Compartment No. 6

8

KRASNOYARSK LOOKED ENORMOUS AS they approached from the west. It spread out over the fields, trees, and ravines. It dried up the lakes and whittled the Ice Age stones smooth as it headed east. It tore villages to the ground and begat concrete skyscrapers. The forest of plump trees was logged off, the logged-off land became a construction site, the construction site a suburb, and the suburb fused with the city.

An icy wind raced over the low land, whirled and sent the smoke from the factory chimneys flying. The tracks branched off ever more thickly. The train jerked softly at the switches, the carriage couplings squeaked, the whole machine screeched. Finally a long, gentle braking. They were in Krasnoyarsk, a closed city, a centre of Soviet arms manufacture. It started to snow. Women in grey felt boots stopped their work cleaning the tracks and stared at the train arriving from far-off Moscow. They heard Arisa’s voice in the corridor.

‘No one gets off at this station!’

‘A peculiar city,’ the man said. ‘A prison for experts. But they do get a vacation.’

The compartment door opened. A woman the size of a newspaper stand whom the girl had never seen before glanced at her angrily and then huffed at the man.

‘I’ve been listening to your disgusting talk day after day. You belong in a mental hospital.’

The man looked out the window and puckered his chin.

The woman laughed scornfully. ‘I…’

‘Shut your trap, lard factory!’

The woman jumped in fright and took a step backwards. ‘Shame on you!’ she said.

The girl escaped past her into the corridor. The white curtains of the corridor window fluttered. The man pushed the woman out of the compartment like he would a cow.

Arisa watched the situation intently from afar before squawking at him, ‘I have half a mind to wrap your legs around your necks, the both of you!’

As the train slubbed into motion, a buzzard shot off with a shriek from the roof of a spent engine on the next track. It rose up in the bright moonlight and hovered under a cloud of green. A fleet of planes soared across the blue of the horizon over the round towers of the arms factory. The planes roared towards the centre of the city, broke the sound barrier, and disappeared into the sea of tall buildings. The train filled with the dark smell of hot metal.

The man said he was going to see if the dining car was open, and quickly returned.

‘Nothing fucking there except an old slut with an arse like a cement mixer.’

His cheeks twitched with anger. He had a disappointed look on his face, with a hint of depression behind it. They sat all day in silence, until the purple light of night. Then he opened a bottle, poured a glass down his throat, and said in a hoarse voice:

‘I love vodka, like all of my kind. Once I get going I can drink seven bottles a day. I always drink to the bottom of the bottle. Then Katinka comes with a broom in her hand to fetch me home. A week later I’m a decent man again and I go out and drink on the construction site. In addition to all the drinking I do on the job, I seem able to achieve minimum results in maximum time. If I don’t have vodka I throw a fit.’

The girl was tired. She would have liked to sleep.

‘How do they drink where you come from? You probably live Baltic style. The men revolve around the bottle, the women around the men, and the children around the women. It’s the bottle makes everything go round. It’s the opposite here. We turn the bottle, it doesn’t turn us.’

She looked at him. She didn’t seem impressed. His face turned stony and he looked at her sternly. ‘I ain’t interested in your opinions. You’re just shitwater to me.’

They sat quietly. The girl swallowed.

‘Forgive an idiot, my girl,’ he said with genuine regret in his voice.

She turned to look out of the window. The silent moonlit Yenisei River drifted by. It split Krasnoyarsk in two. Ice fishers, gulls and crows sat on the frozen crust of the river; barges and tugboats lolled on shore, embedded in ice. Dim, distant stars seemed to sleep on its surface.

When the river was left behind, the girl went into the corridor. A hint of spring wind drifted through the train; you could smell it even through the window. A light, silent snow was falling, flakes drifting in great tufts onto the frozen ground. Without warning the train braked sharply, the wheels rumbled, the carriages lurched, soft snow came whirling up from the railbed, and a woman somewhere screamed. The girl hit her head on the window frame and it started to bleed. Arisa shouted from the the end of the passageway in a low, grating voice: ‘Citizens, we are in Taishet. From here the distance to Moscow is four thousand five hundred and fifteen kilometres and it is five hours later than Moscow time.’

