusewicz in grey socks. While the shade of the chestnut trees and the walls of the warehouses on Wiosna Ludów Street, where they had landed, were still protecting them, they didn’t yet feel the worst, but once they crossed the small bridge over the Radunia Canal, and in the light of the setting sun walked into the Fish Market, full of tourists and traders, they couldn’t help feeling that everyone’s gaze was aimed directly at them. Fortunately it wasn’t far to the small hotel on Straganiarska Street where Mr Winterhaus was staying, and in a few minutes they were there. Once they were in his room, with a view onto the leaning tower of Saint John’s, Anusewicz found that he still had one coin left in his shirt pocket.
‘It should be for you,’ he said, handing the golden disc to Winterhaus, ‘as a souvenir.’
‘No, no, please keep it,’ said Winterhaus, who was changing his trousers. ‘I’ll call a taxi for you, und this evening I am inviting you out for supper.’
‘For supper?’ said the brothers-in-law in amazement.
‘I vill ask you to write a short statement for my vife. Saying that the money vas found, und then sank, gut? So she does not think I am not normal. It’s enough that she thinks about my father like that.’
‘May he rest in peace,’ muttered Bernard, as they got into the taxi.
Anusewicz was quiet; his heart was beating irregularly, he felt breathless and wanted to be at home as soon as possible. He didn’t listen to the taxi driver and Bernard’s prattle when they got stuck in a traffic jam near the shipyard and the three crosses. Just as on waking that morning, some strange thoughts were bothering him again. Was Nina trying to tell him something important? Did Father Wołkonowicz appearing beside her in the meadow portend some change in his life? It was true that the day had been a ma
d one in every respect, but could that really have been the reason why after so many years those two had crossed deep, gloomy rivers of oblivion to appear in his dream? And what on earth could it mean – the coins of a German who had a Polish grandmother, falling into the muddy ooze at the bottom of the port river?
Under drooping eyelids, Anusewicz saw the meadows of Rudzieńszczyzna spread out along the meandering Rudejka River, peasants raking hay, and Mr Żubrowicz, who had driven down by wagonette from Kniaziowska Góra, humming:
It’s Anusewicz, there he sprawls,
The lazy old idler, scratching his balls.
It was an old, neighbourly squabble, and Anusewicz’s father would customarily reply:
It’s Z∙ubrowicz, that silly old chump,
Drank away his farm and bought up a swamp.
What had originally happened and why the Anusewiczes didn’t like the Żubrowiczes, he had no idea, and he knew he would never find out.
Locked away in his own thoughts, he said goodbye to Bernard and went inside the pleasantly cool flat. He drank a few sips of beer and lay down on the sofa. The Grim Reaper, left standing on his desk, gazed at Anusewicz with his immobile, glassy expression.
‘Hey, old man,’ he said affectionately, ‘I got away from you today, you know. By a whisker, or I’d have drowned.’
And then he felt something strange. First the sofa began to spin, and with it the entire room. Once again the military band began to boom, invisible this time. The Grim Reaper jumped down to the floor, began whirling in triple time and started to grow, getting bigger by the second, and once he had reached human dimensions, he threw off his sheet-like habit. It was no longer the Grim Reaper, but Nina, aged twenty, beautiful and alluring, dancing on the carpet, as if specially for him. He wanted to go up to her, and just as in his dream, which he remembered perfectly, to touch her body. Nina began to laugh and made off into the dining room. Anusewicz went after her, but behind the wall the dining room was no longer there, just the meandering river and the meadow, the same one he remembered from his dream. On it he saw the Żubrowiczes, the Anusewiczes and all the others – those he remembered and those he had long since forgotten. Nina gave him her hand and led him towards them, but Father Wołkonowicz barred their way and told Anusewicz to look behind him. He saw his own body, which no longer belonged to him, and his wife Zofia leaning over him. She sat down on the sofa, and removed a gold coin from her husband’s clenched fingers. The royal portrait did not attract her attention, but the view of the city on the reverse seemed strangely familiar. Above earthworks, forts and canals, above the tower of the Holy Virgin Mary, Saint Nicholas’, Saint Catherine’s and the Town Hall, above the port, the suburb and the Long Market she saw three Hebrew letters, illuminating it all from a cloud of laurel branches, blessing the city and the world. She couldn’t decipher them, but guessing what they meant, she whispered that ineffable name and, holding back her tears, closed her husband’s eyelids.
‘Do you want to go back there?’ Anusewicz heard a powerful voice, that didn’t belong to Father Wołkonowicz.
‘No,’ he replied, ‘of course not.’
And off he went, across the soft, damp meadow of Rudzieńszczyzna.
ON THE ROAD AT EIGHTEEN
Yu Hua
Translated from the Chinese by Andrew F. Jones
Yu Hua (1960–). Born in Hangzhou, Yu Hua worked as a government dentist for several years before escaping to become a writer in the 1980s, because he did not enjoy “looking into people’s mouths the whole day”. He was marked by the fact that he grew up during the Cultural Revolution, a theme that recurs in his writing – particularly his two-volume novel Brothers, which was a huge bestseller when first published in 2005–6, though it drew harsh criticism in China for its crude humour. Yu Hua has written four novels, six collections of stories, and three collections of essays.
