Grockles

Milena Savovic

 

Chug-a-Chug-a-Chug-a-Chuga-Chuga-Choo-Choo!

            The train rolls against the tracks. It slips around the bends and dips into the valleys. It takes us past vibrant green pastures and dense forests. The greens of the plants and the blue of the sky blend together into a pastel haze of color.

            The cabins are scorching hot. My niece and nephew fan themselves with their pocket-sized coloring books. My husband sweats profusely under his tweed suit and dabs his temples dry with a white handkerchief.

            “How are you doing, dear?” He asks me.

            “Terrible,” not even terrible, just plain god-awful. Heat does things to me. I become a different person— an immodest person, all because I desperately want to stop sweating. The sweat trickles down my spine and pools above my lips, which is rather embarrassing. I stand up from the bench and briskly walk out of the cabin and into a mouse-hole of a toilet. Inside, I grab a fistful of tissue paper and dry my face and chest off. I grab hold of the bottom of my white summer dress and start fanning it up and down.

            “Ahh,” the cool breeze sweeps up my back and stomach. “That feels good.”

            Back at the cabin I assume my seat and hike up my dress. The hem sits at my upper thighs.

            “Erm, darling.” My husband nudges me.

            “What?”

            “Don’t you think you should,” he looks at my naked thighs. “Maybe you should, you know.”

            I press my face into his and with a great fit of passion scream out, “I’m bloody hot!”

            My husband takes this as his cue to stop talking. He leans back in his seat and stares directly at the two men sitting across from us.

            “You are tourist?” One of the men asks in a pronounced Slavic accent. He is thin and bony-faced with a pointed nose and black hair.

            “Why yes, yes we are.” My husband chirps happily.

            “Interesting,” the other Slavic man adds. This one is muscular with a fuller face, blonde hair, and a roman nose. 

            The cabin remains quiet for a long while. I nod off for about an hour before fluttering my eyes open. I’ve sunken down into my seat. I notice that my husband is fast asleep as are the little children. I turn my attention toward the two men and see one of them staring at my thighs. I look down. My blue polka-dot knickers are staring back at me as the dress has crept up to my waist.

            “Ugh,” I mumble as I adjust the dress and cover up my modesty.

            “You have beautiful dress,” the bony man remarks.

            I smirk with annoyance. “Yes. I’m sure you love my dress.”

            “I do.”

            “I’m sure of it.”

            “Vell, good.”

            I look back at him. He continues to stare at the dress. I look down to make sure that the hem is in place. It is.

            “You really like the dress?”

            He nods as a wide grin mows over his face. “Very beautiful.”

            “Well,” I feel myself becoming friendlier. “Thank you.” And then a sudden feeling of sociability falls over me. I start talking and I don’t stop. I can’t even remember what I’m talking about, really. But my mouth keeps moving and the bony-faced man just keeps smiling and staring at the dress. “I wasn’t quite sure about this dress. I always thought it was a little too revealing, but now that you mention it. It is a rather stunning dress, isn’t it?”

            The man throws his right hand up in the air and gives me an ‘okay’ hand sign.

            “It’s perfect, just like dat.”

            I flush a little and turn my attention to the open window. The aroma of pine sinks into my nose. I close my eyes and grab hold of my red locks, pushing them behind me to expose my shoulders and chest to the slight breeze. The air sweeps over my collarbone and neck and begins to calm my nerves.

            “Dear heavens!” I feel my husband’s hand press against my breast.

            “What has gotten into you?” I hiss, stunned at his actions. I look down and realize that my lacy-white bra has been exposed. The entire right cup has been flashing the passengers for God knows how long. I instinctively look at the bony-faced man. The smirk and dream-like charm has vanished from his expression.

            “You like my dress, do you now?”

            His smirk returns. “It vas perfect.”

            I look over at my husband. “That little pervert has been ogling me this entire time, Richard. Do something!”

            Richard sheepishly turns to the bony-faced man and then back at me. “Well, what do you want me to do, love?”

            “I don’t know. Yell at him. Threaten to beat him with a hammer and sickle. At least assert yourself, Richard! Just, do something!” I angrily push my way out of the room and storm into the hallway. I pace up and down the entire length of the car three times before returning.

