The Woman from Bratislava

by Leif Davidsen

  ‘Well, there’s no need to be like that,’ the moron retorted, whereupon I turned on my heel, walked over to Lasse and shook his hand demonstratively.

  ‘Bye, Lasse. Take care of yourself.’

  ‘You too,’ he said. ‘See you back home in a couple of days. Say hello to Janne for me.’

  Brandt was looking daggers at me. I had mucked up his schedule. From now on, every time he did a head tally, like a teacher counting his pupils, after yet another stop for a pee or a fag on the long Central-European highways, he would have to remember that there was one less in the party. Flapping and clucking like a mother hen, he got his brood moving. They picked up their bags and plodded out to the waiting coach. A young woman approached me. As far as I remembered her name was Charlotte. She was travelling with her father, Niels Lassen, whom I knew very well. He was five years older than me and had worked for many years with various international organisations. He had thereby avoided being squeezed dry by the greedy Danish taxman and been able to save enough to take relatively early retirement. And yet he could not see his way to paying for a separate room for his daughter. They shared a double room in order to save money.

  ‘Teddy,’ said Charlotte. ‘I’m sorry you’re not coming to Budapest. I heard what Klaus said. About the room being paid in advance, so I was wondering …’

  ‘Have a pleasant night in my vacant room in Budapest,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ she said. ‘I’m so fed up with not being able to smoke in the room because of Dad.’

  ‘Well, you can smoke all you like in mine,’ I said.

  She thanked me again and sashayed away. It takes so little to make some people happy. It is an enviable trait, although it could also be a sign of low intelligence and lack of imagination. Nice man that I am, I waved the coach off and watched as it nosed its way through the crowd of black-marketeers, hookers on the morning shift, ordinary bystanders and the chaotic queue of taxis that is all part of the street scene outside an international hotel in this corner of our beloved post-communist world. It swung up towards the Presidential Palace – now standing empty because the Slovaks, like so many others, found it hard to agree on anything – and then, to my great relief, my colleagues and the tourists were gone, off on their way to Budapest. Me, I was off home.

  There was a travel agent’s office at the hotel. I presented them with my Mastercard and my wishes. By some miracle, there was no problem: there was an early afternoon flight to Vienna and a connection from there to Copenhagen. There were plenty of seats available on both flights. It made a refreshing change from all the hassle previously involved in trying to go anywhere without booking weeks in advance – under the old communist regimes that had basically been a law of nature. Now all I had to do was to stay upright, try to get in touch with Janne again, pay the bill for my meals, drinks and telephone calls at the hotel and get myself home to my own bed. And maybe make an appointment for tomorrow with a brisk little chiropractor.

  I could not sit still. It actually helped to walk a little, so I strolled down through a small city gate into the old town. It was a lovely, if slightly chilly, spring day. The old houses seemed well maintained, but I had to put out an admonitory hand to ward off a group of gypsy children who advanced upon me with grubby palms outstretched. A policeman caught sight of the bunch of raggedy kids; all that was needed was for him to set his corpulent figure in motion and they nipped down a sidestreet and were gone as if they had never existed. I tipped my imaginary hat gratefully to the policeman, who indifferently looked the other way. I saw a beggar in a wheelchair, engrossed in a book and heedless of whether passers-by threw coins into the hat lying in front of his chair or not. Another was playing the accordion, a slow, plaintive Gypsy melody that made me feel sad. I dropped some coins into his hat. There is always music in the streets in Eastern Europe. There are plenty of elderly former members of the state-run symphony orchestras who now have to earn their bread in this way. Nowhere in the world will you find finer street musicians. And always there is a beggar with no legs, a little old lady swathed in shawls or a cripple covered in running sores. The communists hid them out of the way. Capitalism has driven them out into the open in all their pitiful wretchedness. It is easy, in today’s post-communist world, to feel like a socialist. Or social-democrat rather, I had to admit to myself. Since they were the ones I voted for, although I did not tell anyone that. I was only a little left of centre, as I had always been, if one disregards the obligatory flirt with Marxism at university: two years of schooling in the need for revolution. But that was a long time ago. And it meant nothing today.

