Looking to find the real Russia, old Russia, Mother Russia, the Russia of the heart. I’d visited her regularly, but it wasn’t my home anymore; and there were places—the basement and the attic—where I hadn’t been in years. The trail lurches to the left and drops under the trestle, and then it lifts again, flattening and turning right before reaching a long pipe-and-wood bridge. Dilapidated concrete edifices frowned over them, structures that perhaps had been grandiose thirty years ago, but that now, amid the flooded shantytowns, seemed merely pathetic.
In one form or another, this place has always served as the city’s train station. ”He closed his eyes, and Marja’s third gift floated in front of him, not words but a number. He was dead by then. Don’t look at me that way.
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