The train reaches the Seiche terminus at eleven and leaves again two hours later. The whistle sounds, the locomotive chugs and squeals along the rails, white smoke fills the air. Osip holds the railway schedule; he knows the name of each station, the ones with train service and the others that will flash past the windows as the engineer spurs the engine on. He imagines the different stops, the first ones so splendid in the coastal sunshine, but then, before reaching the Cité, Korgata’s two stations, Sa-Ann, and after, the papermakers’ industrial zone, sad, grey, and packed. He imagines the big city at journey’s end, its central station admired by all. In engravings in newspapers, he’s seen the flower-decked handrail up the station’s main staircase, the mosaics in the lobby, the great glass roof, the impeccable uniforms of the ticket collectors.
The trip from the Seiche station to the Cité terminus takes thirteen hours.
Leander sticks by the window, pokes his head outside, waves and waves. Osip watches the train pull away. He could run behind but stays put on the platform. His brother’s fingers recede into the distance and disappear; eventually the train itself vanishes. Osip doesn’t budge. He holds the railroad schedule and his own ticket for the Cité tight in his fist. He has squeezed them so hard they form a compact ball good for only one thing — to be thrown on the track.