  No one in the narrow cobbled streets seemed to be in any great hurry. People ambled along, the younger ones often chatting on mobile phones which were obviously the latest status symbol. I came past a pub, The Dubliner it was called. It could just as easily have been in Copenhagen or Stockholm, anywhere but the Emerald Isle; the decor mock Irish throughout. I went in, found myself a spot at the bar and ordered a pint. Nothing would have induced me to sit down, knowing as I did how hard it would be to get up again. It was only mid-morning, but the place was full of people, both Slovaks and young foreigners discussing their love lives and personal intrigues. They were all very smartly dressed. Some of them better and more fashionably turned out than this particular gentleman from the affluent West, but I was past the stage of having to advertise my prosperity. Waitresses in red T-shirts and tiny white mini-skirts teetered about on stiletto heels. The mini-skirts did not look quite right with their somewhat plumper Slovakian legs. On their T-shirts, emblazoned across their chests, were the words ‘Food only’. Next to the door was a sign saying: ‘Food waitress with experience wanted’. Some day the whole world will speak an English of sorts. A bent, old woman shuffled past the open door, all happed up in a threadbare coat and big shawl despite the spring sunshine. She accosted a young man with a mobile phone to his ear, reaching out a gnarled, veined hand. He passed her by without so much as a glance. When another young man standing next to me started jabbering on his mobile, the ringing tone of which sounded like ‘The Wild Rover’, I decided I had had enough, paid the few karuna I owed and made my way back through the relatively quiet streets to my hotel. Back in my room I tried calling Janne again, but again I got the answering machine. I left a brusque message, demanding to know where the hell she was, telling her when I would be landing that evening and asking if she could pick me up at the airport. She had the bloody car, after all. I called the Institute, but was told that they had not seen her for a couple of days. She was off sick, her secretary informed me, with thinly disguised glee. Well, that would give them something to gossip about over lunch.

  So by the time I set out for the airport I was in a pretty foul mood. In the taxi, driving through the dun-coloured, concrete Stalinist desert of Bratislava’s suburbs, I kept expecting to see a cement factory proudly proclaiming that its workers strove tirelessly to fulfil the party’s magnificent Five Year Plan and wholeheartedly supported the indissoluble friendship with the Soviet Union. Instead my eyes were met by adverts for Sony and Marlboro.

  The terminal was deserted. It looked more like a dismal provincial aerodrome in some far corner of the globe than an airport in a capital city. The fake marble flooring, the virtual absence of any passengers, the few departures announced on the information display boards and the smell of the erstwhile Soviet Union which clung to it, all testified to the fact that Slovakia was still a European backwater. Slovak Air Services and Russian Aeroflot fought for precedence in their own little signage battle. There were no staff at the check-in desk or in the small office underneath the fancy Informácie sign. Besides my flight to Vienna the departure schedule from Bratislava Airport also included a flight to Prague, one to Kiev and, strangely enough, a late-night flight to Tunis. That was the lot from the capital of Europe’s youngest nation. Over in a corner I noticed a woman sitting quietly reading a magazine. In a minuscule post office an elderly man stared vacantly into space. In the tiny
newsagent’s I could purchase a copy of Die Welt, and this I did, but I did not dare to sit down. I wandered around, biding my time, and eventually a young man who spoke English appeared and checked me in along with the handful of other passengers who drifted in as departure time approached. I was like a little child, I couldn’t wait to get home.

  I changed planes in Vienna and landed on schedule in Copenhagen. I swallowed my pride and asked the stewardess to help me out of my seat. The pain when I had heaved myself to my feet unaided in Vienna had been so bad that I would have screamed out loud, were it not for the fact that, no matter what, a man just does not do that. My back hurt like hell. Our passports were checked by the police when we got off the plane and again as we were about to step into the safe arms of the motherland. The usual poor sods were already sitting in a huddle alongside passport control, with no hope of being allowed to enter the promised land of the EU, while I, with my splendid beetroot-red document was able to sail straight through. Now aching in three different places: my back, my tooth and my head, in order of severity.

