THEtrain was called the “Vostock” and it originated in the Khabarovsk station. The carriages were still icy, although the attendants had apparently stoked the charcoal heaters earlier and a pleasant warm red glow was coming from the brazier under the samovar. A mannish attendant, with thick legs and a heavy growth of black hairs on her upper lip, took their luggage and ushered them through the soft-class passageway. Alex had thrust a pile of bunched-up rubles into her hand.
“Together, please,” he whispered.
The “Vostock” was even more Victorian than “The Russiya.” Mirrors were everywhere and polished brass fittings were reflected in the heavily varnished wood paneling. Beside each mirror were two glass globe lamps etched with poppies. The windows were partly covered by red velvet tasseled curtains. The compartments were slightly better equipped than “The Russiya’s.” A bathroom adjoined the compartment. Both the top of the toilet and the floor of the bathroom were carpeted. A gleaming shower head lay on the sink. The bunks were arranged one above the other as in “The Russiya,” but the pillows seemed fluffier, more inviting.
“Goose feathers,” Anna Petrovna said, smiling as she sank her hands into the softness.
With the compartment door closed, Alex felt safe, transported to another place, without danger, warm and friendly. Anna Petrovna removed her heavy coat and hung it on a metal hook. She went into the bathroom and he could see her looking in the mirror.
“A witch,” she said.
Removing his own outer clothing, he joined her in the bathroom, crowding his face into the mirror. He rubbed his cheeks. He needed a shave.
“And the beast,” he said, nibbling her ear. They were a honeymoon couple, he imagined. Perhaps a little long in the tooth, but even that could not dampen his spirit. He felt the strength of his love for her.
Anna Petrovna pushed him gently out of the bathroom and closed the door, leaving him alone in the pleasant compartment. In the background, music was playing, an American tune, “Home on the Range.” He hummed along, half-remembering the long-forgotten words. He felt himself in a totally private world, far removed from any sense of the present.
The sun had begun to ascend over the high-rise buildings of the Khabarovsk skyline, throwing spears of light into the compartment, taking the edge off the chill. Earlier he had felt fatigue. But here in this Victorian world, he felt only a sense of impending good fortune, a world without worry.
Under him the wheels began to creak, turning reluctantly at first, then easily as the train gained momentum. He deliberately avoided looking out of the window. The city itself could remind him of their ordeal, and he did not want to linger over such memories. He would respond only to the reality of the moment in this special envelope of time. Next to his love for Anna Petrovna, all else was trivial. Nothing was more powerful. Compared to it, death and danger seemed unreal.
The train was picking up momentum now. The familiar bouncing movement began again and, with it, the disorientation of his sense of time. He removed his watch and slipped it into his pocket. Time was an enemy now, as it had been to Dimitrov. He could think of Dimitrov now without guilt, merely another victim of fate like Zeldovich, like the young soldier, like the young woman who had been passed off as Grivetsky.
Anna Petrovna stepped into the compartment again. He reached out to her and she came into his arms. His lips sought hers.
“You are my life,” he whispered, burying his face in her hair. Stepping back, they began to undress each other. He loved the sight of her tall, well-made body. Was she seeing him, too, as a gift? What had gone before between them now seemed prologue as they stood there in the unreality of the Victorian compartment facing each other. What was happening was beyond science, beyond logic, an immutable mystery.
He moved toward her and they reached out and joined, flesh to flesh, in an act as ancient as life. They lay motionless, feeling the power of it, the gift of it to each other. He wanted to speak, but could not find words, knowing that he was speaking to her without them and listening to her as well.
He was certain that she felt the same wonder in it, although she said nothing. It was this feast of her that moved him, gave him a life beyond himself. He had no questions now, but the fears were returning as he thought of the future, and he became even hungrier for her flesh, entering her again, drowning in the warmth of her. They lay still, but the movement of the train beneath them provided the rhythm of nature. He imagined that they had become part of the train, had merged with it, not resisting its power.
