We, the Drowned - Carsten Jensen [305]
They'd got a general picture of the losses the convoy had suffered. Only twelve out of thirty-six ships had reached their destinations. Most had been bound for Murmansk or Archangel, and only the Nimbus had managed to reach Molotovsk, which meant that in this town of women, they had no rivals. They saw other men in the streets, but like the cashier and accordionist in the International Club, they were crippled or white-haired.
The few children begged the foreign sailors for cigarettes and chocolate. Their faces, which seemed wise beyond their years, would light up with an inviting smile as they approached.
"Fuck you, Jack," they said. It was British sailors who'd taught them this greeting.
"Fuck you, Jack," Wally answered, and passed out cigarettes.
The beer in the club tasted of onions, so they drank Russian vodka, which tasted like meths and most likely was. Every time they sat down on the red velvet sofas, the only furniture apart from the bare tables, they raised clouds of dust. The floor was filthy too. Anton's explanation was that once a woman had wielded a machine gun, a mop did nothing for her.
The crew from the Nimbus sat at one end of the club, and the Molotovsk women at the other. In the evening the women changed out of their work clothes and into dresses that looked like altered smocks. They put up their hair too, but their broad, heart-shaped faces were as colorless as before; they didn't own any makeup. Rumor had it that they were all spies who seduced foreign sailors in order to wangle secrets out of them, and this added to their fascination. Not that the crew of the Nimbus had any secrets.
"They're welcome to have a go," Wally said. "They can spy on me all they like." He crossed the dance floor and pulled a lipstick out of his pocket. The women looked at him with bright eyes and started giggling. He handed the lipstick to a hefty blonde in a faded blue dress, who immediately started painting the lips of the woman closest to her. The lipstick was passed around, and a bevy of red lips turned to him, united in a huge smile. He pursed his own lips at them, and another wave of giggling rolled through the room.
He walked up to the stage where the accordionist had yet to start the evening entertainment, and handed him some cigarettes: the musician stuck them behind his ear and began playing. A moan sounded from his instrument as he squeezed the air out of it in a heavy, stomping rhythm.
Wally went back to the women and bowed to one of them. She leapt up with surprising agility and led him to the center of the dance floor, where she placed her hand on his shoulder. He responded by putting his arm around her generous waist. She was older than he was and didn't hesitate to guide him through the unfamiliar steps. When the dance was over, she curtsied and returned to her seat.
"That didn't get you very far, did it?"
It was Anton. Wally turned to him.
"That was merely the preliminary discussion. I start by showing them a small selection of my wares. Then I give them time to think about it."
"You can't have much faith in yourself if you have to buy them."
Helge gave him a scornful look, and howls of protest erupted from the others.
"Quit that sanctimonious shit," Absalon said. "We all do it from time to time. You wouldn't stand a chance with that potato face of yours unless you left a few bank notes on the dresser." The others laughed.
"They're just like us," Wally said. There was an unaccustomed tenderness in his voice. "They're in need. So are we. Yes, we probably could get some Commie pussy for free. But where's the harm in spoiling them a bit? I mean, they don't look as if their life's all that much fun as it is."