  I hung around for ages, but my suitcase never appeared. A smiling woman informed me, after pressing a lot of buttons on a computer keyboard, that it looked as though it was now somewhere over the Atlantic, on its way to Los Angeles. Apparently a small mistake had been made at Vienna Airport. Why do airport staff always regard the disappearance of a suitcase as a small mistake. It’s a bloody big deal for the person whose suitcase it happens to be. And for the unsuspecting passenger on the flight to the States who was even now looking forward to soaking up the Californian sunshine in his new beachwear, which unfortunately happened to be in Copenhagen. As long as there were no drugs or other substances in my suitcase it would be sent on to me. If I could just sign here please? Certainly, anything just so long as I can go home.

  Janne was not waiting in the arrivals hall, where more fortunate travellers were being greeted with kisses and flowers. I gathered up my aching bones, picked up my light holdall and went out to grab a taxi. Spring had temporarily deserted Copenhagen, as if scared off by its northerly latitude. Sleet was pelting down and the taxi driver was playing some song by Gustav Winckler. I did not see how things could get any worse.

  But they could. The flat was quiet and in darkness. A couple of days’ worth of newspapers and mail lay on the mat, and when I switched on a light and walked into the kitchen I found a miniature jungle of the tenderest pot plants ranged in and around the sink. The light on the answering machine blinked brightly as I poured myself a whisky and proceeded to listen to my own disgruntled tones.

  4

  I HEARD THE KEY in the lock and, out of habit, made to get up, but could not. I lay flat on my back, stuck there as firmly as if someone had nailed me to the mattress. The thought of how much it would hurt were I to attempt the slightest movement was quite unbearable. I lay still, listening to Janne’s familiar footsteps coming down our long hallway. The kids had obviously been dropped off at school already. Gingerly I turned my head to check the digital display on the alarm clock: half-past eight. I had slept longer than I usually did. I had gone to bed feeling very sorry for myself. But the sleeping pill I had taken had done the trick. I took stock of myself as I listened to Janne’s feet drawing closer: aching back, aching tooth, but at least I had managed to sleep off my headache. Then Janne was standing in the bedroom doorway. She stared at me, guilty-eyed. Served her right.

  She was a good-looking woman, my Janne. Tall and slim, her medium-length hair becomingly coiffed. She had small, blue eyes which suited her rather narrow face and high, clear forehead. I had always loved her little ears. The first time I kissed her it was on the small stretch of bare skin between her ear and her throat. She had been wearing her hair up, all set to have fun at the Institute Christmas party and it had seemed the most natural thing in the world to twirl her round while we were dancing and brush that lovely, opalescent skin with my lips. It was a good move. I happened to have found one of her more secret erogenous zones. Or it had found me. That little patch of skin had been asking to be kissed. Now she stood there, keys in hand, looking at me.

  ‘How come you’re home so soon? And what are you doing in bed?’ she asked.

  ‘Hi, Janne. Gosh, I’m glad to see you too.’

  ‘How come you’re home so soon? For heaven’s sake, man, get up!’

  It was awful to have to lie there looking up at her. Suddenly she seemed so tall and overbearing. It was an odd angle from which to view one’s wife.

  ‘I can’t get up,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’

  ‘I’ve done my back in. I can’t flaming well get up. Could you give me a hand?’

  Janne must have seen from the look on my face that I was not joking. I tried to sit up, but the pain that shot across the small of my back warned me that if I proceeded with this manoeuvre it was going to start hurting in earnest. She slipped her keys into the pocket of her stylish jeans, bent down and hooked her hands under my armpits, making me squeal like the stuck pigs from the summer holidays of my early childhood, when my uncle used to slaughter the beasts in the farmyard.

  ‘What’s wrong, Teddy?’ she asked, seriously worried now.

  ‘I told you, it’s my fucking back, it hurts like hell. Grab hold of my hand!’