He must have drowsed. He could judge how much time had passed by the change of light in the compartment. The sun had mellowed. Dashes of pink filtered through the brightness. Lifting his head and squinting out the window he could see a brown barren landscape, low hills dotted with scraggly, leafless trees. Anna Petrovna stirred against him, her lips swollen with sleep, her breath shallow.
The train slowed, and Alex thought of his grandfather, speaking of his own train journey nearly sixty years before. He could see the aged face, the eyes glowing like coals.
“In Siberia, the journey is never over,” his grandfather had said. “No one ever arrives.” Now Alex felt the same panic, the same anguish of the journey.
We are all cast from the same clay, he thought. But the Russians did not accept that. They had such a vain sense of their own separateness.
“They cannot live with our foreignness without wanting to conquer it,” Dimitrov had mused one day.
“Who?” Alex had asked.
Dimitrov’s eyes had narrowed. “All of them. They are not content unless they can get their fangs into us, and bleed us into submission.”
“Who is them?”
Dimitrov had looked at Alex for a long time.
“Not you, Kuznetsov.” He had paused. “Them.” He had moved his head, implying someone else’s presence in the room.
“Who isthem? ” Alex had asked again, beginning to feel idiotic.
“Everyone who is not us,” Dimitrov answered finally, and Alex had shivered as if the words were a cold chill.
“These people are all crazy,” Alex whispered out loud. He felt Anna Petrovna stir.
“What?”
“I just made a social comment,” he said, drawing her close to him.
“I heard you say ‘crazy.’ ”
“You heard correctly.”
“Whom did you mean?”
“All of us,” he answered quickly. “Do you think Dimitrov is dead?” he asked.
“You are uncertain?” She seemed startled. She rose on an elbow and looked at him. Her lips began to tremble.
“Of course I am uncertain,” he said, meaning more than the state of Dimitrov’s condition. “Would he really have done it?”
“You still have doubts?”
“Yes.”
“And do you think he would have let you leave the country alive?”
“Yes, I think he would.”
“Before the strike?”
“He trusted me.”
“With his body. Not with his secrets.”
He wanted to tell her that he was not afraid to die, that he was afraid only for her, and, most of all, for the end of what they had found together.
“What does it matter now?” he said.
Anna Petrovna sighed and closed her eyes. He felt his own drowsiness. I will not think of it again, he promised himself, yawning and falling into a deep sleep.
When he opened his eyes, Anna Petrovna was already dressed, sitting stiffly in the chair as her hand moved swiftly over some writing paper. He watched her for a moment, then swung his legs over the side of the bunk, feeling the chill seep into his feet.
“I am writing to my children,” she said quickly, raising her eyes.
He stood shivering, naked, looking out into the passing landscape. They were apparently traveling on a high plateau. It was raining. Below, a wooded valley, the tree barks shiny with wetness, spread downward into the mist.
Dressing quickly, he turned occasionally to watch her, deeply intent on her composition. Her pen moved swiftly, her hand balanced carefully against the train’s motion. Perhaps they would really escape, he thought, and this is a sign she is coming with me? He dared not pursue the issue further, afraid to be disappointed. He would postpone thinking about that for the present; there were too many uncertainties. If Miss Peterson had somehow failed to notify the American Embassy, their chances of leaving Soviet soil would be considerably reduced. He smiled at himself in the mirror as he scraped off a two-day beard. He was more aware of himself, physically, than he had ever been. Anna Petrovna had given him that.
“Hungry?” he asked, putting on his jacket.
She looked up from her writing and smiled absently, nodding. Behind her the rain beat against the window of the train. He waited while she folded the letter into the envelope, sealed it and put it into her pocketbook.
In the passageway, the heavyset attendant looked up from stoking the furnace and glared at them.
“About an hour,” she shouted. “Be ready please with your baggage.”
The restaurant was in the next carriage and they passed through the familiar freezing space. The restaurant carriage was nearly deserted. The manager, a woman with an ugly birthmark on her cheek, greeted them with an obviously insincere smile.
