The break-up with a long-time lover during their vacation was ugly but not unexpected. Now on his way back home six days earlier than planned, a bemused and suddenly single Vasily finds himself in want of company as he rides the famous train hurtling across the Russian countryside.
A friendly fellow traveler catches his eye, yet the wedding ring suggests he’s married, plus in the highly conservative state of his birth, one could not be careless in suggesting a male liaison. Should he take the chance to share the powerful passion he feels, heightened by the electrified influence of the Trans-Siberian, or more wisely remain mere ships that pass in the night?
I locked my compartment behind myself, then followed signs to the dinner car. Surprisingly at this time, nearly ten P.M., it was rather full. Tables would have to be shared, but not wishing for possible conversation, I chose one where a man sat reading a newspaper.
Not very large, he was neatly dressed in casual clothes, blue jeans and light sweater, his hair was dark and closely cropped and he was clean shaven. His posture was relaxed but confident.
Walking up, I murmured, “Is this place free?”
Without looking at me, he responded, “Yes, it’s open.”
And so, I sat and placed my order with the woman who came by. I realized then I had neglected to bring my own reading material and made a sound of annoyance without knowing it. The man looked up then, folding his newspaper and smiling briefly.
His age was undeterminable and could have been anything between thirty-five and fifty. His eye color was also dark, yet not black or brown, but a curious dark grey. They fascinated me because I had imagined his gaze would be cool and distant, but they were warm and alive with some internal humor. Before I could stop myself, I responded to his magnetism.
“Have you ordered yet?” I asked.
“Shortly before you sat down,” he replied, and we naturally began talking about general things. He was a friendly chap after all, and my reticence left me.
He was returning from a short vacation, relaxed and eager to be home. Politely he asked if I were a businessman from Germany, for although I spoke Russian I did so with an accent and was still dressed in a tie and dress shirt, not having changed after leaving the restaurant where my now ex-lover and I had quarreled. Packing quickly, I had left our rooms without explanation, booked a ticket, and departed.
I hesitated in answering, and he quickly added, “That, of course, is not necessary for me to know.”
I stopped his apology.
“No,” I said. “No, I don’t mind really, you seem like a person I can talk to easily.”
When asked why he thought I was from Germany, since although my eyes were blue, my hair was as dark as his own and my wide cheek-boned, strong-featured face was recognizably from a certain mountainous region, he gave a small shrug.
“Something about your athletic bearing and your crisp consonants,” he responded, with a playful lift of his eyebrows. “Local native speakers, of course, do so in a softer way, more of pursed lip and soft palate.”
I admitted I had been born in the former Soviet Union, but had mostly grown up in the West, and Germany and Austria in particular.
As our meals arrived, I told him briefly what had happened between my lover and I, leaving out the fact that said lover had been male because I was not sure how the seemingly traditional man before me would react.
“Love is strange sometimes,” I commented. “I think it’s more about attraction really, but certainly some kinds of relationships seem more difficult than others.”
“What kinds?” he asked, laying his fork down and taking a long drink.
Should I take a chance and say?
My heart pounded furiously for a moment with indecision.
“Between men,” I finally supplied, then took a long drink myself, looking away.
“Ah,” he said, as he finished the last of his sauced pelmeni, or dumplings, then again, but a longer, more thoughtful sound.
I said nothing at all, feeling I had ruined the conversation and interaction completely. I refocused on my bowl of mediocre borscht.
“Such things I have had curiosity about for many years,” he said finally. “But one’s life doesn’t always make it possible to fulfil one’s deepest desires.”
He sat for a moment longer as if remembering certain such things from the past but laughed to himself, with a shake of his head, before signaling for his plate to be taken away. He returned to reading his paper.
I wished to talk to him more, but apparently, he was finished with me. Yet, might he wish for more from me since he’d revealed that, but didn’t know how to go about it? Struggling with myself, finally I decided: what the hell ... what had I to lose in any case?
“I have an excellent bottle of vodka in my compartment. It’s best shared with someone. Would you like to come?”
I felt my face flush, belatedly realizing the unintended double entendre of my word choice.
After a moment, he refolded his paper for the last time, and in typical pragmatic Russian fashion, exclaimed, “Why not?”
