Baikal

by
Elmo Lum

The water ran out in the city. Everywhere the taps went dry. Women walked in from every quarter to gather at the river’s bridge. They bore pails with rope knotted to the handles; they threw the pails plainly to the river. (It was midday.) Lines were fed, pails were sunk, water was drawn, women came. They reached over the railing to lift over pails. (White Nights was not long ago.)

Come winter, the lake will freeze over. Truck drivers will wait for the freeze. They will wait and they will wait, then one will cross the lake. (He will leave his truck engine running.) He crosses or he doesn’t, his wife sees him or she doesn’t, his friends toast him or they don’t: his life. (His death.) Others follow, leaving slow tracks across the ice, through winter’s heart, and come spring the ice will thaw. The drivers watch. They watch and watch. One does not or does not want to; he drives his truck, loaded, for the lake’s far shore. (He keeps the engine running.) He crosses or he doesn’t, sees his wife or he doesn’t, raises a toast with friends or they raise one solemn toast for him.

(He said it was independence day. Wasn’t that right? This morning was the morning of our country’s independence? We thought — he's right. We chewed our toast and sipped our tea. This was Siberia; he hailed from New Zealand. We had caroused the night before.)

We rode in on the Mongolian train. They hawked jackets and bread at the station. We had postcards to mail and we went to the post office and the post office was shut for lunch. (We waited.) Women dragged bags or women dragged children; soldiers bore backpacks and guns. Trucks spun ruts in the muddy dirt roads. We checked at the post office once more. One came running after us to the post office, to tell us our train was leaving. We ran across the rutted mud and ran past the children. We ran past the kiosks hawking cassette tapes and soda. At the platform the final car was pulling from the station. (The passenger cars were painted hunter.) We leapt — the ties were cement. We ran — the train reached the birch and larch. A man gripping a rod spiked upright in a switch watched us chase after the train. He said, where were we going? He said, where were we in a hurry to? We said through our breaths, that’s our train. (It was midday.) He yanked the rod; the switch switched. He raised a gloved hand. The train’s coming back, he said.

The collie chewed her thumb, yipped. Cookies were patterned around a plate. Cognac was present — the table had a leaf. She stood at the sink, washing dinner dishes. They’d met, she’d told us. He was a different American. She showed a photo; he’d flown in to see her. In the drying cabinet she racked the dinner dishes, still wet. The collie yipped, the doorbell rang: the first guest had arrived. (Last month, she’d said over dinner.)

One light bulb in the hotel room lit. The windows looked out on blue smokestacks. The glass had a ripple — the beds had a sag — the wallpaper was torn in one corner. (It was Sunday.) The stacks blew no smoke. We did not face the lake. A par-building stood below, rippled in rippled glass. It was hollow inside, minus walls, minus windows, minus floors. We had been told it had been named informally for the mayor. (This was ten years ago.) Now this building, unfinished, was called a monument to this mayor’s name. (One of the windows would not open.)

Once upon a time was war with Japan. At one time there was a need for supplies. The front was far — they laid ties on the ice. Cold rails were pulled, spiked in place. (Men wrapped faces.) It was winter’s pit. Men labored; made progress: success — the first train steamed over. Cheers from men, fists raised, smiles iced with ice, turned to grimaces, turned to shock as ice snapped and the train dove through dark water. It sank further while men labored the ice above, relaying ties, respiking rails, resuming war. (The water stays clear.) The train plunged its way down the pitch of lake where seals were countless, boats were countless, trucks were countless, and men. (Who used more and bigger ties.) When it came to rest at last in black clouds of mud, in black water, it was the first locomotive to reach the deep. (It was war.) In air, the second train steamed through. Success — it saved a day. When spring came, the ice thawed and men returned from war.

His name was Anatolii and he lived with his brother and the two of them lived in a room. They grew vegetables outside; he’d been a soldier (his brother, too). Their turntable was shaped like a suitcase. They kept phonograph records in a crate underneath it. Night was actually fallen. Liquor was shared — language was hard. We made out he’d once been a soldier (his brother, too). Both were unmarried, grew vegetables in the garden. The outhouse was pitch outside.