            The children are still asleep. Meanwhile, Richard and the muscular-man are having a right good laugh about something.

            As I slump back into my seat Richard tries to compose himself.

            “Dear, did you know these two gentlemen have worked at Chernobyl?”

            “Mmm, fascinating. Did the lot of you blow it up too?”

            The muscular-man laughs. “No. Me and Andrei had nossing to do vit it.” He pulls out a box of fags and offers them around. The bony-faced Andrei takes one and pulls out a golden lighter.

            “Richard!” I whisper and grab at his sleeve.

            “Erm, gentlemen. This is a…umm…this happens to be a non-smoking cabin.”

            The muscular-man stares dumbly at my husband. He looks back at his fag, “It’s already lit.”

            Richard squirms in his seat. “Quite right.” He turns to me, “He already lit it, dear.”

            I shoot him an evil look.

            “Gentlemen,” his voice shakes a bit, “I’m afraid there’s a problem. The sign says that you can’t,” he swallows and his voice squeaks, “smoke in here.”

            Andrei turns his attention to the aluminum sign hanging on the door. Stamped in red are the words, “No Smoking.” Andrei slightly stands from his seat, reaches across for the sign and grabs it. He instinctively drops back to the seat, takes a great whiff of his fag, and tosses the sign out of the open window. It sinks like a rock into the thick greenery.

            He looks over at my jaw-dropped face. “No problem.”

            I’m glued to my seat, half scared and half shocked by the whole ordeal. Richard, meanwhile, has started sweating even more than before. His whole face glistens with oils and salty body fluids as smoke and heat further stifle the room.

            “Dimitrie vorked at Chernobyl.” The muscular-man speaks casually as if nothing has happened. “He vas, how you say, an ass’ hole. Da biggest ass’ hole in town. Do you remember, Andrei?”

            His friend agrees with a mumble.

            “And den the whole place just blew and radiation spilled over da town. And dat ass’ hole Dimitrie vas the first one dead.” The muscular-man giggles with glee and suddenly becomes serious and crosses himself, “God rest his soul.”

            But before the conversation can go any further the door of the room slides open. A heavy-set man sweating from head to toe yells a few short Russian terms at us before leaving.

            “What did he say?” I ask the smokers.

            “Ve have to get out at da next stop. It seems dat da train is breaking down.”

            “But this isn’t our station.”

            He looks at me curiously and smiles, “It is now.”

            The train slows to a halt and the passengers disperse onto the platform. Richard carries the heavy box luggage as me and the children tag along with our rucksacks. Out of the corner of my eye I can see the two smokers leave the platform.

            “Where in the world are they going?” Richard remarks.

            “To the village. There’s a village here, Richard.” I look around for a small patch of shade and find it right near the back of the platform. “Bring the bags over here, Richard.”

            He obeys and drags the heavy things over to the area. He turns to the children and seats them on top of the box luggage. 

            “We’re thirsty, uncle,” they coo in unison.

            Richard looks around the near-abandoned station, “I suppose I can look around for a vending machine.”

            I could take the time to explain to him that there are no vending machines out here, but decide against it. Instead, I let out a hopeless breath, “You do that, Richard. Just don’t get lost.” I watch as he absent-mindedly swivels around the platform before walking out of sight.

            I place my face in my hands and rub my eyes with my fingers. The heat makes my skin crawl and my dress sticks to my legs. My hair is partly wet and wavy. I perk up my ears hoping to hear the sound of a rustle in the trees or an approaching train but neither comes.

            I look at the children slumped against one another.

            “Auntie? How much longer?”

            “Just a little bit, sweetheart. We’re just waiting for another train to come pick us up.”

            Half an hour passes before I hear the hopelessly stupid clunks of my husband’s feet running toward us. He’s carrying a big bottle of cold ginger ale in his hands.

            The children cheer happily as their uncle helps them take manageable sips from the heavy bottle.

            “You found a machine, dear?”

            He shakes his head. “No, turns out they don’t have any in these parts.” He says this with an air of wonder and astonishment. “So I just kept walking and sure enough, like you said, there’s a village. I walked into one of their little stores and this jolly little fellow handed me their last bottle of ale.” Richard purses his lips around the mouth of the bottle and takes a big swig. “Real ace people around in these parts. Just good-hearted right down to the bone.”