“Breakfast?” she asked, then added quickly, “We are nearly shut down. We have only tea and eggs.” She ushered them to a table. At the far end they could see the Australian from “The Russiya.” Across the aisle were two Mongols. Alex watched as Anna Petrovna looked at them and turned her eyes away quickly. He knew what that meant. Sitting down heavily in his chair, he studied Anna Petrovna’s pale face across the table.
“Them?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“They are watching us?”
“Yes. They must have gotten on at one of the stops during the night.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Is the Pope Catholic?” she said in English, startling him and making him smile. Again he dared not think beyond the moment, especially now.
The manager of the car brought two plates of eggs bathed in grease. Another plate contained soggy pieces of black bread.
“Nothing is going to ruin my breakfast,” he said. “Not even the food.”
The manager brought a pot of tea. Alex felt the pot. It was cold.
“The hell with you, you fat whore,” he called after her.
Anna Petrovna smiled as she broke off a piece of soggy bread and dipped it into the yolk of the egg.
“The food tastes like shit,” the Australian yelled across the carriage. The manageress turned and glared at him.
Alex raised his fist without turning around to face the man. “Right on.”
“What’s that mean?” Anna Petrovna asked.
“It means something like ‘Give them hell.’ ”
“Right on,” she said, lifting her fist in imitation. But her eyes were misty and her lip trembled. Reaching across the table, he squeezed her hand.
“The best time in Washington is in the spring. The cherry blossoms bloom around the Tidal Basin and the tourists make it seem like it’s one big party.”
“We have lots of tourists in Irkutsk,” she said, holding back her tears.
“The Paris of Siberia.”
“They tell me it’s an exaggeration.”
“Everything in this place is an exaggeration.” He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers.
“It’s nearly the end of this fucking train ride,” the sandy-haired man yelled. As always, Alex could not tell whether he was drunk or simply mean with boredom. He looked out of the window. The train was passing through the outskirts of a town. In the distance, he could make out the inevitable high-rise apartments, stamped out of the same architectural pattern.
He pushed his plate of eggs away uneaten and gulped down his tea. The loudspeaker system was playing “Auld Lang Syne.”
The sandy-haired man stood up and started unsteadily down the aisle between the tables, stopping at theirs.
“They can shove their goddamned trains up their ass.”
Alex looked up at him. He could smell his breath. Both drunk and mean, he thought.
“You’ve been damned consistent,” Alex said, smiling.
“They’re a filthy lot,” he mumbled, moving on. Except for the two Mongols, Alex and Anna Petrovna were alone in the carriage now. Outside, a gloomy city came into view. School children bundled in wet slickers and heavy galoshes moved along the wet asphalt streets. Anna Petrovna’s lids brimmed with tears.
“What are their names?” he asked, feeling guilty suddenly, as if he had stolen something.
“Pyotor and Ivan,” she whispered.
“Fine names.” He tried to remember what she had told him about the children, but he felt his throat constrict. He kept swallowing, holding back his own tears. They stood up and he put a handful of kopecks on the table.
“Thanks for nothing,” he said to the manageress.
As they began to move up the aisle, the two Mongols rose. Alex could feel them plodding after them.
In the soft-class car the attendant had already brought their bags out and was watching the train slide into the Nakhodka station. In the pouring rain, it was a dismal scene. People huddled together for shelter under the eaves of the station house. When the door opened, Alex could smell a faint salt tang in the air. Even now, as they followed the attendant through the passageway, down the metal stairs onto the slippery wooden platform, he told himself to think only of the moment. Don’t anticipate, he pleaded with himself. The attendant left the bags on the platform and clambered back inside. The two Mongols stood beside the train, waiting, their fur hats soaking in the heavy rain. Alex turned to Anna Petrovna. Drops of rain rolled off her hair onto her face and down her cheeks like a great river of tears.
“Dr. Cousins?” A man holding a big umbrella came toward them.
They waited until the man reached them. He was tall, neatly dressed in a dark raincoat and wore an expression of eager ingratiation.
“He is KGB,” Anna Petrovna whispered.
