2. The Captain’s Quarters

In her cabin, Marya finds a card propped up on the table. In neat copperplate it tells her that the Captain requests her presence at a soiree that evening.

8 O'CLOCK.

DRESS, FORMAL.

RSVP TO THE HEAD STEWARD.

Though it is a precious chance to get close to the very heart of the train, she feels a knot of anxiety. The Captain, of all people, must know a thing or two about pretense; in such close quarters will she see right through the fantasy that Marya holds around herself, to her father's ghost etched in her face? Perhaps it is too soon, she thinks, to stand up to such scrutiny.

No. This is why you are here,she tells herself, fiercely, though the card shakes in her hand. It is what you wanted. To clear her father's name, her own name, because without it, what future does she have? The life of a governess, perhaps, hiding like a shadow in the homes of the rich, barely more than a servant, whereas once she might have sat at their tables like an equal. She feels a stab of guilt that her motives are not more selfless, but these are things she must think of, now that she must earn her own living in the world. There is no possibility of regaining the fortune—the life—she has lost, but at least if she regains her family's good name then she may hold her head up high while enduring it. Anyway, to refuse the Captain's invitation would only draw attention to herself; there will be talk of a snub. It is difficult to find a plausible excuse here on the train, in the absence of other engagements, and there will be questions raised. Does she think herself above such niceties? What is she hiding? Already she knows that gossip is the currency of the train, that in the face of the dangers outside the passengers have turned their attentions inward, away from the implacable hills, the uncanny movements in the grass. They chatter together, heads turning, stories gathering, growing, taking on a life of their own. She knows because she sees the Countess doing the same; she luxuriates in speculation, observing her fellow passengers and weaving pasts for each of them. The Countess has an eye for the absurd and takes great delight in others' foibles. Vera sniffs in disapproval. Marya wonders uneasily what the Countess says about her. She accepts the invitation.

After all, she is eager to meet this Captain, this woman in the role of a man. Marya has read the breathless articles—The Trans-Siberia Company's "Lady of the Rails," one writer called her; another questioned whether she was really even a woman. Each article was marked by a certain scandalized fascination. Of course, while one cannot help but question the ethics of a woman giving orders to the brave men of the train, the Trans-Siberia Company has always followed its own path. Despite the stories, the uniqueness of the Captain's position makes it difficult for Marya to picture her; there is no comparable frame to set her against.

And she has been marked, above all, by her absence, although at the same time she is everywhere. "The Captain wouldn't like it"; "The Captain always says"; "The Captain understands." Her title is always on the lips of the crew, and of those passengers who have made the crossing before, who evoke her as one might a benign but powerful deity, yet she herself is unseen, locked away in her quarters. "Working," the stewards say, placatingly. Hiding, Marya thinks, with a hardening of her resolve.

Her father had admired the Captain, she is sure of that, despite his reticence to speak of his work. "She has iron in her bones," he said, once, which was the highest praise she had heard him give. But this hiding away in her quarters, this withdrawal from the life of the train, does not fit with her father's portrait.

She puts on her best silk, a formerly pale-blue evening dress dyed mourning black, and fastens a thin string of pearls around her neck. The stark black and white make her feel as though she is an illustration in a melodramatic novel. She goes to a box on the table and takes out the glass marble. It glows with warmth in the evening light. She tucks it into her bodice, the glass cool against her skin. What was it that the child of the train had said? It brings you back. She needs to remember who she is, tonight. To remember why she is here.

The other guests on this occasion are the naturalist Henry Grey and the Countess. There will also be members of the crew, her invitation informs her, though it will be a small gathering.

They are escorted there by two stewards. As they pass by the final cabin in First the door opens and the Crows appear. They bow stiffly, and behind them Marya glimpses shelves tightly packed with boxes and files. The Company likes to keep its secrets close, she thinks, and stores this information away for later. The Captain's quarters are near the front of the train, and they pass through Third Class and the crew quarters before being shown into a reception room. Unlike those in First Class, furnished in opulent textiles and colors, this cabin has a striking simplicity. There are wood-paneled walls with framed maps and pictures of the train from the past thirty years. There is a polished parquet floor. There are curved wooden chairs and a drinks cabinet. The ubiquitous Company crest is missing, she notices, along with the other flourishes and swirls of decoration found everywhere else, invoking an unfussy calm. Music plays on a phonograph in the corner—a ghostly string quartet providing an incongruous descant to the percussive bass of the rails.