The asphalt road rolls up and down like it’s pasted on top of ocean waves. Walking down this little highway in the mountains, I’m like a boat. This year, I turned eighteen. The few brownish whiskers that have sprouted on my chin flutter in the breeze. They’ve only just taken up residence on my chin, so I really treasure them. I’ve spent the whole day walking down the road, and I’ve already seen lots of mountains and lots of clouds. Every one of the mountains and every one of the clouds made me think of people I know. I shouted out each of their nicknames as I walked by. So even though I’ve walked all day, I’m not tired, not at all. I walked through the morning, now it’s the tail end of the afternoon, and it won’t be long until I see the tip of dusk. But I haven’t found an inn.
I’ve encountered quite a few people along the road, but none of them has known where the road goes or whether there’s an inn there. They all tell me: “Keep walking. You’ll see when you get there.” I think what everyone said was just terrific. I really am just seeing when I get there. But I haven’t found an inn. I feel like I should be worried about that.
I think it’s weird that I’ve walked all day and only seen one car. That was around noon, when I’d just begun to think about hitchhiking. But all I was doing was thinking about hitchhiking. I hadn’t started to worry about finding an inn – I was only thinking about how amazing it would be to get a lift from someone. I stood by the side of the road waving at the car, trying my best to look casual. But the driver hardly even looked at me. The car or the driver. They hardly even looked at me. All they fucking did was drive right by. So I ran, chasing the car as fast as I could, just for fun, because I still hadn’t started to worry about finding an inn. I ran until the car had disappeared, and then I laughed at myself, but I discovered that laughing too hard made it difficult to breathe, so I stopped. After that I kept walking, happy and excited, except that I started to regret that I hadn’t picked up a rock before I started waving at the car.
Now I really want a lift, because dusk is about to fall and I can’t get that inn out of my goddamned head. But there haven’t been any cars all afternoon. If a car came now, I think I could make it stop. I’d lie down in the middle of the road, and I’m willing to bet that any car would come to a screeching halt before it got to my head. But I don’t even hear the rumble of an engine, let alone see a car. Now I’m just going to have to keep walking and see when I get there. Not bad at all: keep walking and see when you get there.
The road rolls up and down from hill to valley, and the hills tempt me every time, because before I charge up to the top, I think I’ll see an inn on the other side. But each time I charge up the slope, all I see is another hill in the distance, with a depressing trough in between. And still I charge up each hill as if my life depended on it. And now I’m charging up another one, but this time I see it. Not an inn, but a truck. The truck is pointed toward me, stalled in the middle of the highway in a gully between two hills. I can see the driver’s ass pointing skyward and, behind it, all the colors of the approaching sunset. I can’t see the driver’s head because it’s stuffed under the hood. The truck’s hood slants up into the air like an upside-down lip. The back of the truck is piled full of big wicker baskets. I’m thinking that they definitely must be packed with some kind of fruit. Of course, bananas would be best of all. There are probably some in the cab, too, so when I hop in, I can eat a few. And I don’t really care if the truck’s going in the opposite direction as me. I need to find an inn, and if there’s no inn, I need a truck. And the truck’s right here in front of me.
Elated, I run down to the truck and say, “Hi!”
The driver doesn’t seem to have heard me. He’s still fiddling with something under the hood.
“Want a smoke?”
Only now does he pull his head out from under the hood, stretch out a black, grimy hand, and take the cigarette between his fingers. I rush to give him a light, and he sucks several mouthfuls of smoke into his mouth before stuffing his head back under the hood.
I’m satisfied. Since he accepted the smoke, that means he has to give me a lift. So I wander around to the back of the t
ruck to investigate what’s in the wicker baskets. But they’re covered, and I can’t see, so I sniff. I smell the fragrance of apples. And I think: Apples aren’t too bad either.
In just a little bit, he’s done repairing the truck, and he jumps down from the hood. I rush over and say, “Hey, I need a ride.” What I don’t expect is that he gives me a hard shove with those grimy hands and barks, “Go away!”
I’m so angry I’m speechless, but he just swings on over to the driver’s side, opens the door, slides into the cab, and starts the engine. I know that if I blow this opportunity, I’ll never get another one. I know I should just give up. So I run over to the other side, open the door, and hop in. I’m ready to fight if necessary. I turn to him and yell: “Then give me back my cigarette!” The truck’s already started to move by now.
He turns to look at me with a big, friendly smile and asks, “Where you headed?”
I’m bewildered by this turnaround. I say, “Doesn’t matter. Wherever.”
He asks me very nicely, “Want an apple?” He’s still glancing over at me.
“That goes without saying.”
“Go get one from the back.”
How am I supposed to climb out of the cab to the back of the truck when he’s driving so fast? So I say, “Forget it.”
He says, “Go get one.” He’s still looking at me.
I say, “Stop staring at me. There’s no road on my face.”
With this, he twists his eyes back onto the highway.
The truck’s driving back in the direction I just came from; I’m sitting comfortably in the cab, looking out the window and chatting with the driver. By now, we’re already the best of friends. I’ve found out that he’s a private entrepreneur. It’s his own truck. The apples are his, too. I hear change jingling in his pockets. I ask him, “Where are you going?”
He says, “I just keep driving and see when I get there.”
It sounds just like what everyone else said. That’s so nice. I feel closer to him. I want everything I see outside the window to be just as close, just as familiar, and soon all those hills and clouds start to bring more friends to mind, so I shout out their nicknames as we drive by.