Well then, Alex thought, it is all over. They have finished their game with us. He squeezed Anna Petrovna’s hand, more to find courage than to give comfort.
“Karakasov,” the tall man said, holding out his hand. Alex took it, feeling its strength. “Welcome to Nakhodka.” He winked. “A beastly place.” The man spoke English with a British accent, and he had obviously tried to cultivate a kind of British charm.
Perhaps it is a smoke screen, Alex thought, searching the man’s face for answers. Had Miss Peterson delivered her message? Or had they found Zeldovich’s body? Or had Dimitrov reached him at last. Or—?
“This way,” Karakosov said, taking Anna Petrovna’s elbow. She looked at him briefly and brushed some of the moisture from her face. They walked down the rain-drenched platform into the station house. The two Mongols carried their luggage.
Inside, Karakosov snapped the umbrella closed and rubbed his hands together.
“Damned chilly,” he said.
“Yes,” Alex replied. His teeth had begun to chatter. Anna Petrovna clung to his hand.
“The important thing is to get you quickly on your way,” Karakosov said, still smiling.
“On my way?” Trust no one, Dimitrov had said.
“TheKhabarovsk is waiting. Beastly old tub. But there is no airport here. You’ll be in Yokohama tomorrow morning. Even your Embassy agrees—”
His words spun on, so casual and disarming, but Alex could think only of Mrs. Peterson’s bland schoolmarm face which masked her determination and courage. In his mind, he embraced her. But the euphoria passed in a moment. What about Anna Petrovna?
“After the train, a sea journey might be interesting.” He turned to Anna Petrovna whose face seemed paler in the dull light. “Don’t you think?
The smile on Karakosov’s face revealed the cruelty that lay beneath the Oxford patina.
“Mrs. Valentinov goes with me, of course.”
“Alex, please,” Anna Petrovna said weakly, trying to disengage her hand. The tall man’s eyes narrowed as he watched her.
“She goes or I don’t.”
“You mustn’t, Alex—”
“They don’t intimidate me,” Alex said, his anger rising.
“Really, Dr. Cousins.” Karakosov turned to Anna Petrovna. “I’m sure she would prefer to return to Irkutsk, to her children.” He paused, to emphasize his sarcasm. “And her husband.”
“I will not go without her,” Alex persisted, feeling his knees weaken.
“Listen to him,” Anna Petrovna said.
“I will not go without you,” he said again.
“You must explain to him,” Karakosov said quietly to Anna Petrovna in Russian.
“I want to speak directly with the American Ambassador,” Alex said, marveling at his ability to maintain his calm. Karakosov’s eyes darted from Anna Petrovna’s face to his own. That was reassuring. He was obviously “handle-with-care” cargo. It confirmed his bargaining position.
“She goes with me,” Alex said.
The tall man hesitated, then forced a smile.
“You will excuse me,” he said, moving to another part of the station, where two men stood in the shadows. They watched as he spoke to them with animation.
“God bless Miss Peterson,” Alex said, putting an arm around Anna Petrovna’s shoulders.
“You mustn’t, my darling,” Anna Petrovna said, her face drawn now. He started to speak, but his attention was suddenly deflected by another man who ran into the station and hurried over to where Karakosov was standing with the two men. They listened and Karakosov glanced at them briefly, then returned.
“Dimitrov is dead.” He sighed as he stood before them. He seemed genuinely saddened.
So it had all been futile, Alex thought, knowing that even Dimitrov would have been amused. Time had deceived the old fox. His old antagonist, the disease, had once again prevailed. Now there is poetic justice, Alex mused, watching Karakosov. The game had no victors. Except himself, he thought stoutly. He had found Anna Petrovna and she had helped him find something in himself.
“She goes with me,” Alex demanded.
Karakosov nodded and signaled to the two Mongols to pick up their luggage. They walked through the gloomy station. The perennial hangers-on slumbered on the wooden benches. A line of babushkas huddled at one side of the station warming their wrinkled hands on a potbellied stove. Turning backward for a moment, Alex watched the glistening train slowly move out of the station.
