Through Russia with love
This afternoon a party of intrepid
British astronomers departs from Moscow by
train for Mongolia and
China .
Nine years ago, Jeremy Atiyah travelled the other way, through a quite
different world
Was it only seven days since we had
met, in the restaurant car of a train somewhere in the vicinity of Mongolia ?
Professor Zhang and his comrades were eating their last Chinese dinner, and
teaching me how to use chopsticks. "This is the b-b-best day of our
lives," giggled the professor. Yes, China
was that bad. All these worn-out intellectuals were leaving their families for
the sake of science studentships in Continental Europe. Only Xiaosong in the
outsized red coat was different; she plonked herself at the table with a smile
to light up the wintry Mongolian steppe for ever. "Literature," she
whispered in a pure, seamless accent. "In Deutschland. You don't speak
German?" I didn't.
"Oh yes," Professor Zhang
confided in me the next morning. "M-m-m-many Chinese girls want to
m-m-m-marry Western men." Outside, the sun shone weakly on to a treeless,
snow-flecked land and I wondered why he was telling me this. It transpired that
he was carrying in his pocket lists of Chinese women seeking marital alliances
with Western men. But apart from me, the only other man in our carriage was a
melancholy Yugoslav with a suitcase full of vodka.
The crowded carriages at the other end
of the train were more promising for thoughts of marriage. Xiaosong was there
for a start. I decided to visit her, hauling open the connecting carriage-doors
one by one, exposing myself to the din of wheels and blasts of ferocious
winter. In the last carriage, I found her ensconced in a compartment with a
group of Chinese boys, also, perhaps, going to West
Germany to study literature.
"Oh no. We are going to East
Germany ," one of them
explained. "To work in the mines."
I was mumbling something about short
straws when one Erhard Kempe suddenly arrived from the bathroom. He had a
morose expression and pronounced Germany
"Charmany". East German police? I wish he had been. He turned out to
be a flukey West German tourist from Hannover
with a berth in the same compartment as Xiaosong.
Undaunted, I returned that evening with
a bottle of brandy which I drank all by myself. I ate Xiaosong's chocolates
impulsively, admired her tape of Chinese pop music and requested that she write
out the incomprehensible lyrics of one of the songs, "Maybe in
Winter". Erhard fought back by embarking on a lengthy explanation of the
"Charman" education system. Fortunately, we still had the whole of Russia to
cross.
The Soviet
Union arrived at midnight
with lights on the snow, a watch- tower, barbed wire, and soldiers in long
coats running beside the train. "I h-h-hate Russia ,"
said Professor Zhang in a high-pitched whisper, as blond men probed at his
bulging briefcase. Chugging alongside Lake Baikal later, I sat alone, mouthing
the meaningless sounds of "Maybe in Winter", while the frozen lake
buckled and cracked and heaped itself into mounds of rubble, shining a
mysterious blue against the snow-laden sky.
Professor Zhang was obsessed with my
conjugal status. He appeared daily at my doorway, asking when I would marry.
Not in the near future, I barked, tetchily. Siberia ,
and Erhard's long-winded accounts of German history, were wearing me down. For
three days, the landscape consisted of melancholy birch forests, interspersed
by villages of wooden houses suffocating under the continuous snow. At Novosibirsk I
changed money with a man in a dirty coat; at Sverdlovsk I
bought a hard-boiled egg. On the last day Xiaosong dropped by to give me a
contact address - in Hannover .
There was no red carpet for our final
arrival in Moscow .
Instead, the platform was covered in a thick, dirty slush. In dribs and drabs,
the passengers from China
transferred across town to Belarusskaya Station, where I volunteered to stand
in a Soviet queue to make our onward reservations to Berlin . I
stood in it, heroically, for four hours.
Only in mid-afternoon was I ready for a
touristic rampage round Moscow
with my Chinese bride-to-be. As it turned out, Xiaosong had already asked
Professor Zhang and eight other Chinese friends to join us, along with Erhard
Kempe. Never mind. Wet, romantic snow was falling as darkness fell. I saw
uneven pavements, pink stucco and tall women on the underground escalators with
pale faces and furry hats. In the streets, the last rays of a maverick sun
suddenly fell on to the spires of the Kremlin. En masse, we stormed the Hotel
Rossiya on Red Square
for a round of vodkas, for which I ostentatiously emptied my wallet.
From Moscow to
Berlin ,
we still had another 24 hours of Pot Noodles and Chinese tea, but by now
emotional excitement and brandy was destroying my mind. The train was crowded
and overheated, and I awoke to the sounds of raucous, collective snoring.
Discomfited, I sat in the half-lit corridor to wait for a grey day to slide
past over Poland .
Outside, on the plains, the last shreds of snow had almost gone.
Professor Zhang was jubilant at having
smuggled his dollars through Russia in
the lining of his briefcase; Erhard was waxing ever more eloquent as we
approached his homeland. But I was tired. And when they appeared, the East
German border police - with their fat faces, military accents, torches, peaked
caps and shining boots - looked remarkably like unreconstructed Nazis. Our
belongings were microscopically examined; Professor Zhang was suddenly ordered
to leave the train. Horror! There he was, now speechless with fear, putting on
three pairs of trousers, manically packing away his pots and cups and
chopsticks. The last we saw of him, he stood alone, a little man on the
platform beside a ton of luggage. The winter took on a nightmarish hue.
Amid the panic, a familiar face loomed
out of the darkness: Erhard Kempe. "Ver is the young lady?" he
exclaimed, roughly. Well, at least he didn't know either. Instead he angrily
escorted me through the darkness to the West
Berlin train where I found the only remaining
Chinese, Yu Wei, in a colossal furry hat, mumbling through his hand about
wanting to see the West. He had just two minutes to wait. The train creaked
through Alexanderplatz and then over the Berlin
Wall itself. The ghastly no-man's-land with its floodlights illuminating the
death-strip inspired Yu Wei, oddly, to start invoking Proust and Yeats as the
embodiment of his Western dream.
I couldn't help thinking that the West
was mainly about nice cars and decent accommodation. Or so I told myself,
gloomily, as I checked into a hotel later that night. Yu Wei had presented me
with his furry winter hat and departed for Frankfurt ,
while Erhard had bought me a copy of The Times. "A real piece of, ah,
`Charman' hospitality," he had said, grasping my hand like a spanner
before marching away into the mist.
In bed at last, I drifted into the
dreams of West Berlin .
Would the skateboarders around the Kaiser Wilhelm Church be feeling the cold
tomorrow morning? Would I find the girl from Communist China? The tune of
"Maybe in Winter" began playing in my mind. One day, I dreamt,
Xiaosong would tell me what its lyrics meant.
Jeremy Atiyah married Xiaosong in
1991Through Russia
with love
Express yourself
Regular trains operate between Moscow
and Peking ,
with connections from Western Europe
and to Hong Kong .
Most travellers make the week-long journey in only one direction, and fly the
other. A basic round trip of a flight from London to Moscow, train to Peking
and onwards to Hong Kong, with a flight back to London, would cost about pounds
750 through companies such as Bridge the World (0171-911 0900), Regent Holidays
(0117-921 1711) and the Russia Experience (0181-566 8846). There are endless
stopover possibilities, but these can add substantially to the cost.
No comments:
Post a Comment