  I held out my hand and she took it. Her own were strong and slender and I noticed she was still wearing her wedding ring, which was always something. I asked her to pull. By this time she was looking quite alarmed and appeared unsure as to whether she dared use all her strength. But between us we managed it. She got me up in two stages: first into a sitting position – the four torturers from Bratislava had evidently followed me to Denmark, they were going at it hammer and tongs, boring their awls, knives and all manner of medieval instruments into my back as I slid my legs over the edge of the bed and then, with another burst of effort, eased myself onto my feet. But once I was standing upright the pain subsided a little. Still holding my hand, Janne regarded me with concern and genuine sympathy. She could tell that old Hypochondriac Teddy was not faking it, he actually was in genuine agony. I stood there for a moment with her hand in mine.

  ‘How do you feel?’ she asked.

  ‘Better, thanks. It helps to stand up.’

  ‘What did you do? How did it happen? Did you lift something the wrong way?’

  ‘Nope. I was just sitting on the toilet. It’s so stupid,’ I said.

  Then for a moment more we stood in silence, still holding hands. What a sight we must have made. My pretty wife in her smart clothes, clean skin and beautifully coiffed hair, and me, old Teddy, in a pair of somewhat crumpled boxer shorts with my hair standing on end.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You really don’t deserve this.’

  For a second I thought she was talking about my back, then it struck me that what she was actually apologising for were the plants in the kitchen sink, the newspapers and mail on the doormat and all the other signs which said that Teddy was a cuckold. I let go of her hand.

  ‘I need to take a shower,’ I said to break the silence. All of a sudden we were like strangers and no one wants a stranger seeing them the way I looked right then.

  ‘I’ll make us some breakfast,’ she said.

  ‘Coffee would be good,’ I said, and went on as if nothing had changed:

  ‘Are you going into the Institute? Or are you still off sick?’

  ‘Teddy, I said I’m sorry. You don’t deserve to find out about it like this.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Go have your shower. Can you manage on your own? Go have your shower and then we’ll talk.’

  And that is what we did. A shower helped, and the coffee did me good, but what she had to tell me, banal though it was, was anything but good. There was someone else: she had a boyfriend as the infantile parlance of today has it. It had been going on for some time. She had to all intents and purposes moved in with him. The plan had been to break it to me gently over a glass of red wine when
I got home. She had not meant me to find out like this. I said nothing, sat almost as if turned to stone, but my feelings were, in fact, somewhat mixed. I was angry and upset, but I was also strangely distanced from the whole thing. As if it had not really penetrated. As if I had actually known this was going to happen. It had merely been a question of when. I sat bolt upright on the kitchen chair, trying to keep my back still. My tooth was aching again and I was in real Poor-Old-Teddy mode.

  ‘Who is he?’ I asked again.

  ‘It’s Peter,’ she said.

  ‘Peter! He’s nothing but a lousy assistant lecturer! That’s a bit of a come-down, Janne. Shouldn’t you be working your way up the ladder? Nabbing yourself a professor? I mean, you’ve already scored a lecturer!’

  ‘God, you’re so full of bullshit!’ she said.

  ‘Peter!’ was all I said. He was in his mid-thirties, prematurely balding, but unfortunately it suited him. Fashion was on his side: close-shaved head matching his equally close-trimmed beard. Athletic body. He loved hiking in the Norwegian mountains. Ran in the Copenhagen marathon. He was ambitious and, as much as I hate to admit it, he was also very clever. Like Lena, he was doing research into transitional phenomena in post-communist countries, with particular emphasis on the problems faced by the new applicant states as they endeavoured to gain membership of that club of the wealthy, the European Union. He was forever being awarded one grant or another and was also going to be taking part in one of the Institute of International Affairs’ new projects. IIA work brought with it both posts and funding, while the rest of us went hungry. It was bloody infuriating and extremely hurtful. I found myself picturing them in bed together. I felt a fleeting pang of jealousy so strong that it made me forget my back and my tooth. Who the hell did they think they were? If anyone was going to be unfaithful it should be me. If anyone was going to leave it should be me. Instead we sat there in the kitchen, as tongue-tied as a couple of fourteen-year-olds.