and the Ukrainian sings. Sings mournfully, his head bobbing. His pony weaves a bassinet, his mother waits for him, he is very homesick, and the road is long . . . svysh yaaa schtschlik kasyateee, or what do I know . . . His song has seven times seventy-seven stanzas, it is as endless as this journey, as endless as the night into which the beat of the wheels carries us, faster and faster, banging more and more breathlessly . . .

I stand up, put out the light, and wrap myself in my coat. I want to sleep, lulled by the Ukrainian’s singsong . . . But the compartment door is yanked open, a cold gust of air smashes in, a black hand switches on the light. A giant Moor in an olive-green uniform coat is standing there, a woolen cap on his woolly skull. “Get outta here, you fuckin’ Germans!” “German yourself!” “I said, get outta here!” “I won’t. I’ve got a travel order.” “Shove it up your ass!” “All right. I’ll call the MP.” “But I got a girl.” “Who cares?” “I wanna screw her.” “Go ahead!”

He vanishes into the dark corridor. I pull the door shut, turn off the light. He yanks the door open again and pushes the girl inside. She sits down, a ruffled blackbird, her claws holding her handbag in her lap, her face a doughy splotch with two gigantic, dark, sunken eye sockets . . .

The Negro hangs his coat over the window to the corridor—the curtains were cut away in 1944, perhaps they were made into a child’s dress, the child is probably moldering under ruins somewhere, perhaps a corpse was wrapped in them . . .“Get to the other side!” “You might say please.”

He bares his white teeth at me, his unspeakably pure, tenderrosy gums. A strip of light from outside sweeps across his black face, he holds out a pack of cigarettes to me. I change from my window corner to the aisle seat of the bench opposite, wrap myself in my coat, pull up my legs, and push the Ukrainian snugly into his corner.

The Ukrainian keeps singing, unmoved, drawing the notes from his pumped-up chest, squeezing them through his larynx, mashing them into the ooze of the labials: shtcholoy vyzian beshnyevo-o-o-, or something like that . . . His pony can kick the bucket, his mother can go screw the parson, Bessarabia is far away, and homesickness fills him with dismay, like the joy under the frock, and the song is as soft as the cock . . .

The Negro tips the girl back onto the now empty seat. I pull my coat up over my head. I don’t want to see what’s happening, I can picture it: his black paw between her legs, burrowing through the panties (if she’s wearing any), burrowing into the black fur, the middle finger groping for the wet slit, the other black paw kneading her breast . . .