“Years, years, I’ve been on this train, but today, at last . . .”
“I don’t even remember the town anymore, and now, suddenly, we’re here . . .”
People shout and cheer, there’s almost no more room in the station. Then there’s another whistle, and the sound of the train as it starts to move off. Gruner is almost there. He sees Gong waiting at the end of the platform to help him up, and he jumps the steps. A group of men who have unpacked their instruments play a happy tune to celebrate the occasion. Gong and Gruner move among children, men, and women, and before they can reach the first door, the train is already moving alongside them. That’s when Gruner sees, among jubilant ex-passengers, the thin gray figure of the dog.
“Gruner!” yells Gong, who has now reached the first door.
“I’m not going without the dog,” declares Gruner, and as if those words give him the strength he needs, he goes back to the animal and picks him up. The dog lets him do it, and his terrified face goes with Gruner as he dodges the euphoric bodies. They reach the train’s last car and pull even with it. Gruner senses that from one of the windows Gill and Cho are watching him in anguish, and he knows he can’t fail them. He grabs hold of the back stairs of the train and the thrust of the machine plucks him from the platform, as though from a memory in which their feet had recently been planted, but that now grows smaller and disappears in the countryside.
The back door of the car opens and Gong helps Gruner up. Inside, Gill and Cho take the dog and congratulate Gruner. The four—now five—of them are there, and they’re saved. But, and there is always a but, in the door there is a window, and from that window they can still make out their station. A station full of happy people, overflowing with office supplies and probably also with change. It’s a stain that for them has been a place of bitterness and fear and that nevertheless now, they imagine, is something like the happy civilization of the capital. A final feeling, shared by all, is of fear: the sense that, when they reach their destination, there will be nothing left.
OLINGIRIS
There was space for six. One didn’t get in, and she was left pacing the waiting room. It took her a while to digest the fact she would have to live with the urge until the next day, or the next, or whenever they finally called her in again. It wasn’t the first time this had happened to her. The ones who did make it in went up the white steps to the second floor. None of them knew one another, not really. Maybe their paths had crossed, perhaps in that very place, but no more than that. They filed silently into the changing rooms. They hung up their purses, shed their coats. They took turns washing their hands and alternated in front of the mirrors, pulling back their hair in headbands or tying it into ponytails. All politely and in silence, thanking one another with gestures or smiles. They’ve been thinking about this all week. While they worked, while they cared for their children, while they ate, and now here they are. Almost inside the room, now almost about to start.