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She sang with the Taiwan pop song on the p.a. as the clumping train left the misting lake and entered a dewy birch forest. "My heart's too soft." I savored her sorrowful voice, felt the ca-chunking rhythm of the wheels in my bones, the echo Thomas Wolfe called the sound of forever, and looked outside to see whom I could say hello and goodbye to forever all at once. A young soldier huddled by a cooking fire. I waved. He flipped me off.
Day Four
The Mongolians were drunk from vodka and singing rousing anthems about Genghis Khan. The Chinese crowded into the furthest end of the compartment, sang Chinese songs and reminisced about home. Beside the track, on an open sun-drenched plateau near bright white birches weighted with twinkling plump leaves, Russian girls in billowing dresses picked purple and white wildflowers. "It's just like Wenzhou," Miss Zhou observed. It was nothing like Wenzhou. But everyone agreed.
Day Five
After two days in Russia, the Chinese passengers were adept enough in the language to barter on the platforms. At Perm, the city Chekhov's three sisters wanted so desperately to leave, Miss Zhou spent her last yuan on two eggs and a jar of peach halves. The rest of her Chinese currency had gone to the conductors in exchange for a daily share of their rations from Beijing, in particular the rice. I envied her: A dining car waitress with hair the color of aortic blood emptied the pantry to serve me a dinner of vodka, Marlboros, Snickers and sausage. "Ten dollars!"
I'd brought along the Chinese classic Journey to the West, all four volumes and 2,300 pages, and had nearly finished it. I read Miss Zhou a favorite line: "Every piece of duckweed floats down to the sea; people will always meet each other somewhere." At this, she closed the door. "Can I tell you another secret? My boyfriend doesn't live in China. He left Wenzhou, and now he's in Milan. He makes pizzas." Miss Zhou gave me time to conjure the incongruous image. "I talk to him every week. I know one word in Italian." She said the word for love.
I happened to be heading to Italy and volunteered to pass on a message. Miss Zhou put on fresh lipstick and wrote "I miss you" on paper. "Should I sign it?" she asked, then laughed, replacing her name with a heart that she drew in two careful halves. I took photos of her to deliver with the note. "Give me your address in Wenzhou, and I'll send you copies." Miss Zhou looked at the floor. "You're not going back, are you?"
She raised her head, relieved. The story and her plans came out in a rush. "He doesn't know I'm in Moscow. Please tell him I love him, and not to worry about me. My friends are meeting me at the station and will find a job for me making clothes. I don't know how much I'll make—I think more than in China. My parents know I'm going. Why go? Because I don't know anything about the world! I've never been out of Wenzhou. I don't want to stay there and make clothes. I can make clothes anywhere and learn about the world. I'm not brave, I'm not scared. I'm just Chinese."
She shrugged and asked me to test her again. Three days before, she'd written a list of phrases in Chinese, which I translated into English. She'd been practicing every hour since, honing the words, preparing to cross the border into life beyond home. "Where is the Internet café? I want to call China. How much per minute? Where is the Chinese embassy? Passport. Where is the metro? Taxi. Help! Where are the police? Sorry, I don't speak Russian." One hundred percent correct. Miss Zhou smiled and tried one more. "How much to Italy?"
Day Six
We awoke to a blizzard. She had never seen snow before. We pressed our faces to the glass. The window reflected Miss Zhou's face at the moment of joy and wonder, watching a late-May frozen tempest swirl over feather grass and pine. Then we saw a rainbow. "They also have rainbows in Russia?" Miss Zhou marveled.
"In America, too?"
As we pulled into Vladimir and neared the end of the line, I was overcome with dread. Miss Zhou stared wide-eyed at a raging garbage fire at the end of the platform, at the defeated faces of pensioners, at kids sentenced to adolescence, buried in Yankees caps, Sex Pistols T shirts and baggy jeans. "Hot dog! Fuck fuck shit shit!" one yelled in English while chewing on an empty film canister. So this was the West.
Miss Zhou had $330, eleven English sentences and the ability to sew hemlines. I saw the myriad dangers lying coiled in anticipation of her arrival. After 107 hours, through seven time zones, our farewell was approaching. I didn't want it to come. I didn't want to get off the train. Inertia had bypassed fatigue and turned into something else.
As the train eased into Moscow, the conductor pulled me aside. He'd also been silently worrying. "Listen, little brother," he said, placing his arm on my shoulder. "Be careful. You're a foreigner here. A tourist. It's not safe. Don't drink too much!" I remembered him putting me to bed the night before. "Germans can drink. Mongolians can drink. You are not German or Mongolian."
"But what about ... "
"Her?" The conductor chuckled, looking to Miss Zhou. "She's Chinese. She'll be fine." The train shuddered to a stop. We stepped from it and into the world. A pair of kindly-looking aunties greeted Miss Zhou by name. She waved goodbye and walked away with them, toting her little bag, chattering happily in Chinese. I stood alone on the platform, wondering where I was.
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