Aleph

‘My name means “very distant”,’ he says to break the ice.

‘My name means “little rock”,’ I tell him, smiling. In fact I have had the same smile on my face since last night, when I could barely sleep for thinking about today’s adventure. I couldn’t be in a better mood.

The omnipresent Hilal is standing near the carriage I’ll be travelling in, even though her compartment must be far from mine. I wasn’t surprised to see her there. I assumed she would be. I blow her a kiss and she responds with a smile. At some point on the journey, I’m sure we’ll enjoy an interesting conversation or two.

I stand very still, intent on every detail around me, like a navigator about to set sail in search of the Mare Ignotum. My translator respects my silence, but I realise that something is wrong, because my publisher seems preoccupied. I ask Yao what’s going on.

He explains that the person representing me in Russia has not arrived. I remember the conversation with my friend the night before, but what does it matter? If she hasn’t turned up, that’s her problem.

I notice Hilal say something to my editor. She receives a brusque reply, but doesn’t lose her cool, just as she didn’t when I told her we couldn’t meet. I am getting to like the fact that she is here more and more; I like her determination, her poise. The two women are arguing now.

I again ask the translator to explain what’s going on, and he says that my editor has asked Hilal to go back to her own carriage. Fat chance, I think to myself; that young woman will do exactly what she wants. I amuse myself by observing the only things I can understand: intonation and body language. When I think the moment is right, I go over to them, still smiling.

‘Come on, let’s not start off on a negative vibe. We’re all happy and excited, setting off on a journey none of us has ever made before.’

‘But she wants—’

‘Just leave her alone. She can go to her own compartment later on.’

My editor does not insist.

The doors open with a noise that echoes down the platform, and people start to move. Who are these people climbing into the carriages? What does this journey mean to each passenger? A reunion with their loved one, a family visit, a quest for wealth, a triumphant or shamefaced return home, a discovery, an adventure, a need to flee or to find? The train is filling up with all these possibilities.

Hilal picks up her luggage – which consists of her backpack and a brightly coloured bag – and prepares to climb into the carriage with us. The editor is smiling as if she were pleased with the way the argument had ended, but I know that she will seize the first opportunity to take her revenge. There’s no point explaining that all we achieve by exacting revenge is to make ourselves the equals of our enemies, whereas by forgiving we show wisdom and intelligence. Apart from monks in the Himalayas and saints in the deserts, I think we all have these vengeful feelings, because they’re an essential part of the human condition. We shouldn’t judge ourselves too harshly.

Our carriage comprises four compartments, bathrooms, a small lounge area, where I assume we will spend most of the time, and a kitchen.

I go to my compartment, which consists of a double bed, wardrobe, a table and chair facing the window, and a door that opens onto one of the bathrooms. At the end is another door. I go over and open it and see that it leads into an empty room. It would seem that the two compartments share the same bathroom.