"The Captain's pride and joy," says a man beside her, gesturing at the phonograph. "Ordered from Paris." He is slim and dark-haired, with a neatly trimmed beard, dressed in a Western-style suit and wire-framed spectacles. She knows at once who this must be—Suzuki Kenji, the train's Cartographer. A man her father had liked, one of the few whose names he had mentioned.

"I wonder if those musicians ever imagined that their music would be heard so far away," says Marya. "Where no concert hall exists for a thousand miles."

"An unexpected audience, but a discerning one," says the man, with a smile. "My name is Suzuki Kenji," he says.

"It is a pleasure to meet you," she says, then clears her throat. "I have read a lot about you and your work." His name had appeared many times in articles about the discoveries the Company had made. She has seen reproductions of his maps hanging in drawing rooms, seen his likeness depicted in the popular press. And she had heard her father refer to him as his friend. She knows he commands an entire carriage, complete with observation tower. Her father must have spent time up there; he had spoken proudly of making lenses to help the Cartographer refine and improve his telescopes, to better observe the landscape outside.

"Would you like a glass of wine?" Suzuki's voice brings her back to the room.

She had intended to abstain from any alcohol, for fear that it may cloud her thinking, but decides that she needs to settle her nerves. While Suzuki pours the wine, she watches him closely. He is different, she thinks, from the other crew members she has met. More self-contained, more his own person. She wonders how much he knows. His job is to watch, to observe, to record—surely he must know what happened on that last journey; he must know if what the Company claimed about her father is true. Unless his eyes were drawn too much to the outside to notice what was going on in the train itself.

He catches her looking and she drops her gaze, her cheeks burning.

The Countess descends on them and insists that Suzuki show her one of his marvelous maps that she has heard so much about.

"Of course, there is one right here on the wall, in fact," he replies, offering his arm, and giving Marya a little smile over the top of the Countess's head.

The other crew member present is the First Engineer, Alexei Stepanovich. He is much younger than she would have expected, but holds himself with a confident swagger. Behind the boldness, though, she sees that he is awkward, darting glances around the room.

"Will the Captain be joining us?" she asks, thinking it odd that they have been invited here only to be left to their own devices.

"Oh, yes, I'm sure she will… soon." He falters a little, and glances at the closed door. "There is always so much to do, at the beginning of a crossing."

"Yes, I have heard that she is very busy."

The engineer bends over to adjust the needle on the phonograph.

"And I'm sure she was much affected by the sad events on your last journey."

His fingers slip, and the needle scratches. "The train and crew are stronger than ever," he says, with the same air of parroting the Company line that she has noticed with Weiwei. How well they have all been taught, she thinks, but whether they are unwilling or unable to talk about what happened, she cannot tell. She had thought her father had chosen not to speak—that he had closed himself off deliberately. But now that she is on the train she is not so sure.

She is about to push the engineer further when he stiffens and stands to attention. The room stills, as if a switch has been flicked off.

"Good evening," says the Captain, in English.

This, thinks Marya—this is the famous Captain, about whom she has heard so many stories? A small woman, about sixty years old, her gray hair pulled back into plaits wound around her head. She wears the uniform of the Trans-Siberia Company, with nothing to distinguish her from the rest of the crew except the gold stripes on her sleeves. And the fact, of course, that she is a woman. But Marya is sure that she can feel the Countess beside her deflate a little. What had we expected? thinks Marya. A warrior woman, a figure from an adventure story, tall and fierce and proud? Yes, all of that.

A steward enters, pushing a trolley piled with food and trailed by kitchen boys holding platters aloft. The Captain steps aside to let them pass, then gestures that they should all enter the dining room.

Marya is seated between the Cartographer and the engineer and opposite the English naturalist. The Captain sits at the head of the table, speaking no more than is absolutely necessary, though the Countess more than makes up for this, speaking with the ease of one who knows she will always be listened to.

The first course is a mousse of smoked fish, each serving presented in a little fish-shaped silver mold, followed by a course of cold meats and pickled vegetables, then chicken, steamed with red-hot peppers, swimming in oil. The Countess, on the other side of the table, looks dubious, while the Cartographer piles more food onto Marya's plate each time he takes some himself.