Her sister sat. Her brother-in-law, too. We sat, and her friends from when young. (Her parents were a mystery.) The table had a leaf. The window there was open and her sister blew smoke there. Glasses were taken down, cognac poured in thin glasses: toasts were raised and cognac drunk back. The night was young. The collie chewed a best friend’s thumb. She was not one for smoking. (White Nights was not long ago.)

The bus drove through birch and larch where men and women walked carrying plastic bags hung from their hands. The tour guide spoke through a microphone. The sky overhead was overcast. We stopped at a village: log walls, stoops hewn, a posted sign, every building’s pitches and eaves ornamented in carved wood. The chinks between the buildings’ logs were packed icy white. The sign announced the village was a museum.

Once upon a time we danced outdoors. The sun was getting toward setting. We met Evgenii and Anatolii, who took us to the island. From every quarter of the city came youth. (We were young.) Music played, liquor was shared, women were met: four. They had three names among them. (Two of them were called alike). We danced outdoors, amid river, amid the setting sun. They had three songs and played them all night. (Language was hard.) Goodbyes were said and arrangements made: the following morning an event, plans to gather to hear a choir. (We were young.) Some things never change. The following morning we arrived at church to hear the choir: the women we never saw again.

Seals dove and leapt. The water stays clear. We rode a boat over across the lake. (It was safe to drink.) We ate grayling, and omul, and black bread, and caviar. The water all year stays a chilling cold. Two of us plunged (it meant long life). Two of us dunked our feet. We docked, visited a village with hewn log walls and stoops. Women hauled water — animals ran. Smoke ribboned from tin chimneys; hawkers hawked amber. Over the lake we hatched a notion to fish: a boat, borrowed poles, bright lines hung still in still water. (It was canceled. The following day: rain, and no water throughout the city. Women bearing pails approached the river’s bridge.)

We were invited and we accepted. We packed tight, eight, at a table. Dinner was finished — four produced vodka. They requested eight cups from the waitress. We toasted (the toast was forgotten). Glasses were upturned and drawn. The four produced more bottles. This much was understood: the Russians, they flicked at their necks. Shirts were traded, furs were offered (furs were declined). Language was hard — dark descended. Beer was warm, and vodka matched. Bottoms were reached; champagne was purchased; our compartment ran at the front. The train cars swayed; men peed between the cars. The train reached the birch and larch. Through the forest, through the trunks, the lake flashed an appearance. (The night carried a low, gibbous moon.)

The room was dark, the figure, too; I asked, who is the man? The figure shut the door, nothing said and nothing heard. (The night had been bottomless.) The collie yipped; a voice hushed hush. Others remained at the table (sister, brother-in-law, friends from when young). They spoke in low tones. They upturned glasses. The radio played — it was her final night. Come morning she would be gone, already aflight, seated in midair, facing and aimed for America. (Her parents were a mystery.) The next day: her sister said, you need to leave. She repeated: you need to leave. It was true. That was what she said. Language was not that hard.

The photo shows a woman’s head, old and wrinkled, craned from a train — looking at me likewise in Mongolia. (Courtesy first: I’d pantomimed photo, pointed the camera; she’d nodded okay, licked her palm, smoothed her hair: vanity blooms universal.) We were young — the train was hunter. Later on, the restaurant car. Between there and us the cars were open, loud with couples and families. In the future, in a day, in the city, the water would go out. In the future, one day, the collie would chew and yip. Men were yet to meet, drinks yet to be drunk, holidays yet to be forgotten. (To the north forest fires burnt wholly unbeknownst to us.) Soon, it would be soon, women would walk from every quarter like they walk from every quarter every time. (White Nights was not long ago.) Summer would continue northern, and autumn would follow, too, and come September the preparations would begin: jars stocked, boats put up, gardens uprooted, windows sealed. Ice will begin fringing inward from the shore. Drivers watch — drivers wait. (His brother had once been a soldier.) After flight she stands in the aisle, bag in hand, queued. Trains cross the unsigned steppes; language is not needed. The queue begins and she begins, and disembarks from the plane.