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Back A Train to Moscow: A Novel Save as PDF
Chapters (59)
  1. TITLE PAGE
  2. COPYRIGHT PAGE
  3. DEDICATION
  4. CONTENTS
  5. ACT 1 IVANOVO
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. ACT 2 MOSCOW
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. ACT 3 LENINGRAD
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. ACT 4 IVANOVO-LENINGRAD
  46. 38
  47. 39
  48. 40
  49. 41
  50. 42
  51. 43
  52. 44
  53. 45
  54. 46
  55. 47
  56. 48
  57. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  58. DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
  59. ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Leningrad, on the other hand, is an enigma, and the Bolshoi Drama Theatre, a legend. She has always wanted to live in Russia’s only European city where art graces every street with the curved facades sculpted by architects from Italy and France who reinvented their designs for this northern climate, where the air is grainy with the afternoon twilight in winter and the milky nightglow in June. Besides, she has wanted to live in the place where Kolya studied art; she has wanted to stand on the bridge where he met Nadia. She has wanted to see with her eyes what she has only pictured in her mind: the building on Herzen Street where Nadia lived with her parents, Leningrad University on the Neva embankment where she studied philology and, not far from it, the Academy of Arts where Kolya learned to draw and paint.

She now has her own place to live. After the first six months of work, when she lived in the dormitory, her theater gave her a one-room apartment, perhaps to offset the dismal salary of all stage actors in repertory theaters dictated by the state.

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A week after Sasha moved to her new apartment, Aunt Luba, who guards the stage-door entrance, yells for her to come to the phone. When Sasha mutters a tentative “hallo” into the receiver—no one has ever called her there—it takes a few moments to recognize Sergey’s voice. He is in Leningrad, for a meeting with a screenwriter, he says, but the introductory pleasantries sweep past her ear.

The following evening, she is free, and they meet at the lobby of the hotel where he is staying. When he sees her, he gets up and beams and stretches out his arms, so she has no choice but to hug him, even though she doesn’t want to. He holds her in his embrace for a long time, too long it seems, before she can free herself and sit down in an armchair across from him. In the time they haven’t seen each other, he seems to have aged: his glasses magnify the bags under his eyes, and his hair is longer and more tangled than she remembers, with little sprigs of salt and pepper, all white around the temples.