            I laugh in disbelief. “Oh, Richard. You sweet, naïve little man.”

            We sit in relative silence and pass the bottle around. The children look completely exhausted, as does my husband.

            “Well this has been a adventurous trip.” Richard laments.

            I stare at my feet and start thinking over the events of the day. This was supposed to be a tranquil outing with the family. I had it all planned out. After all, I have been to these parts of Eastern Europe many times before. And nothing like this has ever happened to me.

            I keep staring at my feet until my ears quickly perk up. “Do you hear that?”

            Richard contemplates for a second. “Do I hear a bit of a chug?”

            “Yes, yes! Do you hear it?” I’m on my feet at this point. “It’s the train!” I finally squeal out as the train emerges from the trees. “Oh, how wonderful!” I run up to the edge of the platform and feel the train as it whizzes past my body. I’m full of joy and excitement. I just can’t wait for the train to stop so that we can hop inside!

            And so the train whizzes and whizzes and my dress flies sideways with the mechanical force of wind. My hands are clasped in a sort of joyous prayer position and I’m grinning ear to ear.

            And then, as quick as the train appears is as quick as it vanishes. It doesn’t stop, mind you. And so we aren’t able to hop inside as I had so deeply hoped. I watch as the caboose trickles off into the distance before crying out in anguish. Poor Richard has to grab hold of me to prevent my inevitable fall down to the tracks. He drags me over to our little patch of shade and presses the cool bottle of ale in my hands.

            “Take a sip, sweetheart. It’ll help.” I stare at him blankly before burying my face into my lap.

            “Save it for you and the children, Richard.” I mumble out.

            And so the minutes tiptoe by slowly. The children color in their books as I remain face down in my lap. I’m enjoying the smell of my dress. It smells of fresh chamomile. It smells of cleanliness and familiarity and of my beautiful bed in Old Blighty.

            “I wish I never came on this stupid trip,” I muffle out from my dress and ball up my hands into tight fists.

            But it seems like no one hears me. So I just remain face down in my lap and listen. I hear the scribbling of crayon against paper. And I hear nothing else.

            Ah, hold on a second. I can hear Richard. And I believe he’s talking to someone. Yes, he’s talking to a woman.

            “I don’t mean to bother you but I need help getting to this town.” I hear her telling my husband in a slight Russian accent.

            “Lyetovar. Are you visiting family?”

            “Yes. I was born there and then moved away to Canada with my father. I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t know my way around my native country.”

            My husband laughs in his sort of nervous way. I assume this woman is pretty. I lift my head up from my lap and get a good look at her. She’s tall and blonde with envious high cheekbones. She’s Russian, all right.

            “My wife knows this area really well.” Richard turns to me, “Dear, you’re up! I’d like you to meet Mischa.” The pretty young woman approaches me and shakes my hand.

            “Mischa?” I ask curiously. The name is almost exclusively used for boys.

            “Yes,” her face flushes a little. “My parents thought I was going to be a boy so they didn’t change the name.”

            I raised an eyebrow out of curiosity.

            “Dear, she needs to get to Lyetovar.”

            “Oh,” I rack my brain trying to remember the villages.

            Mischa sees that I’m struggling. “It’s just past the forest…”

             “I know where it is,” I say self-assured. “Just follow us, you’ll need to get off at our station.”

            “Are you sure? Your husband tells me you’re heading for Dushkich. That’s quite a ways away from the forest, is it not?”

            “No further than Lyetovar. The stations are the same but we head out in opposite directions when we get there.”

            The woman thinks it over a bit and then nods. “Very well. I trust you know better than I do.”

            And so she slumps down to the ground and waits with the four of us.

            And we wait and wait and wait.

            “This seems to be taking forever.” She’s neatly braiding my niece’s hair.

            “Yes, so it would seem.” I start twisting my nephew’s short hair out of sheer boredom. We just sit and slowly bake. The platform resembles a cookie sheet and we happen to be the cookies.

            Intriguingly enough, the rest of the wait is a complete blur to me. I just remember that somewhere between me twisting my nephew’s hair and 3 o’clock a train arrives. It just coasts in out of nowhere. 

