Unseen. Mark Graham

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СКАЧАТЬ thoughts straight as he jogged out of the building. He searched, groped for the next steps. The train in an hour. Dubai? Wait…why a hotel room when the train leaves today, leaves now?

      There was traffic as Dima sped through the asphalt maze of potholes. He needed help. Sasha! He’s in deep with the union now. He’ll know. He snatched the Nokia from inside his jacket pocket and dialed, misdialed, swore, then dialed again.

      “Sasha. Quick, what is the Union doing at the Hotel Berdyansk!”

      “Dima?”

      “Da!”

      “You know what they do there. It’s about seventy bedrooms.” Sasha laughed.

      “No. Look, an American was there this morning. He didn’t get a room. Why the hell was he there?”

      “Oh. Okay, they work the Internet Café there. They have girls who do internet dating online with Westerners. Easy money.”

      “He filed a marriage license today. But he just got to town!” Dima honked his horn at anything in front of him now.

      “Dima, sometimes that is the transaction. You don’t want any part of that. You need money? I can get you scheduled on some drops, no problem.”

      “That’s not it. No. Okay. Too much to tell.”

      “Dima?”

      He hung up and suddenly got a flash of hope, but no one answered at home. He gave up trying five minutes from the train station and placed the cell phone in his front pocket. He had to commit to the worst possible outcome. Be ready and committed.

      The task was clear to him now, and simple. Katya would come home with him or he would go to prison. This is life. He parked and reached under his seat.

      As Dima walked, the station interior released greater light and sound through the windows. Each concrete step to the entrance was important. He was aware of the feel and weight of each step he took. Each movement and sound inside was vivid: the woman arguing with the teller over her compartment assignment, the Polish chatter from the line at the currency exchange, a babushka snapping at an overactive child, the flick of a lighter and associated smells of smoke in the air. Dima pushed through all the pews and people.

      Once on the platform, he slowed his pace to match the calm that now filled him, checking each car for the number he had read on the man’s ticket. By the time he reached the train car, all his acute senses had melted away. He was no longer in the present. His mind was fully fixed on the impending confrontation and in believing, with all faith, he was in complete control. Get the girl. Go home.

      Once inside, Dima walked, floated, through the aisle. He found the man making up his bunk.

      The man’s confused expression pleased him and further fuelled his confidence.

      “What the… what do you want? Was there a problem with the papers?”

      Dima didn’t see a point in answering questions.

      “What?” The man said, spreading his arms.

      “Where is Katya?” Dima asked. Get the girl.

      “None of your—”

      Dima pulled the knife from his inside jacket pocket.

      “The bathroom. She’s in the bathroom.” The man backed away, raising his hands outward.

      The news forced Dima from his singular, emotional path, to one that demanded some level of thinking. He pointed for the man to sit as he sifted through the problem. Each Ukrainian rail car had two bathrooms, one on each end. He could ask, but the man could lie. He could walk the man out, but anything could happen with less control. He would wait.

      The man’s lips moved but Dima didn’t hear him speak. Scared and agitated, the man’s movements were more like an abstraction to Dima.

      Dima placed a finger to his lips and the man stilled. “I may kill you,” Dima said. “It will be quick.”

      Footsteps drew near and Dima braced himself for the hard, but was ready for the easy. He stepped to position himself beside the cabin door. Due to training, he could not turn his focus from the man. As the door slid open, he grabbed the long hair on the head as it graced the entrance.

      Get the girl. He swung her to the bunk opposite the man, ready to grab her up again. Go home.

      But she wasn’t his Katya.

      The woman opened her mouth to scream.

      He moved his knife to her. He stood before them both for an eternity.

      “Where is this man taking you?”

      “America. He is my husband!”

      “Show her plane ticket.”

      “What?” the man asked.

      “Nyet! Now!”

      She read the ticket and let out angry rapid-fire questions too fast for the man to respond to. Dima watched her rage for what seemed a full minute before regaining control.

      “Enough!” Dima saw she needed only a little prodding.

      Dima waved her to the door with his knife. Still covered in anger and tears, she grabbed her bag, and stomped past Dima. He lifted the man from his bunk and brought him to peer through the window, watching her run from the train, through the station, and away into darkness. Pushing the man towards the bunk, he backed himself out of the cabin and into the aisle.

      “Go home,” Dima commanded.

      He reached his taxi and sat for a time, watching the parking lot lights flicker their way into solid beams, one by one. Taking out the knife, he paused briefly to regret the need of it, then tucked it under his seat. Dima rolled down his window and leaned his head back, taking his cap off for a moment to wipe the sweat from his face. He turned his head to face up in resignation to the stars above. The moon was partially covered and illuminated clouds tinted in a toxic green and dark orange.

      For the first time in many years he took time to smell the old air of salty sea mixed with fifty years of factory soot. From it he breathed in a moment of comfort. Dima truly loved Ukraine and his city. Despite how his youthful dreams and those of Ukraine had not turned out as planned. He straightened his small icon of Saint Augustine, almost smiled. A priest once told him something Augustine had said about the church. In the moment, he thought it fitting for his Ukraine. Ukraine, sometimes you’re a whore, but you’re still my mother. He lit a cigarette, started the engine, and pulled out his cell phone. Twelve messages from home. Dima pulled away from the station before calling.

      “She’s home, Dima!”

      “Da, I know. Good. Tell her I said she is not to leave the Kiosk tomorrow and I will get her for lunch. And no going to the hotel checking emails.”

      

Chapter Three

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