"You must eat," he says, "or later our cook will come to me wringing her hands and begging me to tell her what was wrong with her food, and I will get no peace from her until I have eaten every morsel she makes."

"I confess, the food is much better than I had expected," says Marya. "Though I had only Rostov to prepare me."

"Ah, our culinary delicacies have improved greatly since his guide was written. Our cook curses him constantly for the stain on our reputation."

"I'm sure much of his guide is exaggerated."

"It is not, in fact. He was a skilled draftsman and captured the scenery better than most professional artists who have tried. I think that the stories of what happened to him, the stories of his own life, I mean, have obscured the work itself, have twisted it into something it is not."

"Yes." She is oddly pleased to hear him praised, and it gives her confidence to ask Suzuki about his own work, and he listens to her questions and answers them thoughtfully. She finds that she is almost enjoying herself.

"Forgive me," she says, eventually. "You must be tired of explaining your work to passengers."

"Actually, no. I am rarely asked anything at all."

"Oh! How strange."

He smiles. "Perhaps not so strange. The answers I have to give will not please everybody."

There is something crouching behind his words,she thinks, and she has the sensation that whatever it is, it is not meant for her. The Captain is watching them, and she catches, for the first time, a glimpse of steely intensity, of a cold, hard intelligence. She feels the confidence she has built up begin to waver. She has a story ready, about her late husband and his interest in the Society and its members, yet somehow she cannot bring herself to launch into such an elaborate lie.

Instead, before she loses her nerve completely, she says, "I have heard that the Wastelands Society also undertakes impressive work."

The conversation around the table falls silent.

Then Henry Grey sniffs. "For housewives and retired clergymen, certainly," he says. She sees the engineer look up at him quickly, then back down at his food.

"I have always thought them admirable," says the Countess. "To do so much with so few resources. I read a fascinating article the other day about phosphorescence. Is that the right word? By a gentleman who seems to have had to turn quite nocturnal during his journey, to have observed so much. A great contribution to scientific understanding, as I see it."

In the months since her father's death Marya has read everything she can about the Society, hoping that she will find a path to Artemis. Of course, she knew already about its beginnings, among the amateur natural scientists who, frustrated at being shut out of the conferences and lectures being held in the great universities of Europe and Asia to discuss the changes, began their own discussions instead, in dining rooms and church halls and public houses. These discussions grew into a Society that was open to all, that required no invitation nor academic membership, and that from the start had published long and polemical articles, pointing out the dangers of the Company's proposed railway, the damage it would do to the land.

"And yet perhaps there are things that cannot be understood. That should not be."

Everyone at the table turns at the sound of the Captain's voice.

"They look for meaning in the landscape, for reason," she goes on. "Yet who is to say there is reason to be found?"

"God's reason, surely," says Henry Grey. The Captain says nothing.

"What about Artemis?" says Marya, taking a sip of wine to ease the dryness in her mouth. "Whoever he may be. Does he really understand the train, or is he—or she, of course—simply a charlatan who peddles gossip? I have always longed to know."

There is a strained silence.

"A charlatan," says the Captain, unsmiling.

"It seems that lately there have been disagreements within their ranks," remarks the Countess. "A schism, even. Since the unfortunate events of the last crossing." She has the air of one who is simply making a throwaway remark, but Marya sees the beady look in the old lady's eye. Oh, she knows exactly what she is doing. And Marya has seen the same cartoons in the newspapers—just the other day, one depicting the Society as flies in clergymen's collars or ladies' hats, attacking each other with pens while a grotesque, bulbous spider in a top hat crouches on a map, in the center of a web stretching between continents, baring its teeth in a wide grin. Theater before dinner, read the caption. Yes, the Company must be delighted to see a schism form.

"There have always been conflicting ideas about the Wastelands among the Society," says Suzuki. "One need only read their journal to understand that. And it is understandable that recent events have made certain of their members believe that it is no longer possible, nor indeed right, that the Wastelands should be studied at all." Marya sees that he is carefully avoiding the Captain's gaze. "And it is of course only healthy that the work of the Company is challenged and scrutinized."

