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Mark well, O Job, hold thy peace, and I will speak. Job They asked us: A conference. An international Petrozavodsk man seeking lonely married women. Come on, doctors, someone has to Beautiful women seeking sex El Reno Yes, we know what these conferences are like. The short bout of drinking, the hotel, the lecture, the long bout of drinking — then back home again. The station is a pretty frightening place.

For my own protection I assume the air of a veteran traveller. The train from Moscow marrued Petrozavodsk takes fourteen and a half hours, incidentally.

Your fellow travellers karried almost invariably a source of unpleasantness: Suddenly, these two turn up — they had all but missed the train. They take the two lower berths. There they sit, panting.

Just what I needed! This is not the sort of maeried I had in mind. Damn it. I climb to the upper berth and turn my back to them; they go on busying themselves down below.

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The first one is simple, Petrozavodsk man seeking lonely married women looking. His head, his hands, his boots — everything is big and crude. He sits with his jaw hanging open, like a moron. A seekinh moron. Trrrink-trrink for wins, and if he loses — blllum. Below me, the second one says with disgust: The sound of the train wheels.

The phone below me going trrrink-trrink. I step out into the corridor. I can hear them talking in the next compartment. I have, by the way, lived in both for some time.

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Pulling apart a chicken, splitting tomatoes with their hands, the men are clinking glasses and roaring with laughter. I return to my own compartment. Half an hour passes, then an hour.

Trrrink goes the moron. The second one springs to life. Tolya, apparently. Fingers long and white, nails rounded. His face is ordinary enough. Anaesthesia dolorosa — the painful loss of sensation.

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Am I being too critical? Oh yes, we know your newspapers. Female tennis star poses nude for journalists. Secrets for a flatter stomach.

Crime pages. Colour pictures of the dead.

But Tolya takes a paper, rustling its pages down below. After a while he says to the moron: He opens the door and makes to take a picture.

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Tolya starts at him, and then, just like that, he turns away, hiding his face. A Chekhist.

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Now I get it. I am to photograph him with his friends. I take a picture. Is that enough? No, not yet. I must also listen to the story of his life. He all but falls upon me: People ought to maintain a certain distance from one another. Like in America. His mother in her day had given him roubles to buy himself a camera.

Out o-o-on … the railroad!

Clearly I could have worse travelling companions. So what if Tolya is FSB? Second, we can no longer use the nearest loo: Sodden colour pictures.

The overhead light goes out. Try to get some sleep. Not relatives, not colleagues.

Who knows? And what is it to me?

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Maybe they are queer. Among simple people it happens more than we think. And womeh there are those sounds: I feel sorry for myself.

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I fall sleep. I fall asleep and sleep unexpectedly deep and long, and when I awake, awaiting me are the early sun, the snow and sreking very cold morning outside the window, judging by the frost on the spruce trees. Without looking at my companions, Horny grandma seek help leave the compartment. The train has come to a stop.

Another reads: My spirits are much improved. My neighbours are ready to go.

Tolya clearly never went to bed at Petrozavodsk man seeking lonely married women. No sniffling, no juvenile games. Sery leaves, and the train gets going. Somehow or other I manage to wash my face and drink some hot tea. I begin to feel even lomely cheerful. I want to live: I go round and ask. Apparently not. My god, the whole of his body is trembling.

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Tolya is an alcoholic. I yell for the conductress. Do aeeking understand? Alcoholic delirium. Have you got a first aid kit? It really is all just like the Soviet Union! Fat chance of that — where am I going to find him? He has a ticket to Petrozavodsk! A whole big bundle of them!