            Me, the children, and Mischa rush inside as Richard lags behind us with the luggage. I immediately go about the task of finding a cabin to seat all five of us. The first couple of doors we try are no good. Most are filled to capacity, some hold suspicious looking men wearing ushankas-- odd, being that it is the middle of summer-- and the rest are missing basic necessities such as benches. In fact, quite a few cabins have people sitting cross-legged on the floor.

            “What are we going to do?” I confide in Mischa, but she seems unperturbed.

            “Let’s try this one.” She pushes open the door and we step inside. 

            A stocky man is sitting next to the window. He’s wearing faded blue jeans, a red plaid shirt, and dark boots with fray leather embellishments. Mischa sits close to the door while me, Richard, and the children sit across from her and the man.

            “Howdy there!” The stranger belts out.

            “Good Heavens!” Richard squeals out cheerily. “Would you look at that, darling. It’s a yank!”

            The man looks at the lot of us obtusely.

            “No offense,” Richard clarifies. “I just meant to point out that you’re an American.”

            “Well yes, indeedy I am. And the rest of ya’ll are British?”

            I look over at Mischa who remains quiet. “For the most part, yes,” I answer.

            The door to the cabin swings open once more and a peculiar fellow enters the area. He’s hunched over and toting around a rather large brief case by his side. He takes short strides over to the bench and wedges himself between Mischa and the American Cowboy.

            I look straight at the man and my mouth drops in horror. His left eye is completely inflamed to the point where the eyeball itself is barely visible. The eyelid and skin around the area is red and dramatically raised up like a puffball.  

            I nudge Richard out of sheer shock. Richard is already staring at the man and has neatly pressed his handkerchief over his gaping mouth. The children nervously push themselves against the cabin wall as if to move as far away from the infection as possible.

            Meanwhile Mischa doesn’t notice the inflammation, as the man’s right profile seems entirely normal. And the Cowboy remains blind to the issue as he’s rummaging through a newspaper he can’t read.

            “Would you look at all these fancy letters? Can you believe these little things spell out words?” He smiles innocently like a child, toward Richard and me. “Hey, fella, can you read this stuff? I mean it’s just… HOLY GOD!” The Cowboy jumps back in his seat. His hands fly up in the air as the paper floats out the window. He goggles at the eye in complete disbelief. 

            The puffball man doesn’t seem to notice the commotion around him. He sits unmoved and focuses his gaze on the large briefcase at his feet.

            “Say, fella? Fella?” The Cowboy lightly taps the man’s shoulder. “You got a little somethin’,” he points at his own left eye. “You got a little somethin’ there.”

            The man reaches up at his infected eye and nods. “Okay.”

            “Okay,” the Cowboy repeats. “You might wanna get that checked out.”

            The man shrugs. “Okay.”

            The Cowboy’s forehead creases with thought. “Yeah, it’s not so bad. I guess it depends what you compare it to. I mean, in one rodeo my buddy got three ribs and one leg broken and his eye gouged out by the same bull. They patched him up; gave him crutches, a body brace, and an eye patch. But as I can see,” the Cowboy leans closer to the eye. “You still got an eyeball in there.”

            The man just smiles. “Okay.”

            The train starts up and pulls us away from the abandoned station. I look around the cabin once more. Mischa is sleeping in the corner. The children peer curiously at the infection. I look over at Richard who has averted his eyes from the growth and pointedly stares out the window.

            Meanwhile, the Cowboy stares uncomfortably at the mound on the man’s face. He taps his fingers uneasily against the windowsill but remains fixated on the infection. “You really got to get that checked out, fella. ‘Cause lemme tell ya,” his face is filled with concern. “There’s nothing standing in between your brain and that eyeball. And if whatever’s in your eyeball gets to your brain then you’re just gonna have a lot a problems.”

            And again the man nods and smiles. “Okay.”

            Our bodies bounce up and down as the train continues to make its way deeper into the forest. The cabin is silent save fore the nervous tapping of the American Cowboy’s fingers.

            I try focusing on the open window. The trees rush by us in the same pastel blur as before. And the sun is slowly tilting away from its dominant position up in the sky.

            I breathe in deeply. The air is still thick with heat and the little breeze coming through the window does nothing to ameliorate my frustration.