"Then perhaps you should share your own research more widely, to allow for more of this, as you refer to it, ‘healthy scrutiny,'" says Henry Grey, pointedly.

Suzuki inclines his head. "You must, I fear, take this up with the Company."

"One cannot help but notice that the mysterious Artemis has been absent these past months," the Countess goes on, as if this exchange has not happened. "I have missed him." She pauses. "I had rather hoped to be the subject of his pen one day."

"Since the last crossing," says Marya. "There has not been one column since then." Did this mean, she wondered, that he was one of those who believed that the Wastelands should no longer be studied?

As the stewards begin to clear the plates away and bring in bowls of jellies and sugared fruits, the conversation grows more expansive. The blinds have been drawn down on the windows and the lamps lit. If it weren't for the constant motion of the train they could be in any reception room in any city, a little party passing the time. If it weren't for the odd ripples of tension between the Captain, the engineer and the Cartographer; if they weren't working so hard to appear normal.

It is late by the time the party breaks up. Henry Grey offers his arm to the Countess to walk back to First Class, though Marya notices that he is more intent on observing the Captain, deep in conversation with the engineer. A frown wrinkles his forehead, and she wonders what he is thinking, and if he too has reason to doubt the Captain. But of course it is not surprising that a scientist should observe closely.

"May I escort you back?" the Cartographer asks Marya.

"Thank you," she says. He does not offer his arm, but only walks beside her, his hands clasped behind his back. She supposes it is the custom, in Japan, and wracks her brain for what else she has read about those islands, though she cannot seem to bring anything to mind, finding herself distracted by the way he smells of metal polish, as if he is as clean and gleaming as the instruments of his craft. It is difficult to tell his age, but she thinks he cannot be much older than thirty. He is slim, and just a little taller than she is. She frowns, and finds that she is glad that he is keeping his distance.

"Marya Petrovna, have you—" He stops. "Forgive me, I was going to ask—" He shakes his head. "I thought perhaps we had met somewhere else… You seem familiar, somehow."

She tries to keep her composure, but she is sure that he must be able to read every expression on her face. "I'm sorry, I cannot recall—"

"My mistake entirely," he says, quickly. "I must apologize, it has been too long since our last journey and I have got out of the habit of appearing civilized."

"Not at all, you have been most polite all evening, and have not once yawned, despite my incessant questions." She should take her leave, she knows. After all, the more she speaks the more chance he has to work out why she seems familiar. But she finds that she doesn't want their conversation to end. It has been a long time since she spoke with someone freely and easily.

"I think you have had to rely on our friend Rostov for too long. For all his admirable qualities, there are limitations to what he can tell you," says Suzuki, with a smile.

"Indeed! For all that I love his books, I do wish he were not quite so insistent on the dangers of knowing too much. Surely it is better to understand everything about a place one visits, not simply the parts that are deemed suitably comfortable or correct. I have a secret wish to write my own guides and include all the facts and places that have been hidden from the poor cautious traveller." She stops, feeling her cheeks reddening. Why would she share this with him, when it is something she has kept from everyone? Wary of laughter, condescension, disapproval. Only her father knew, and quietly encouraged her.

But Suzuki nods and says, "I hope you will write them. A traveller should know the truth of where they are going, or they should at least be allowed to see for themselves." She hears the sincerity in his voice, but something else, as well; a faint echo of words left unsaid. "I think perhaps that is what Rostov wanted, in the end."

She can't think of how to respond, and there is a moment of awkward silence. "I hope I did not speak out of turn, mentioning Artemis," she says, eventually. "I know he has often been critical of the work of the Company. I did not mean that I agree with all his writings, and I certainly did not want to upset the Captain."

Suzuki lowers his voice. "There are those of us on the train who always enjoyed reading the mysterious Artemis, though we must keep this hidden from the Company, of course."

"Your secret is safe with me," says Marya. An idea strikes her, and she looks thoughtfully at the Cartographer. But no, if he were Artemis then surely her father would have known.

At her cabin door he gives a polite bow. "Thank you for a fulfilling evening," he says. "I enjoyed our conversation."

"And I too," she says, truthfully. As she watches his retreating back, she thinks—she would like to trust this man. She likes the calm way he talks. She likes being listened to. But she wonders what it is that he is hiding.