hobos.
I was first in a line of three when the grubby bit of curtain got moved away from the little window to reveal an iron grill behind thick glass, with a small wooden scoop at the bottom where money and tickets were exchanged. A woman in her midfifties glowered at me from behind the fortifications. She was wearing a sweater and, of course, a woolen hat. She was also probably resting her feet on a bulging shopping bag.
I smiled. 'Narva, Narva?'
'Narva.'
'Yes. How much?' I rubbed my fingers together.
She got out a little receipt book and wrote 'Narva' and '707.' It appeared the cost was 707 hertigrats, or whatever the money was called, not that it left at 7:07.
I handed her a 1000 note. $20 U.S. was going a long way here. She moved away from the glass, rummaged around, came back and dropped my change through the scoop. With it was a slip of paper as thin as tissue. I picked it up, guessing it must be some kind of receipt.
'Narva-ticket?'
She babbled at me gloomily. It was pointless, I didn't have a clue what she was on about. I didn't ask about the platform. I'd find it.
Tallinn station seemed to be the origin for all lines. This wasn't Grand Central Station, though; the platforms outside the hall were lumpy, broken pavement, with ice where the water had puddled and frozen. In places, exposed concrete had crumbled and rusting reinforcement rods protruded. The trains were old Russian monsters with a big Cyclops light; they all seemed to be blue, but it was hard to be sure under all the dirt and grime. Hanging on the front of each locomotive was a wooden destination board, and that was all the help you got.
I walked up and down looking for the word Narva, brushing past other passengers. I found the train, but needed to confirm it with one of my shopping-bag friends.
'Narva, Narva?'
The old man looked at me as if I was an alien, muttering something without taking the cigarette out of his mouth, so the light from the tip bounced up and down. He then just walked away. At least I got a nod as he pointed at the train.
I carried on along the platform, looking for an empty car, to the sound everywhere of the early morning coughing up of phlegm people holding one nostril and snot ting out on the ground, then putting the cigarettes back between their lips.
There didn't seem to be any completely empty cars, so I boarded anyway, taking the first free row of seats I could find. The car floor was nothing more than welded steel plates, and the seats were also made of steel, with two small, thinly padded vinyl sections, one for your back and one for your ass. There were a couple of forty-watt lightbulbs in the ceiling and that was our lot. All very basic, all very functional, yet surprisingly clean compared to the mayhem in the station outside.
And at least it was warm.
30
The wheels rattled rhythmically over the rails as I gazed out at the darkness. I couldn't see any of the landscape, just lights from what I supposed were factories and from windows of row upon row of prisonlike apartment buildings.
I was sitting by the sliding door at the front end, next to a window, with, thankfully, a heater directly under my seat. According to the travel guide I'd be here for at least the next five hours, which was good news for my jeans. There were a dozen other passengers spread about the car, all of them male, most with shopping bags, and either deep in thought or doing the nodding dog.
The door slid back with a crash and a woman in her mid-forties came in, wearing a man's gray overcoat that was far too big for her. Draped over her arm were a dozen copies of a tabloid. She started jabbering and was clearly asking me something. I waved my hand politely to say no thanks but she became very animated. When I waved my hand again and shook my head with a nice Australian smile, she reached into her coat and out came the same sort of book of receipts that Mrs. Glum had used in the ticket office. I realized she was the ticket collector, who was obviously running a newspaper concession on the side. Like me, she was taking the money where she could find it.
I fished out my slip of paper. She inspected it, grunted, gave it back and swayed with the momentum of the train on to the next passenger, no doubt telling him that the village idiot was on board. Given what I was about to try, she wasn't far wrong.
We began to slow, and finally stopped. Through the darkness I could just see a factory, complete with a series of enormous chimneys. The station didn't have a platform; the factory workers had to disembark directly onto the tracks. Outside, people seemed to wander all over the place, even between cars.
The train set off again, stopping every ten minutes or so to disgorge another group of workers. After each halt the old diesel engine would strain to get up speed again, belching smoke which quickly merged with the junk the factory chimneys were pumping out. The railway system made Britain's look positively space age by comparison, but at least these ran on time, were warm, clean, and affordable. I thought of inviting a few Estonian train managers to the U.K. to show our guys how it should be done.
The train snaked, shuddered, and shook its way through the industrial wasteland. After half an hour the lights started to die out and I was looking into darkness again. I decided to follow the lead of the one other passenger left in the car and get some sleep.
It was shortly after nine thirty and first light had just passed. The sky, in keeping with everything else, was a gloomy gray. Through the grime on the window I saw snow-heavy trees lining the track on each side, a barrier against snowdrifts. Beyond them lay either vast stretches of absolutely flat open ground, covered in virgin white snow, or thick forest that stretched on forever. The electricity and telephone lines following the track were just like the trees, sagging with the weight of the snow and huge icicles that hung from them.
The train was still moving very slowly between stations, maybe because of the weather, maybe because the track was in need of repair.
An hour later, after another couple of stops, the chocolate and meat started to take effect. I hadn't seen any signs for toilets and I wasn't even sure there were any. If not, I'd just have to have a quick dump in the hall and explain it was an old Australian custom.
I walked the length of two cars, bouncing from side to side, until I eventually found one. It was just like the rest of the train, very basic but clean, warm, and it worked.
Ripping hard sheets from the roll I threw them into the bowl until it was more or less blocked. As I pulled down my now dry jeans and sat on the bare ceramic bowl, I had a quick sniff of the denim.
Not that bad, considering; I could always blame it on a tomcat.
Bruises had developed on both thighs now; they'd soon turn black, complementing the ones I already had.
As the chocolate and meat mix started to force its way out I fought to keep control, wanting to catch the insurance policy, wrapped in two condoms and inserted up my ass with the aid of some Helsinki hotel soap.
This was something else I'd learned in reform school. It was the best way to make sure my fifteen pence weekly allowance wasn't stolen. Saran wrap hadn't been as good as these condoms, though.
It was a bit of a smelly affair retrieving it, but once I'd untied the knot in the first condom, pulled out the one inside and washed my hands-there was even soap and water in these toilets-everything was clean and fragrant again. I was still enthusing about Estonian railways when it was suddenly like being back on the King's Lynn-to London line: the flush didn't work.
I stayed a while and treated myself to a wash. Back in the carriage, it was time to study my Narva town map, working out exactly where I'd find Konstantin. According to Lion King there was about an hour to go before we arrived. I sat there feeling rather pleased the chocolate had worked and that I wouldn't have to waste time in Narva waiting for nature to call.
I dry-swallowed another four aspirin and looked out of the window. No wonder people had been getting off before entering this part of the country. This must be the start of the great industrial northeast the Soviets had created during their reign. Gone were the trees and open spaces of the wilderness; instead the view consisted entirely of slag heaps, with massive conveyor belts, and factories that churned out smoke from every corner.
