Heart of Iron - Ekaterina Sedia [9]
I hugged Miss Chartwell, tears now running freely down my face, and promised to see her come winter. And with that, there wasn’t much to do but to get myself into the coach where my suitcases and a maid—barely older than I and who was leaving home for the first time as well—were already waiting.
The coach took us to the train station. Ever since the railroad had reached Trubetskoye the spring before, the village had rapidly begun losing its backwater status. As much as I feared the railroad’s presence would disrupt the village’s unhurried, pastoral appeal, I also felt reassured my separation from home would be neither final nor lasting. Returning home would not even be arduous since getting to the capital was now only a matter of a short carriage ride and a day on the train.
From the first time I set a foot onto the throbbing, chugging step of the train, I fell in love with its power and its iron solidity. My maid Anastasia found a free compartment, which she busily filled with our belongings, and I settled on a seat by the window. The great puffs of steam exhaled by the locomotive hid the sight of the train platform and the peasant women with their wicker baskets containing produce and geese. It was like flying through the clouds, with one or another detail of the surroundings momentarily snatched and cast in naked relief before being hidden again in the dense fog. Only the sharp voices and laughter of the women on the platform reached us and convinced me that we were still moored to the earth rather than hurtling through the unending expanse of the summer sky.
Then it was time. The train gave a low whistle, prompting everyone to board in a hurry, and chugged slowly away from the platform. The steam cleared and I watched the yellowing fields run past the windows, faster and faster, and then a forest of tall spruce and ash trees walled the train tracks in on both sides. The train passed lakes and crossed over rivers, it entered villages and towns, piercing through them like a sewing needle, and continued on its way as the scenery opened in front of it and closed behind. I remained transfixed, my forehead pressed against the window, until it had grown dark.
Only then did I notice that Anastasia and I were not the only passengers in the compartment—we had been joined by a small, dark-skinned and narrow-eyed young man dressed in a silk tunic with a high buttoned collar and matching trousers. A plain white cap covering his long braided hair. He sat next to Anastasia, on the bench opposite me, and smiled when he noticed I was looking at him. He introduced himself as Chiang Tse. “I am a student at St. Petersburg University,” he informed me in English. “But I come from the glorious city of Hong Kong, the port of a thousand masts and home of the air dragon ships.”
“Sasha Trubetskaya,” I said. “I mean, Alexandra. I’m going to the university too.”
Chiang Tse proved to be a pleasant companion—now that I could not look outside, I was just as content to talk. Anastasia lit the gas lantern mounted on the wall of our compartment, ran to the restaurant carriage and brought us tea, and the three of us spent a pleasant evening trading stories and carefully skirting around the anxieties of starting a new life as a student.
I learned from Chiang Tse that there were very few Chinese students at the university in St. Petersburg—there were several more at Moscow University, he said, because it was marginally closer to his homeland. He had great hopes for the railroad currently being constructed. The route cut across Siberia and offered an easy passage between Europe and Asia—it had now almost reached Beijing. “I understand there is some apprehension about the Orient moving suddenly close,” he said and smiled to show he was only joking.
I smiled back. I could imagine what it was like for him—to be so alone and far away from his compatriots, to be