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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

“And if you like it there, in America,” he adds casually, as if in passing, as if what he is about to say amounts to nothing but a trifle, “you can do me a favor and never come back.”

44

44

They are in Kavkazsky restaurant on Nevsky Prospekt, a few blocks from her theater, a hangout for actors to go after a performance. It stays open late; Andrei is right. At this hour it is nearly empty, unoccupied tables with white tablecloths, a couple of potted ficus trees scattered around the grand room, an air of withered luxury more suited to a town in a Chekhov story than the first proletarian city on earth. The scene is complete with a waiter, a disinterested look on his face and an oily stain on his black jacket sleeve. Like the rehearsal space in her theater, this dining room is windowless, and all the light comes from sconces between the tables, the coned light, the trapped light.

There are skewers of lamb and flattened halves of chicken tabaka on their plates, the food of Georgia; their glasses are filled with red wine to celebrate Kolya’s newly discovered existence. The Georgian wine, despite their waiter’s recommendation, tastes like syrupy compote made from a cheap port called ink. Nevertheless, it slides down her throat in harmony with the pomegranate sauce, making her head feel light and her body weightless, making her balance, for a little while at least, on the sweet, opaque edge between the harsh light of being sober and the blackness of being drunk. It is the edge where her love for Andrei begins to pulsate with such intensity that it nearly burns, her passion for him freed from its cage by the sweet Georgian wine, just the two of them in this empty restaurant where the present seems to run on a parallel course with the past.

Suddenly Andrei rises from his chair, leans across the table, and kisses her on the lips. It is a mature kiss, longer and more passionate than anything they exchanged in Ivanovo, deeper than the nervous kisses of the first night they spent in Suzdal, more melancholy than the blissful tumult of the few hours in her apartment before he suddenly announced he was married. It is a microcosm of every unfulfilled desire they have ever harbored for each other, the happiness they both know is no longer possible.

The waiter trudges in and looms by their table, forcing them to separate. He doesn’t look at all embarrassed; on the contrary, he probably timed this moment to let them know that it is late and he wants to go home.