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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 watches Sasha heave her suitcase onto the scale; accept a boarding pass from the clerk, a woman with doughy forearms and henna-colored hair; fit it into her passport. A week ago, at her request, he called Kolya in New York with her flight number; he was surprised that her uncle still rounded his vowels the way they all did back in Ivanovo, a dialectal peculiarity. He watches the clerk peer at her as she is looking down, a stare of recognition. Of course people recognize her; she is an actress. She is wearing a navy dress with short sleeves and a narrow skirt, a pair of high-heeled shoes that make her legs look more muscled, like the legs of a ballerina. Her hair is the color of ash, the color of burn and ruin, and is pulled back into a ponytail; her bangs come down to her eyebrows; her eyes are big and gray, like frozen water on the winter canals. He can see her eyes as distinctly as if she were standing next to him. On her arm she is holding a beige raincoat, the one he knows, the raincoat she wore two months ago when she appeared on the threshold of his office, when she brought Kolya’s letter to show him, when she thought there might still have been hope for the two of them. Or even hope for him alone.

He stands there behind the pillar, watching her walk toward the plane that will take her out of Russia, watching her leave, the same way he stood at the Ivanovo railway station when she was leaving for Moscow to study acting, the same way he stood at the cemetery at her mother’s funeral—always an observer, almost a stalker, always watching her from the sidelines, perched on the periphery of her life.

47

47

Andrei’s car is waiting outside the airport. He has just seen her pass through the glass door, gone through the passage to a life beyond the curtain. He gets into the front seat, next to Borya, leaning back into the familiar sweaty smell of old leather and gasoline. “To the office,” he says and stares into the rusty lock of the glove compartment as Borya steps on the gas and turns the car around to go back to the city. Wordlessly, they drive past rows of newly erected apartments that his office has yet to allocate to the best workers of this factory or that school district.