            I turn my eyes down to the big briefcase. It’s black and shiny like a man’s patent leather shoes. Only, this briefcase isn’t made of leather. I’m quite sure of it. The puffball man holds on tightly to the little square handles of the case. His tiny fingers are pinched white from all the exertion.

            I notice the Cowboy looking at the case as well. He peers at it with the same eerie curiosity as he did the eye.

            After a little while I feel my eyes dropping down like curtains. I let them snap shut and rest my head gently against Richard’s shoulder. And I sweetly drift off to sleep.

*

            Snap. Snap. Echoes through my dreams. I’m watching a procession of geese glide along the air when the sound penetrates my ears. I blink my eyes awake to see the American Cowboy unsnapping the locks to the large black briefcase.

            “Sorry to wake you,” he whispers in my direction.

            I quickly rub my eyes open and look around me. Everyone is asleep save for me and the Cowboy. And the only thing missing is, “The peculiar man? Where is he?”

            The Cowboy shrugs. “Beats me. He left the room forty five minutes ago.” He looks down at the now unlocked case lying on the bench. “I was just curious to see what he’s got in here.”

            “Oh,” I lean forward. “Well go on then. Open it up.”

            The Cowboy grins mischievously and pulls the case wide open. Inside the silver-lined luggage neatly sit six massive glass containers filled with pickled cabbage. The Cowboy stares in awe at the sight of the fermented vegetables.

“Golly. Can you believe he carries this stuff around him? What an odd little fella.” 

The door of the cabin slides open and the puffball enters the room. At the sight of his opened briefcase the man’s demeanor shifts from calm to anger. He starts spewing angry words in Russian, gesturing with both hands, and shaking with rage. He grabs hold of the case and slams the cover closed.

“Now, hold on there little fella.” The American Cowboy says soothingly. But the puffball pays no attention to him. He just grabs hold of the handle and vigorously tugs it off of the bench.

Shingle-Shingle-Shingle.

That’s what it sounds like when six large containers of sauerkraut smash to the floor. The puffball looks down at his side in utter dismay. The case is wide open and each of the containers has fallen to the ground. Two of the containers remain in tact while the other four lay cracked and dismembered before out feet.

“Good Heavens.” Richard’s nose perks up in disgust. “What a vile odor.” He sniffs in a little more before pinching his nose closed. “Oh my goodness. That rancid smell!”

The children have awoken and are pinching their noses shut too. “Auntie, Auntie! The smell!”

The American Cowboy looks panicked as he stares down at his sauerkraut-covered boots. He shakes his head, “What do we do? What do we do?” The smell makes him weep. Tears stream down his face and his lips curve into a deep frown. “What can be done?”

Richard finally loses it. He sticks his head out the window and heaves.

The American Cowboy follows suit.

Mischa immediately jumps up from her seat and offers to take the children out to the hallway.

“That would be lovely, dear.” I say all too kindly. The three of them exit the room quickly.

During this entire event the puffball has remained still and unmoved. He’s staring down at the pickled cabbage littering the floor and his lower lip quivers.

I reach down and pick up the two intact containers. I hand them to the man, “These one’s are alright.” But he doesn’t move. He just blankly stares at the glass jars grasped between my fingers.

I let out a deep breath and pry the empty case away from the puffball. I gently place the two jars inside, shut the case closed, and lock the buckles. I then press the puffball’s fingers around the handle. “There you are,” I tell him.

He’s still blank in the face but manages to whisper out a low, “Okay.”

The train slows.

“We’re comin’ to a station!” The Cowboy bellows with his head still out the window.

Sure enough, the train reaches a halt at which point the puffball man silently exits the cabin with his briefcase by his side. The three of us watch as he steps onto the platform and carelessly waltzes about the area in a sort of stupor.

“Poor chap,” Richard pulls his head back into the cabin. “Those cabbages were his life.”

Mischa enters the room.

“Me and the children found another cabin. So we can leave,” she looks down at the floor. “We can leave this one.”

Me, Richard, and the American Cowboy follow the young lady to a room four doors down from our own. Inside, the children are happily sitting on a bench and kicking their feet to and fro. We take our seats inside the cabin.

“So, you’re sure of the station?” Mischa asks out of the blue.

“Yes.”

“You don’t think I should ask? Maybe just to check?”

Again, the heat overcomes me and I do a dreadful little eye roll. “I suppose you could ask someone. Although, I don’t understand why you’d want to.”

