Mysterious companion

Having obtained a visa in the German embassy in Novosibirsk, I was more than happy to get on the train streaming to my native Krasnoyarsk where my summer exams at the university were awaiting. One night in a compartment of the train de luxe: nothing outstanding, just a bit nicer curtains, a bit softer bedclothes, and much less crying of babies undertaking an exhausting yet extremely beloved by some families four-night journey from the west to the east of our enormous country, and back. A train de luxe implies constantly smiling, never irritated faces of the conductors, no dust on the handrails, and teabags in separate sachets. Comfort based on thethought that youve taken one of the most comfortable trains in Russia, albeit it could be better. Comfort caused by the passengers who regard the trip not as an opportunity to unbosom themselves to an accidental fellow traveler, but as a chance to have a sound sleep lulled by the rumble of wheels. Thats what I was thinking.

I took "The Ebony Tower" by John Fowles, started flipping through the pages searching for the place where I had stopped. A man on the upper berth had barely a wish to go through the formalities of introducing himself, and I didn`t mind that. I was anticipating a peaceful evening, maybe a bit weird one considering that space and time would be changing so uncontrollably. The train started off.

The train started off, and at the same time I raised my eyes to meet his. He was standing in the doorway, our third fellow traveler. You could easily think he was a yuppie, in the fine sense of the word. A straight bearing, blackness of a spick and span suit, all kinds of business devices - success was standing out. Everything illuminated wellbeing. Everything but his glassy stare. A few accurate, as if programmed, movements, and he was sitting opposite me, reaching out his hand in a habitual gesture - uttering his name, getting to know mine. We started a conversation, tense at the beginning. I was feeling ill at ease, realizing that this man was somewhat different from any of my friends or acquaintances. But I was feeling at the same time an acute desire to make him smile. Just once, for me to see. This desire grew into crying need, and somehow I started doing my best to be natural and cheerful and funny.

Was it the last sunbeam flashing through the window or was it the first smile flashing on his face that melted the ice? Why did he suddenly seem to me younger than his twenty-seven? What made him recollect a story - oh god - about hares in the wood? Many misplaced questions were left not raised, not answered. Many overreactions were suppressed. But one thing was clear to me: he was incredibly absorbing. We went to the restaurant car, where I was treated to a drink. The men from other tables were dropping smutty remarks - a deep-rooted Russian jealousy tradition - and he was telling me not to pay attention. He was telling me much more, but not too much.

He, whose feasible dream was to buy a tiny island in the Pacific, was telling me how people chose to be dull and content with little, how they preferred not to be stirred by life.

He, who was fond of pistachios and alpine skiing, was sharing his need for everyday ups and downs that made his existence brighter.

He, who lived so comfortably in Krasnoyarsk, was giving away the secrets of illegal poker tournaments in our city and commenting despitefully on women`s tactics of talking a man into a drab marriage.

He, who then had a twinkle in his eyes, was ever asking my opinion and clinking glasses with me to mutual understanding.

He, who kissed me, as he supposed, in my sleep, said on waking up in the compartment that he was glad to be home.

He, who was an occasional smoker, was taking quick puffs as we hurried to his car.

He, who gave me a lift to my home, switched on "With or without you" by U2 on his recorder.

He, who asked my phone number, drove away craving for other ups and downs.

As the summer passed and I returned from Germany full of new impressions, I thought I had erased his face from my memory. Our second encounter proved the contrary - I recognized him. He passed me up in Mira Street, penetrating the chilly September air with his glassy stare. I recognized him by his glassy stare.