Day 10: Soldier of Misfortune

Thursday May 15 - approaching Irtkusk

On the first day on the train, I had bumped into Slavic in the mugginess of smoker’s corner. From then onwards, he was usually leaning on the bars at the closed window, cigarette in one hand, staring at his mobile phone in the other. Other times, he was just standing expressionless, hands in pocket.

I always nodded and smiled but never gained a response other than a blank look. Then one time he approached me as I took out my Marlboros. He gestured towards the pack and I offered him one. He took a cigarette but not a light. I guessed that Slavic was a soldier reluctantly returning to base. Whatever the purpose of his journey, he was a man with a lot on his mind.

For the first three days, he wore the same outfit of white baggy vest, half length blue-checked summer pants and flip flops. I never saw him smile but he was a handsome guy. Short hair, full lips, a symmetrical, quite podgy face and a distinctly south Russian appearance. With a small scar on his cheek, he would make a great James Bond villain.

Last night, Joe and I were sitting in the compartment. Fiz was reclining on her bed and we were talking about technology. Or, more precisely, we were discussing how Joe uses technology when other, more traditional solutions are often better. Within minutes, we had a chance to test the theory.

Slavic suddenly appeared at the door. In his hand was a slender bottle. ‘Erm. Excuse me…,’ he said softly in broken English. ‘We have a drink. Best men have a drink.’ He pushed the bottle into the room and followed gingerly. Joe made room for him and I took a look at the bottle. ‘Cognac,’ Slavic announced. ‘Cognac from Caucauses.’

My skull immediately twinged. I get a terrible headache from even the most modest amounts of even the best brandy and the last thing I needed was heavy drinking session on Caucasian brandy. Jeremy had also given me some key advice before we left Moscow. ‘Don’t drink spirits with Russians because you will never win.’

Thankfully, there was a lack of cups. I suggested using the cap of the bottle but Slavic dismissed the idea. We finally found drinking vessels and Slavic poured us all small measures. He also showed us how to drink, Caucasian style. The cognac goes down in one, you exhale deeply, and then you eat a piece of chocolate. We all followed his lead and, surprisingly, it worked a treat. The brandy was smooth and warming and the chocolate gave the experience a sweet end.

Fiz asked what Slavic meant by ‘best men.’ ‘Are you getting married?’ Slavic didn’t understand. Fiz reached for her dictionary and Joe for his electronic translator. Slavic typed in the phrase in Russian. The answer it offered was ‘persisting men.’ Fizle’s answer was intuitively more accurate. ‘Real men … macho.’ She explained to Slavic and, for the first time since I saw him, a genuine smile appeared.

He told us that he was returning to his unit in eastern Siberia after a week or so back home. He said his job in the army was too boring to describe. He is much older than his official age of 23: he is a thoughtful, sensitive and intelligent man, unlike many of the other soldiers on the train. He had learned a little English at school and wants to be an economist when his service was done.

As we chatted, Slavic tried hard to find the English words. His vocabulary was limited but his accent was good. Throughout our conversation, he would say half a sentence, stop, and then mumble a few words in Russian while looking to the ceiling for inspiration. His right index finger would invariably be gently resting on the corner of his mouth. Often, he would not find the word, but his calm and thoughtful dedication to communicating with three native English speakers was touching.

As well as testing Slavic’s English and Fizle’s Russian, the conversation presented a huge challenge to Joe’s electronic translator. It tried its best but it didn’t have the personal touch. We reeled in laughter at more context-free, confusing and contradictory translations. Joe persisted and then confessed that it has serious limitations. He demonstrated with a Spanish translation. ‘Look, if you get mugged in El Salvador, you can type in ‘Please take my money, not my life.’ Joe's fingers whizzed over the tiny keyboard, and he pressed enter. ‘And if you translate the answer from Spanish back into English, it says: ‘Please take my life, not my money.’

We had a few more brandies, deep exhalations and sweet, gooey pieces of chocolate. The chat was, it seems, just what Slavic needed. He became open, amusing and for the first time since the journey began, he went 20 minutes without looking at his mobile phone.

I was writing late last night in my usual position on one of the pull down seats in the corridor. At about midnight, I went for a cigarette and passed Slavic by the toilet. He was leaning on the bars of the window, looking into the ink black night, talking softly on his mobile phone. We were the only people awake in the carriage.

An hour or so later, I went for another cigarette. Slavic was in the same spot, with the same posture, on, I assumed, the same phone call. Then, just before bed, I used the toilet. Again, he was there, but this time he was using the phone direct from the mains supply.

This afternoon, we shared a smoker’s moment and he told me that his girlfriend is also in the army, on the other side of the country to him. ‘The last time I kissed my woman… 12 months,’ he said without emotion. As we walked back along the corridor, he asked me if I wanted to see some photos of his home town.

So I powered up my laptop and put in his CD. Slavic leaned over my shoulder and pointed at the relevant icons. The first one was an error – it brought up his porno directory – but the second was a random collection of shots that included a rather austere, red brick apartment block, in a characterless town with the Caspian Sea in the background. ‘My home,’ he announced.

I flicked through snapshots of mountains in the summer, beaches, winter scenes, a crashed helicopter, off shore oil rigs, sunsets, cats and several of a comical dog with pointy ears and an expectant face. ‘My dog,’ said Slavic slowly. ‘He’s dead now.’ The date on the photo was 2004.

There were the obligatory photos of friends, mostly swarthy looking youths in various states of drunkenness. Some showed the boys bare-chested and flashing their immature muscles like body-builders. Slavic and I both laughed.

At the end of the CD were photographs of the countryside, including several very well framed shots of white and red wild flowers. He had obviously put some thought into their composition. And then, as I got to the end, he motioned for me to go back to the middle of the list and pointed at four photos of a blonde haired, smiling woman. ‘She my girlfriend,’ he said rather mournfully. ‘When I leave army, she be my wife.’

I clicked on the first photograph of his girlfriend. ‘Yes, she is very pretty,’ I said. And without wanting to increase his longing, I waited a moment and then closed the directory. He took the CD and I plugged in the charger of my laptop. I looked over my shoulder and Slavic had gone.

About half an hour later, I passed his compartment and Slavic was lying on his belly on his top bunk, mobile phone in hands, writing a text message. A single tear clung stubbornly on his cheek. Even so, he seemed at peace. He looked at me, smiled briefly and returned to his phone.