A group of cars waited in the rain. The Mongols loaded the baggage in the trunk of one of them while Alex and Anna Petrovna slid into the back seat. Karakosov got in the front. The two Mongols took the car behind them.
Their fingers were locked and he could feel Anna Petrovna’s tenseness. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. Karakosov, with an air of diplomatic delicacy, turned away.
“It will be fine,” Alex said.
The cars began to move through the wet deserted streets.
“A miserable, gloomy town,” Karakosov remarked.
“It’s the rain,” Alex responded.
“Yes, the rain.”
They drove in silence. It was not a long ride. In the mist ahead he could see the docks and the half-formed outlines of ships.
“It’s an old tub.” Karakosov smiled. He had regained his former lightness. “You’ll dock at Yokohama. Your people will meet you there.”
As they neared the docks, Alex again felt constrained. He would not think about the future, their future, until he had untangled them from their present circumstances. Despite what he knew, Dimitrov’s death filled him with sadness. He realized now how much he had felt for the old man. Somehow, and he could not rationalize it, the horror of what Dimitrov surely intended had still not touched him. He was grateful that he had come through. I am not a killer, he told himself. And I am not God.
“You are a good fellow, Kuznetsov,” Dimitrov had said. It was the morning of his departure. Dimitrov had turned to him with tears of sentiment in his eyes. “I thank you for the time,” he had said. Did he finally grow to hate me for my failure? Alex wondered.
The cars came to a stop along the dock. The great hull of theKhabarovsk towered above them. A crowd moved slowly up the gangplank. Alex recognized the Australian among them, still scowling. A group of young European students in jeans and knapsacks crowded up the gangplank behind them, oblivious to the rain which had become even heavier. They waited in the car as the last passenger straggled up the gangplank.
“My grandfather hated this part of the journey,” Alex said suddenly. “He hated to see the land slip away.” He paused, watching the rain drip down the car window. “It didn’t matter. He never really left anyway.” He sensed that he was really talking to himself. He turned toward Anna Petrovna, but she was looking stiffly ahead. Later they would talk, he assured himself, and he would make it right.
“Let’s go,” Karakosov said.
They filed out of the car, huddling under the umbrella, and started up the gangplank. A group of tough-looking Russian sailors in shiny slickers watched them. The Mongols followed with their luggage. When Alex reached the deck, he paused, then spat over the railing.
They were led to a stairwell on the deck, and descended the flight of wooden stairs. The ship smelled of oil and urine. Alex felt the ship’s roll as they followed the Mongols. One of them came to a halt before a cabin door, while the other moved ahead.
“Mrs. Valentinov’s cabin is just down the corridor,” Karakosov said.
Alex shook his head, still amused at their odd sense of morality. One of the Mongols deposited her baggage in the assigned compartment. Alex continued to hold Anna Petrovna’s hand. His cabin was larger than the train’s compartments, but more primitive. There were no carpets on the floor and the bunks looked narrow and uninviting.
Karakosov gripped Alex’s hand and shook it vigorously.
“I hope you will have a pleasant journey,” he said. He nodded toward Anna Petrovna, bowed and let himself out of the compartment. When he had gone, Alex drew Anna Petrovna to him, enveloping her in his arms.
“My darling,” he said, feeling a sob shudder through him. He had to fight to hold back his own tears. He held her quietly, feeling her breath against his cheek, the soft touch of her fingers on the back of his neck. “I’ll make it right,” he said. “Things change. We’ll send for the children.” He felt her stiffen. When she moved away, she was clear-eyed.
“We’ll talk later,” she said. “But first I would like to freshen up.”
“Then we’ll search this tub for a bar. We’ll find some champagne.”
“Wonderful, darling,” she said. The idea seemed to cheer her. He moved close, kissed her lips.
“My heart is full,” he said.
She left the cabin quickly. The sudden sound of the ship’s vibrations steadied him. Soon this abominable mysterious land would disappear, and he would look ahead to a new life. The past was dead. The present was slowly expiring. For the first time in his life he felt joy in the future, his own future. Time, he agreed with Dimitrov. Time was everything.
