Its author, a journalist named Palamidov, had already walked past the cart several times, glancing at the buyers anxiously.
He was considered an expert on the Eastern Line: this would be his third trip there.
Departure was fast approaching, but the farewell scene was nothing like an ordinary passenger train’s departure.
There were no old women on the platform, nobody was holding a baby through an open window for a last look at its grandfather.
Obviously, there was no grandfather either, a grandfather whose dim eyes reflect a fear of drafty trains, and, obviously, there was no kissing.
The workers’ delegation had been brought to the station by union officials, who hadn’t had the chance to work out the issue of farewell kisses yet.
The journalists from Moscow were accompanied by their co-workers, who were used to getting away with a handshake in situations like this.
On the other hand, the foreign journalists—there were thirty of them—were headed to the joining at full strength, with their wives and their phonographs, so there was no one to see them off.
True to the occasion, the travelers talked louder than usual, pulled out their notepads for no reason, and scolded the well-wishers for not joining them on such an exciting journey.
A journalist named Lavoisian was being particularly loud.
He was young at heart, even though a bald pate shone through his locks like a moon in the jungle.
“You disgust me!” he shouted to those staying behind. “You can’t even fathom what the Eastern Line really means!”
The hot-headed Lavoisian was so passionate, and so dedicated to print news, that he could have easily beaten up a friend or two, except that his hands were busy with a large typewriter in a heavy oilcloth cover.
He was already itching to send an urgent cable to his office, but there was absolutely nothing to report.
Ukhudshansky, from a union newspaper, had been the first to arrive at the station and was strolling next to the train at a leisurely pace.
He was carrying The Turkestan Region: A Complete Geographical Description of Our Land, A Reference and Travel Book for the Russian People, by Semenov-Tian-Shansky, which had been published in 1903.
He would stop by a group of travelers or well-wishers and say, somewhat sarcastically:
“Going?
Well, well . . .”
Or:
“Staying?
Well, well . . .”
In this manner, he reached the front of the train. Holding his head back, he carefully studied the locomotive, and finally said to the engineer:
“Working?
Well, well . . .”
After that, Ukhudshansky returned to his compartment, opened the latest issue of his union paper, and became immersed in an article, “Retail Boards Need Improvement: Boards’ Overhaul Insufficient,” that he had written himself.
The article reported on some meeting or other, and the author’s take on the subject could be described in one sentence:
“Meeting?
Well, well . . .” Ukhudshansky read until the train departed.
One of the well-wishers, a man with a pink plush nose and small velvety sideburns, made a prophecy that scared everyone to death.
“I know about trips like this,” he announced, “I’ve done them myself.
I know what your future holds.
There’s about a hundred of you.
Altogether, you’ll be on the road for a whole month.
Two of you will be left behind at a small station in the middle of nowhere, with no money and no papers, and, hungry and bedraggled, will catch up with the train a week later.
Somebody’s suitcase is bound to be stolen.
Perhaps, Palamidov’s, or Lavoisian’s, or Navrotsky’s.
The victim will whine for the rest of the trip and beg his comrades for a shaving brush.
He’ll return the brush dirty and will lose the bowl.
One of you will certainly die, and the friends of the deceased, instead of going to the joining, will be obliged to escort the remains of the dearly beloved back to Moscow.
A very boring and unpleasant chore.
On top of that, there will be a nasty squabble during the trip.
Trust me!
Someone, say, that same Palamidov, or Ukhudshansky, will commit an anti-social act.
All of you will denounce him endlessly and tediously, while the culprit will moan and groan in protest.
I’ve seen it all.
You’re wearing hats and caps now, but you’ll come back in Oriental skull caps.
The stupidest of you will purchase the full uniform of a Bukhara Jew: a velvet hat trimmed with jackal fur and a thick quilted blanket sewn into a cloak.
And, of course, all of you will be singing the Stenka Razin song on the train in the evening, bellowing like idiots:
‘And he throws her overboard, to the wave that happens by.’