Siberian Red

and then start ordering me around.’
    ‘Actually, that is exactly what I can do. Falling from the sky is an experience I have no intention of repeating, but I had to get to Nikolsk as quickly as possible—’
    ‘If you were in such a damned rush to get to Nikolsk,’ Deryabin interrupted, ‘why didn’t you just parachute in there ?’
    Kirov felt his stomach flip. ‘Are you telling me this isn’t Nikolsk?’
    Deryabin led Kirov over to a map identical to the one he had seen in Moscow nailed up on the wall. Deryabin pointed to a circle, some distance to the west of Nikolsk. ‘Here is where we are.’
    ‘You mean this station isn’t even on the map?’
    ‘Yes, it is.’ He tapped at the black dot.
    ‘But you drew that in yourself!’
    ‘I had to,’ replied Deryabin. ‘It wasn’t there before.’
    ‘Then where the hell is this place?’ shouted Kirov.
    ‘Welcome to Deryabinsk, Comrade Major!’
    Kirov shook his head in disbelief. ‘You named it after yourself?’
    ‘Why not?’ Deryabin shrugged. ‘I had to call it something. It didn’t have a name before.’
    Struggling to contain himself, Kirov returned to business. ‘How far is Borodok from here?’
    ‘I don’t know exactly. It’s not on the map, either, but Nikolsk is ten kilometres to the east, so you are that much closer than you thought when you dropped in here. The railhead leading into the valley of Krasnagolyana is about twenty kilometres to the west. From there, it can’t be far to Borodok.’
    ‘Good!’ Kirov rose to his feet. ‘There’s no time to waste. Let’s go!’
    ‘Not so fast,’ said Deryabin.
    ‘There isn’t much time. We must leave now.’
    Deryabin folded his arms. ‘Not before we have discussed my terms.’
    With that, Kirov’s patience disintegrated. He grabbed Deryabin by the collar of his boiler suit and dragged him out of the house. Dumping the man in a heap in the snow, Kirov fetched out his passbook, opened it and waved the Shadow Pass in Deryabin’s face. ‘These are my terms!’ He rummaged in his pockets, fished out a handful of change and sprinkled it over the man. ‘This is your compensation! Now you can stay here if you want, but I am taking that train.’
    ‘You don’t know how to drive a train!’ laughed Deryabin.
    ‘You go forwards. You go backwards. How hard can it be?’
    ‘Very hard!’ replied Deryabin, realising that Kirov was serious. ‘Very hard indeed! Requiring months of training! The Orlik is not just any train. It has eccentricities!’
    Ignoring Deryabin’s pleas, Kirov set off towards the Orlik , whose engine chuffed patiently, as if anxious to be in motion.
    Reaching the locomotive, he climbed up the short metal ladder to the driver’s space. There, in the cold and oily-smelling compartment, he was faced with a bewildering array of levers, buttons and dials showing steam pressure, oil temperature and brake capacity. Hanging from the ceiling was a greasy chain with a wooden handle whose paint had been almost completely worn away. Grasping the handle, Kirov pulled down hard and a deafening hoot shook the air. Now Kirov studied the controls, wondering which to touch first. He grasped one well-worn lever and turned it.
    The Orlik shuddered. Steam poured out from its sides, enveloping the compartment in a sweaty fog.
    Hurriedly, Kirov turned the lever back to the way it had been before. Then he took hold of another lever, but before he had a chance to pull it, Deryabin had climbed aboard.
    ‘All right! I’ll drive the train! Just get out of the way Muscovite!’
    Two minutes later, the Orlik was on the move.
    Deryabin stood at the controls, adjusting levers, his hands such a blur of precision that Kirov was reminded of an orchestra conductor. From time to time, Deryabin would rest the heel of his palm upon the metal wall of the compartment, rap a knuckle on the small round window of a gauge, or brush his fingertips across the levers, as if to feel a pulse coursing beneath the steel.
    Kirov stood behind him, backed up against the sooty metal wall of the compartment. Coal used to power the engine was contained in a tender attached to the back of the locomotive and its black dust glittered in the hot, damp air. On the gridded metal floor, melting snow had formed puddles which trembled with the force of the engine, making patterns in the water like damascus on a Cossack sword.
    Deryabin stooped down and opened the door to the train’s furnace, revealing a red blaze which