COLUMNISTS

By Deidre Dare

The King of Spades wanted to write a guest column about something that happened to us a little while ago in a Japanese restaurant. He wrote a very, very grave column because the thing that occurred was a serious thing (and because he's Russian and light-heartedness is not exactly a Russian forte).

I don't really want to make you cry tears of anguish over your omelettes on Friday mornings, so I can't possibly run the column he wrote.

I can, however, use parts of it and let us both tell you the story of what we call The Stabbing Incident. All words in italics are the KoS's.

The KoS felt this was a story he wanted to tell because he felt, as a Russian, that it demonstrates a fundamental difference between the West and Russia and he wanted Russians to think about some of their current attitudes, which he feels need to change.

We were sitting next to each other in a booth, having sushi and gin and at the next table there was a young man in a suit eating alone. I, smitten as usual with the KoS, only had eyes for him. But, suddenly, I noticed that the young man looked upset and ill.

"What's wrong with that boy?"

I asked the KoS.

The KoS took a sip of his sake and said simply, "Oh - he's been stabbed."

"WHAT?" I screamed, jumping over him in one graceful (even gazelle-like) leap. "Why isn't anyone doing anything?!" I screamed again, as blood poured from the boy's punctured lung and his face turned blue. The rest of the diners continued to eat their food and the waitresses continued serving.

"They don't want to get involved," the KoS explained. "They figure if he was stabbed, there's a reason for it. Like: he's a hooligan or something." (The KoS may have taken another sip of sake, but I'm not sure).

"Well, fuck that! Call a fucking ambulance," I told him, rushing over to the man and taking him in my arms.

She had about half an hour left.

Thick blood was rhythmically pouring from a wound below his heart, staining his white shirt, and quickly running down to the wooden floor. Japanese pop was playing in the background. He was about to die. Bad luck. She spoke English, English only. "Ambulance! Where is the God damned ambulance?" she cried out.

No one responded. No one looked. No one seemed to care. Getting on her knees, she held up his torso. Probing delicately, located the wound. The knife did not reach the heart, she thought, but probably cut into the lung. That was bad.

Waitresses brought her little white towels. These were good to wipe hands with before eating sushi, but too small to make a good bandage. So, she took a waiter's kimono belt and tied it tightly around the boy's wounded chest.

What I wanted was something to make a tourniquet out of. I noticed the kimono and grabbed it. Then, I turned to the KoS and said dramatically, "Don't tell anyone I have medical training!"

"So! You ARE a spy!" he exclaimed.

"No. Are you?" I asked, given the opportunity. He shook his head. (Each of us suspects the other of being in the espionage business, you see).

Much later, the ambulance arrived.

I was absolutely covered in blood, but, we found out later, I saved that boy's life. Pretty good work for someone who went out that night purely for romance and gin: my absolute fa­vourite combination. Everyone else in that restaurant would have let him die as they ate their California rolls.

She drank straight gin that night, but it had no effect.

Actually, the KoS lies. After the ambulance took the boy away, a waitress came over to me, squeezed my hand and gave me straight gin after straight gin. It had a HUGE effect on me and I remember sitting there, saying to the KoS: "Ask me anything, and I'll tell you the truth - anything at all."

I think he asked me: "How many men have you really slept with?" but I really don't remember.

About six weeks later, we were having yet more gin at a bar in New York.

Several tables away, a young woman suddenly became slightly pale and could not stand up to leave. It was clearly not serious. But, within seconds, a lively nurse from the Midwest who was in the bar, took the young lady's pulse and recommended that 911 be called.

Within minutes, three firefighters, trained to provide paramedic assistance, appeared on the scene. There was nothing serious, but somehow everyone knew that they should participate.

What the KoS means here is that everyone in the bar gathered around this girl, me included, offering aid and advice.

The Lubavitcher Rebbe said: "...our work will make the dark into day..."

So, indeed, there is nothing bad in helping a stranger in need, even if he had been only stabbed in the chest and may not live until the ambulance arrives. Nothing.

Well, and there is nothing bad, my Darling, in trying to keep things light and turning, to quote your Rebbe, the dark into day, even in the task of column-writing. Even the way we each tell the story, tells a story.

After all, there are happy endings even in Russia (and I don't just mean at massage parlours, people).

xxoo, DD

■ Deidre Dare's novel "Expat" can be read online at: www.deidredare.com