Chris Kuzneski - The Hunters

The rest of Papineau’s team seemed to hover near English speakers. The man with short, light hair was joking with the politicians. The man with longer hair hung out at the bar with the serious drinkers. The small, Latin-looking man only had eyes for the tablet screen he carried. And the blonde was busy turning all the men who approached her to stone.

As expected, virtually no one was speaking to the Asian girl, so he decided to strike up a conversation. She stood with a closed leather notebook clutched to her chest and drank white wine almost wistfully as he approached.

‘It is very odd, yes?’ Dobrev said in Russian.

She turned toward him. ‘What is?’

‘Of your delegation, you are the only one I have heard speaking Russian. Yet no one is talking to you.’

She laughed quietly, which brought a wide smile to Dobrev’s face. Most women — Russian or foreign — dismissed him quickly. He was clearly of the old guard: squat, stocky, square-headed, and partial to ill-fitting tan suits that allowed his big arms to move. His white shirts were always stained with grease or oil because he couldn’t help touching things on trains, and he wore dark ties no matter what the weather or occasion. Although he’d had a son, Ivan, out of wedlock, he rarely felt comfortable with the opposite sex. He spoke easily to locomotives and stubborn rail spikes, less so to human beings, and rarely at all with women.

But this women was different. She was open, responsive, almost excited to talk to him. Like a granddaughter meeting her grandfather for the very first time.

‘Have you seen the train selected for your survey?’ Dobrev asked.

‘I have,’ Jasmine answered. ‘It seems very nice.’

‘She is very nice,’ Dobrev insisted. ‘She is the pride of the fleet. Perhaps the most efficient engine ever run in our system. You will have no issues with her.’

‘That is certainly good news,’ Jasmine replied. ‘Although I highly doubt that I would be the one having problems. I think driving a locomotive is a bit out of my league.’

‘It has never been easier, my dear,’ Dobrev countered. ‘Operating an engine used to be an art, requiring both skill and instinct. The best engineers were those who understood the nature of the beast, who listened to the engine’s every creak and groan and felt her most subtle wobbles and shimmies. Knowing when to lay off or when to throttle up meant the difference between delivering the cars safely and tumbling down the side of the mountain.’ Dobrev stared in the direction of the tracks. ‘Today’s engines have more bells and whistles than a luxury automobile. Even a child could set the autopilot. What was then is now gone.’ Dobrev hung his head, mournful of the days gone by. ‘The best engineers are no longer needed.’

Jasmine nodded. ‘You mean, experts like you?’

Dobrev lifted his head and smiled. ‘Perhaps in my heyday, yes. But that time has passed. These days I am never called upon to participate in the day-to-day activities of our great railway, only to regale the current regime with stories of our history. Young, bored dignitaries who always seem to have better things to do than listen to the ramblings of an old man.’

Jasmine understood the implication of his words: if she wanted to end this conversation, he would understand. But she had no intention of cutting him off.

‘What makes you such an authority?’ she asked.

‘More than a century of first-hand knowledge,’ he answered. ‘Information passed down from grandfather to father to son. Three generations of Dobrevs, all in love with the same mistress: the railway.’

Jasmine laughed at the comment. She found his commitment to his work to be honest and oddly gratifying. Here was a man who made no illusions about who he really was. Even if his knowledge hadn’t been directly connected to their task, she still would have enjoyed listening to his stories about the past. As it was, she was beginning to think that he could be a valuable asset — even more valuable than they had originally thought when they added his name to the guest list.

‘Well, I’m not sure if I still qualify as “young” or as a “dignitary”, but I know for certain that I am not bored,’ Jasmine assured him. ‘If you don’t mind, please, regale me.’

Dobrev smiled. It would be his pleasure.

Sunday, September 16

Two days later, Jasmine and Dobrev met again to continue their discussion. This time, under the watchful eye of the rest of the team.

Jasmine laughed at Dobrev’s choice of meeting spot — the Soviet retro-chic restaurant on the fourth level above the check-in area of the Sheremetyevo Airport’s Terminal F. But she also appreciated its functional, 1960s ‘charm’.

‘This is like the restaurant version of you,’ she pointed out with a smile.

He was not offended in the slightest. As she took in the dark, plain decorations, heavy curtains, and faded carpet — all in shades of dark red — he explained why he had selected it.

‘I wished to find someplace you could get to easily, one with a minimum of danger from lecherous drunks or racist skinheads.’

‘It was very easy, thank you,’ she said.

‘There is none easier, in fact,’ he said proudly. ‘The Aero express train from the station runs every half-hour, and you were here in thirty-five minutes with a minimum of fuss, muss, or whistles. Whistles from men,’ he teased, ‘not-’ He finished the statement by pulling on an imaginary train whistle and blowing two short bursts of sound from his pursed lips.

She laughed, which made him laugh as well.

As they watched the tarmac through the restaurant’s window and enjoyed a bowl of borscht, they talked about all things Russian. After dinner, he walked her back to the Aero express entrance. Since she seemed amenable to another get-together before setting off on their survey, he cautiously suggested that they meet at the true repository of his family’s legacy: his apartment.

‘Please understand,’ he assured her, ‘I mean nothing untoward. It is just that, with your interest in our rail history and my unique collection, I thought you’d be interested.’

‘I definitely am.’

‘You are?’ he said, half surprised.

She laughed at his reaction. ‘I’m free now if you have the time.’

‘Yes! That would be wonderful!’

In a blur of trains and stations and people and sights, they arrived at his apartment. She was quickly impressed by what she saw. His collection of Russian railroad memorabilia covered the walls, lined the shelves, and filled the cabinets of his longtime residence. It took up roughly one-third of the floor of a nondescript apartment building in Kartmazovo, twenty-nine miles outside of Moscow. The building was constructed in the industrial egg-crate style of the 1950s on an unremarkable street just off the M3 highway. The apartment had originally been intended to house a family of five but when his parents died and his younger brother Vlad joined the army, there was only Dobrev. It was strange to see the place through the first fresh set of eyes that had been there in years. He looked with approval at the floors covered in dark, Russian rugs, the smallish room decorated with ornate if time-worn furniture, the light fixtures of heavy, antique iron and pelican-shaped glass lamps which bathed the towers of well-maintained memorabilia in soft, yellow light.

He offered her a drink, but she declined.

She said, ‘And risk missing a single detail of these glorious maps?’

That had made him smile even wider as they plunged into his collection. Instead of the customary response of tolerant boredom from young workers, the woman absolutely sparkled at his stories about the heroes of Russian rail: Yefim Cherepanova, and his son, Miron, who built Russia’s first steam-powered locomotive; Pavel Melnikov, creator of the first Russian railway; Fyodor Protsky, inventor of the first electric tram, and more.