The rumbling of the ship’s engines grew louder. Pressing his face to the porthole, he tried to see through the mist. The windows were too filthy. Disappointed, he decided to go topside, to see for himself the last of Siberia. He did a clumsy tap dance on the wooden deck of the companionway, and a young man in jeans smiled at him as he passed. He felt good, wonderful, in fact. One of the Mongols slouched against a bulkhead. So we will continue to have company to Yokohama. To hell with them!
“Hello, moon face,” he called. The man looked at him blankly. Alex stopped in front of Anna Petrovna’s cabin and knocked lightly. He waited for a moment, looked at the Mongol, and knocked again.
“Knock, knock,” he said to the Mongol. “Remember the old knock-knock jokes?”
He put his ear to the door. “Anna,” he called, enjoying the sound of it, the Americanization. “Let’s go on deck and see the action.” He grabbed the door handle and turned it, pushing open the door.
“We’re going—”The words stuck in his throat. He felt the blood balance in his body change, as if it had all congealed in the pit of his stomach. The cabin was empty, the suitcases gone. He felt the sudden emptiness like a blow to his head, stunning him. But he understood quickly. He turned, but the Mongol blocked his way.
“Please, Dr. Cousins,” the Mongol said in pidgin Russian.
“You bastards. You dirty bastards.” He could taste rage on his lips as he swung out and gave the Mongol a hammer blow to the chest. The man doubled over in pain.
Alex took the stairs four at a time, charged by anger and loss. Behind him, he could hear the heavy step of a pursuer.
On deck, he felt the whip of salt spray mixed with the heavy rain.
A few passengers had lined the railing, braving the weather for a last look at land. He ran to the railing, squinting into the mist at the barely distinguishable figures that lined the dock. Was it her blonde head he saw, or only his own imagination giving him one last look at her?
“Anna,” he cried into the rain, a lost wail ending in nothingness. His hand gripped the handrail, and he braced himself to jump overboard. But strong hands held him back and, as the ship slowly pulled out, the descending mist engulfed the land in an impenetrable cloud.
“Anna Petrovna,” he cried again and again. The hands gripped him, locked him into his position of the railing. They held him as the strength went slowly out of his body and his hold on the handrail loosened. After a while, even the rage was gone. Then the Mongol gently nudged him along the deck, down the stairs into the cabin.
He could not tell how long he lay in the lower bunk, his mind blank. He knew that he had lost any sense of time or place. Then it was dark in the cabin and he was conscious of the roll and pitch of the boat. He swung his legs to the floor, and the lights immediately went on in the cabin. The Mongol was there, his flat face expressionless.
“What planet is this?” he asked.
The Mongol grunted and left the cabin.
Across the room was his bookbag. He dragged it over to the single chair in the room. There was a reading lamp against the bulkhead above the chair and he flicked the switch. It threw a beam of thin yellow light on his lap. Opening the bag, he extracted a medical journal. His work. He recognized the familiar medical terms, his mind searching for a point of reference as he struggled to lift himself from the pit of emptiness. As he flipped through the pages, an envelope slipped out onto his lap. He sat staring at it a long time, gathering his courage. When it came, he carefully tore open the end and tapped the folded paper out of the envelope:
My Darling Alex: They will never let me go now. Nor would I ever leave if I could. We are not very good among strangers. I am grateful for the moments we did have together, but there is more than geography between us. We are different and there is nothing that either of us can do to help that. I do not know what the future will bring, except that I do know we must not keep locked up what we know. Someone must tell them. Surely there is reason left somewhere. I hope you will not forget me and I can assure you I will never forget you. If that is sentiment, then I am not ashamed of it anymore. Good-bye. Anna Petrovna Valentinov.
He read it swiftly, greedily, pausing only over her signature. The words seemed brittle. Tell who? he wondered.
“They are all crazy,” he whispered, placing the letter in the folds of the journal.
Then he began to read the article on the open page, forcing himself to understand.