The girl went back to the compartment, holding her head. The man was picking up shards of a tea glass from the floor.

He washed the cut on her forehead with vodka, blew her hair away from the wound, and put the bandage she handed him over it. The dirty air of the compartment made her feel sick. She picked up his empty water can and hurried out. The air outside was sharp and smelled of kerosene. The moon escaped behind a red cloud. She circled around the engine. On the next track was an engine that had breathed its last, lying on its side. She hurried past it and found the window of her own compartment. She set the can on the ground, put one foot on it, and wiped the window clean with a dirty sock. When she had finished she went back to the platform and boarded the train again.

The man was in a deep sleep, wheezing like a barrel of moonshine. The girl fell asleep, and when she woke to a new morning she ate breakfast quickly. The man woke up a couple of hours later. His hand moved, then one finger, then one eye. His tongue licked at his lips. A twitch. A stretch. He jumped up lazily, put on a tracksuit, did his calisthenics, and prepared himself a large meal.

They sat until evening. She drew, listened to music, ate, drew again. He dozed, played endless hands of solitaire, and dozed again.

After a lazy silence that lasted from noon to dinnertime, the man suggested that they go to the dining car for something to eat.

‘You should eat in the dining car at least once on the Siberian railway. That’s what it’s for, and it’s even open.’

The girl put on a brown wool dress that she’d not yet worn even once. The man took off his tracksuit and pulled on some polyester pants and a short-sleeved white shirt, took a round mirror out of his bag and set it in the middle of the table, and spent a long time carefully combing his coarse thick hair.

The dining car was full. Travellers were using their elbows to get a seat for themselves. The man rudely shoved his way to a white-clothed table where a feisty-looking couple were just finishing their meal. The man’s beard was a carefully groomed square, the woman’s grew freely. On every table rested a crystal vase full of short pink plastic carnations. The man and the couple started an odd, jumpy conversation that included something about Petrovka… Chipok… Zamoskvorestye… Varvarka… Solyanoi Dvor… Trubnaya… Kuznetsky Most.

The girl closed her ears to the noise, traced the broad windows with her eyes, and thought about a summer morning at the lake. A tired waiter arrived at the table.

‘Be so good as to bring the young lady a bottle of Senator and a bottle of vodka for me, and a plate of vobla.’

‘There isn’t any vodka,’ the waiter said sourly.

‘Why is that?’

‘Prohibition.’

‘Rules are made to be broken,’ the man said hopefully.

‘There isn’t any vodka,’ the waiter said gruffly. ‘Is that so hard to understand, comrade?’

‘Bring me a bottle of cognac, then. Cognac will do nicely.’

When he’d got his plate of vobla and his cognac he took a long swig, grinned, and bit off some of the dry fish.

‘Now we can order some food,’ he said.

The waiter looked at him wearily.

‘A bowl of selyanka to start with. For the main dish fifteen blinis, shashlik, some boiled tea sausage, salad, and a bottle of cognac.’

Instead of shashlik they got some dry chicken legs and instead of salad some potatoes fried in margarine. The man poured himself a glass of cognac, blew on the top of the bottle as if it were foamy, and said that in Brezhnev’s day two hundred and fifty grams of vodka was considered a single serving.

The girl glanced at the whiskered woman and listened to her square-bearded husband for a moment.

‘In my case the war only lasted five years and we all knew what to aim at, but our marriage has lasted twenty-nine years and I never know what direction an attack’s going to come from…’

The girl soothed herself. What you don’t remember ceases to exist. Maybe it never did exist.

Her travelling companion filled the square-bearded man’s glass and slapped him on the back. Then he said it was time they went back to their compartment. He grabbed the rest of the cognac on the way out.

