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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

He stops and waves his hand, as if waving away bad memories. She knows the line that precedes it, “Let’s part tonight and end this madness,” and he knows that Sasha knows, but they both remain quiet; they don’t say a word. She knows Mayakovsky has always been his hero, but she also knows—a stinging thought—that now, working at the Ministry of Culture and banning plays, Andrei has crossed into a place that doesn’t care about literary heroes. A place beyond truth, a place beyond art.

Are they parting at last? A minute passes in silence, or maybe five minutes, before he stirs a little, as if words were bubbling up on his tongue, but no sound emerges from his mouth.

“I have a matinee tomorrow,” she utters after a stretch of silence. The Twelve Months, a fairy tale for children, where she is a stupid, unkind sister with a lisp. “I have to go home.”

“I’ll get you a taxi,” he says, although she knows that no cab, even if you’re lucky enough to see one, will ever stop at this hour in the middle of the Palace Bridge. They begin to walk back toward Palace Square, and when a car magically appears, he flags it down with a V sign—the sign for double fare—and the taxi obediently brakes where he is standing. Andrei’s figure is etched against the light-green car as he hands a small collection of bills to the driver—shoulders leaning forward, hair tossed by a wet, briny wind.

He turns to Sasha and holds her by the shoulders. “I will be watching you from the Smolny, my Party perch,” he says and makes big eyes, trying to imitate what she said, trying to sound funny. “But really, if you ever need anything, anything at all, just let me know. Here is my number.” He slips a small card into her coat pocket.

She says goodbye and kisses him on the cheek and for a few moments stays pressed to his face, with its still-familiar smell of skin and tobacco. She thinks of their meetings in the field, of their bed in the Ivanovo grass, of the vast expanse of future, stretching before them, when everything was still possible. Then she does what she has wanted to do since she saw him by the theater door a few hours earlier: she gives him a kiss on the lips, salty and raw—the taste of their Ivanovo afternoons, the taste of this blustery night.

ACT 4 IVANOVO-LENINGRAD

ACT 4

IVANOVO-LENINGRAD

38

38