David Oldman - Dusk at Dawn

As darkness fell the passengers began making themselves comfortable, stretching out across the hard wooden seats or lying in the aisle. Some time after midnight Paul left Valentine snoring quietly, his head resting against the window, and carefully stepping over prone bodies made his way to Sofya’s carriage. The peasant woman had stretched herself out over a pair of vacant seats, her chicken nestled in the crook of her arm. It opened a wary eye as Paul passed. Across the aisle, Sofya had curled into a foetal ball, her head cradled by her bag. He leaned over her and gently shook her shoulder. She woke with a start. He put his finger to his lips and slid into the seat as she moved her legs.

‘What is it?’ she whispered.

‘The letter. I need it back.’

‘Now?’

‘Valentine thinks I still have it.’

‘Then why give it to me?’ she asked irritably.

‘Is it still in the belt?

‘No. I took it out in case I had to get rid of it quickly.’

‘Give it to me then.’

She scowled at him again and twisted round and tried putting her hand down the front of her sarafan . But the neck of the garment was too small and she could only get her hand down as far as her wrist. ‘I can’t reach it. I’ll have to unbutton my dress.’

‘Here?’

She looked at him theatrically and sighed. ‘No, in the lavatory, of course. I’ll take it off and give you the belt back while I’m at it. It’s under my slip now so it wouldn’t show. Do you want some tea first? We can get water from the samovar.’

‘You’ve got tea?’

‘Oksana gave it to me,’ she said, nodding towards the sleeping woman across the aisle. ‘She’s been very kind. She shared her food with me and gave me some tea.’ She rummaged in her bag, took out a tin mug and a little pouch of tea, shaking some of the dusty leaves into the mug. Paul followed her down the aisle to the samovar set on a shelf outside the provodnik’s tiny compartment.

Sofya filled the mug with hot water and stirred it with the grubby spoon that hung from a chain.

‘You first,’ Paul said as she offered him the mug.

Paul waited while Sofya sipped the tea, glancing through the open door at the prone figure of the large female provodnik , dressed in a creased railway uniform and asleep on her bunk. Next to her tiny cabin was the lavatory. The door was closed but he didn’t have to see inside to know what sort of a state it was in. The smell advertised its condition.

Sofya gave him the mug and he finished the tea. She opened the lavatory door and looked inside. The floor was awash.

‘I won’t take my dress off in there,’ she said adamantly, her face wrinkled with a fastidiousness that six months of living in squalor hadn’t managed to eradicate.

‘Then just unbutton it and get the letter out,’ he said.

The provodnik stirred and Paul pushed Sofya through the door. She lifted her feet as she went in, grimacing. ‘Pasha!’

Paul followed her in and closed the door behind them. He tried washing out the mug in the small basin but no water came out the faucet, confirming his suspicions as to what the liquid sloshing across the floor was. Sofya turned her back to him, twisting and turning in her attempt to reach the letter.

‘Pull your dress up,’ he said.

She threw him a baleful look, began to hoist the hem of the dress then stopped.

‘I can’t ,’ she said. ‘I’m not wearing anything under my slip.’

‘For God’s sake! Take it off, then. I’ll wait outside.’

She looked at the urine slopping across the floor with the rocking of the train. ‘In here ? It’ll get soaked.’

There was a knock on the door and he reached for the handle, holding it closed.

‘Is everything in order?’ the provodnik asked through the door.

‘A moment, please,’ Paul called. ‘Quickly,’ he hissed at Sofya. ‘Take it off. I’ll close my eyes.’

The provodnik rapped on the door again. ‘Who is in there?’

Paul leaned his weight against the door. ‘Come on,’ he whispered urgently.

‘You’ll have to do it,’ she said. She moved towards him, unbuttoning the top of the dress and pulling the neck out with her fingers.

‘Turn around then,’ he said and reached over her shoulder and down the front of her dress, his fingers brushing her throat.

‘It’s lower,’ Sofya said, her neck colouring.

Paul felt her collarbone and then the small swell of her breasts. He tried to feel for the letter without seeming gratuitous about it. His fingers brushed against a nipple and she shivered. He touched the top of the envelope and pushed his hand deeper, accidentally cupping her left breast in his hand as he did so.

‘What are you doing ?’ Sofya hissed.

The door pushed in behind him and he stumbled, almost knocking Sofya over. He still had his hand down her dress as they turned towards the outraged face of the provodnik .

‘What is going on?’

Sofya blushed scarlet and Paul withdrew his hand, pulling the letter with it.

‘Degenerates!’ the provodnik shouted. ‘Get out. Get out! Get of here.’

Sofya rushed past her, mortification masking her face. Paul hurried after her, avoiding the provodnik’s eyes.

Back in her seat Sofya refused to look at him. She turned her head to the window and stared into the blackness beyond.

Paul sat next to her. His hand was shaking. Something had happened to him — to them — in the lavatory. He kept staring at his hand, the one he had put down Sofya’s dress.

In the early hours the train stopped at a small station and the peasant woman gathered her belongings. She stood over them, lit by the dim carriage light and smiled down at the sleeping Sofya before hoisting her chicken under her arm and waddling off. At some point Sofya had turned from the window and put her head on Paul’s shoulder. Numb and stiff from sitting in the same position, he remained still, not wanting to disturb her. He was hungry but the station lay in darkness and there were no peddlers on the platform selling food. After a while the train began to move again and he supposed he must have dropped off to sleep because the next time he opened his eyes the first light of dawn was streaking the sky. The sun came up and he judged their direction to be north-east. Beside him Sofya stirred, looked at him sleepily as if for a moment not quite sure who he was, then averted her eyes.

‘Did you sleep?’ he asked.

‘A little,’ she mumbled.

‘Are you hungry?’

‘Do you have anything?’

‘No.’

‘Then why ask?’ She looked across the aisle.

‘She got off,’ Paul said. He put a hand on her arm. ‘What happened—’

‘Do not speak of it,’ she said.

‘I did not mean…’

Sofya’s eyes flashed and he stopped.

She rummaged in her bag and pulled out the piece of bread he had brought her from the restaurant the day before.

‘Here,’ she said, passing him the bread and taking a wilted piece of cucumber and a twist of paper from the bag. She broke the cucumber in half and opened the paper to reveal a little mound of salt.

‘An offering?’

‘You remember? Bread and salt?’ She dipped her cucumber into the salt and bit the hard bread, chewing it less than daintily. ‘The traditional welcome for travellers?’ she said through a mouth full of bread and cucumber. She held the twist of paper out to him. ‘Don’t you remember when we used to go to our estate?’

‘On the Sea of Azov,’ he said.

‘It always sounded so romantic. The Sea of Azov.’

He supposed so. He had never thought much about it before.