Mischa seems content with that answer and comfortably leans back in her seat. And our lovely voyage continues.

*

Near six o’clock we reach another station. The American Cowboy stands from his seat and says his goodbyes.

“If ya’ll make it over to Georgia, you give me a call, ya hear?” He stomps out of the room and closes the door behind him.

“Are we almost at our stop?” Mischa inquires.

I nod confidently. “Yes. We’ll be there soon.” And so she drifts off to sleep once again.

Time keeps clicking by and the train keeps arriving and leaving stations.

I watch as station after station drifts by. Every time we approach one I get tensed up and strain my neck to see out the window, to see if I recognize anything, but no luck. And so we just tumble on our way deeper into the unknown.

I glance nervously at a sleeping Mischa and take in a deep breath. “The next one will be ours,” I tell myself.

And so, after another fifty minutes, the train comes to a halt before a quiet platform alit with one pathetic light post. I slowly stand up from my seat and push my head out the window. Everything looks so unfamiliar in the dark.

Tap. Tap.

I walk over to the door and slide it open. Before me stands the conductor.

“Dis is da last stop.”

“Come again?”

He’s agitated now. He puffs up his chest and slowly repeats, “Dis is da last stop. You must get off.”

I nod my head obediently and turn to the sleepy travelers. One by one I nudge them awake.

“This is it?” Mischa asks cheerfully.

I pinch my mouth closed and mutter, “Mhmm.”

The five of us pile out of the train. Richard clunks around with the heavy box luggage and places it under the lamppost.

“I’m not sure about this,” I overhear Mischa. She suddenly turns back toward the train and yells to the conductor. “Is this the stop for Lyetovar?”

The conductor rubs his thick beard and laughs. “Lyetovar? Dat vas tree stops ago!”

“What?” Her voice is that of horror and complete anger. “Are you sure?”

The clever clog looks stupidly at Mischa.  “‘Course I am sure. I am da conductor. Who told you to get off at dis station?”

An irate Mischa whips out her hand and points straight at me. “She did!” She screams.

I instinctively run behind Richard and sort of nudge him forward.

The conductor continues to laugh at the situation. And then Mischa begins speaking to him in Russian. The two share a quick conversation that leads to her boarding the train again.

Me and Richard watch the machine roll on by as the sleepy children nestle in on a bench.

“Richard?”

“Yes, dear?”

“I think we’ve just found the middle of nowhere.” I stare helplessly around the station. Besides the bench and lamppost there’s only a teeny tiny convenience store secluded in the corner. The cashier of the store stares out the window at my husband and me. His face is stoic. I notice a mosquito fly about his head, but he pays it no heed. He just stares. He doesn’t even blink.

I start to cry. “Look at us! We’re hot, hungry, and sweaty. We’re about a hundred kilometers away from anything civilized! And to top it all off, we reek of…of…cabbage!”

“There, there sweetums. Let’s just have a seat and think this through rationally.” He leads me over to the children and we slump down on the wooden contraption.

And seconds pass by. And minutes. And an hour.

Richard, eventually, falls asleep. His head hangs forward as a thin string of drool dangles from his mouth.

“Auntie,” my niece and nephew have awoken from their nap. “Are we waiting for another train?”

I kiss the both of them and smile, “Yes, dears. We are.”

At this moment I hear the shuffling of heavy feet. An old man, tattered from head to toe, passes by our sleepy bench. He looks over at us and smiles.

The little children smile back.

I watch as the old beggar enters the teeny tiny convenience store. He spends a few minutes inside before emerging with two chocolate bars adorned in silver wrapping. The old beggar slips along the dark pavement and finds his way to the light.

The lamppost reveals his dirty face and greasy hair. His fingernails are ridden with grime and his clothes hang loosely and torn over his emaciated figure.

He approaches the children and smiles once more revealing a near-empty mouth full of gums and no teeth. He hands each of them a chocolate bar.

The children look over at me for approval.

“It’s alright,” I tell them. Their eager hands clasp happily over their gift. “Thank you very much.” I tell the old beggar.

And he just smiles and nods with his twinkling brown eyes clear and content. I watch as he turns and shuffles off.

Off into the wild, charcoal black darkness of the night.