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Back A Train to Moscow: A Novel
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

The tar of the night seems to press harder on the windowpane, as if it wanted to enter the room and warm its black gut with their cognac, or maybe to ooze through the cracks and flood the kitchen, crushing them into the walls and squeezing all the air out of their lungs. She sees Andrei take a breath, sees his chest rise in what she hopes is preparation for letting out the words she wants to hear. She needs him to feel as guilty as she feels about Marik’s death, a guilt that will somehow unite them, solidify their love by sharing the moment that defines them.

“I can never forgive myself,” he says, and she empties her lungs of air, as though all the time he was silent, she has been holding her breath, waiting for something significant to announce itself. “I was stupid and young, but I should’ve known better even back then.” Andrei pauses. “I was so jealous of him. Of your bond with him, of those books you both read. Even of your piano lessons.” He drives the butt of his cigarette into the saucer they are using for an ashtray. “There were two of us and only one of you. It was as simple as that.”

Two of them and one of her. But was it really that simple? The one of her had chosen Andrei, even back then. The one of her walked away and allowed the unexploded shell to blow up the lives of all three of them, forever. Maybe the cognac is to blame, but everything has loosened up inside her, and when she presses her hand over her eyes to keep the tears from bursting out, it is of no help at all. She sniffles and whimpers into her palm. Then she feels Andrei’s hands on her shoulders, and she is grateful for his touch and the smell of his skin, for being able to cry into the hollow of his neck, for hearing him stifle his own sobs.

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“I didn’t know you were so good onstage,” Andrei whispers into her ear after their tears have begun to dry up. The night is still pushing against the windows, but she knows it will soon begin to dissolve into streaks of gray and then pink, so she is no longer afraid of it pressing its heft into the kitchen and suffocating them. “I completely believed it wasn’t you,” he adds, a statement that would have compelled her teacher to give her an A for acting. I believed it wasn’t you is the highest praise Andrei could give her.