‘I don’t need a reason to drink, but I never drink alone. We Russians always booze in groups. It’s more fun that way. A man has to suffer, so a man has to drink. Like I’m doing now.’

He took out the bottle of moonshine she’d given him and set it in the middle of the table. He stared at it for a long time with a vexed look on his face.

‘And you, my girl, force me to drink alone.’

He wiped the side of the bottle, set it next to the half-full bottle of cognac, and looked at her with slack curiosity.

‘I lived entirely without money from 1961 to 1964. I didn’t have a fraction of a kopeck, but I still lived. That’s possible here. You can always suck on grass roots or pick the snails off trees, and you can always find vodka. A pig will always find a wallow, as we like to say. It’s harder in the winter. You suck on pine cones and gnaw at tree bark. The nice thing about vodka is that it doesn’t freeze even in the bitterest cold.’

He poured his glass full, took a gulp, and quickly bit off a mouthful of green onion, grunting to himself and glancing at her tensely, an amused look on his face.

‘Are all Finnish women as dry and cold as you? Russian women are the kind of whores that once you’ve fucked them they start farting. I know you’re not like that.’

When he’d emptied the cognac he wheezed heavily, pointed at the bottle that had no label, and said in a muddy voice, ‘Splitting headache. Ought to drink this one, too.’

The girl withdrew into the corridor. The train rattled steadily onward. An old man stood on the roof of a crooked house next to the tracks shovelling snow. A rusty stream wound from behind the house through the expanse of white and disappeared into the darkness of the limp eternal forest. The rugged forest would soon swallow up everything. Someone was yanking roughly on an accordion at the other end of the carriage. The clatter of the train and the sharp, slashing, Slavic sounds of the accordion sent her into a liberating torpor. She imagined the winter landscape as summer, saw a lemon-yellow meadow, a forest’s hot, shimmering outline, birches reddened by a setting sun, cool, dark shadows of fields, a little billowing cloud.

She went eventually, reluctantly, again to the door of the compartment and opened it warily. The man was lying in his own bunk like a corpse.

She tiptoed to her bed and sat down. The air was damp, the constantly brewing tea had steamed up the compartment, made the air heavy. A thick string of slobber oozed from the side of the man’s mouth. His face was tranquil, as if he had forgiven every sorrow he’d had in life. She undressed and got into her bunk, beloved from use. She thought of Mitka, how he cut open an apple with his bone-handled knife and handed her half. Mitka, who smelled of soap and grass. Mitka, who was listless and lazy, but a good swimmer and a chess champion at school.

And the day faded into dusk, and the dark of night froze into the blue of dawn in the window. A yellow moon swept away the last morning star as it made way for a fiery sun. A new day was before them. All of Siberia slowly brightened. The man in his blue tracksuit bottoms and white shirt did push-ups between the bunks, sleep in his eyes, his mouth dry and smelly, the mucousy smell of sleep in the compartment, no breath from the window, tea glasses quietly on the table, crumbs silent on the floor. A new day. Yellow, frosty birches, pine groves, animals busy in their branches, a fresh snow billowing over the plains. Flapping white longjohns, limp penises, mitts and muffs and cuffs and flowered flannel nightgowns, shawls and wool socks and straggly toothbrushes. The night speeds through the dark into dim morning, a dogged queue at the shrine of the WC, a dry wash among the stench of pee, sputum, shame, sheepish looks, steaming tea glasses, large flat cubes of Cuban sugar, paper-light spoons, black bread, Viola cheese, sliced tomatoes and onion, roasted torso of young chicken, canned horseradish, hard-boiled eggs, salt pickles, a jar of mayonnaise, a tin of fish.

Night escapes into a new day. Snow rises from the ground up the tree trunks, the silence fading in their upper branches, a hawk perched on an orange cloud, looking down at the slithering worm of train.