4. The Tides

Past the lake, they enter a wet, marshy region. Marya finds her gaze held by the sheen on the surface of the pools, thick and oily and changing color with the light. The other passengers in First hide their unease beneath brittle conversation and arch comments, as if they were watching the demi-monde of Paris go by in their pleasure gardens.

"Quite soothing, really. I could watch it all day," remarks Guillaume, in the saloon car. He and his wife have the best seats, the ones in the middle of the carriage, optimally positioned to survey all that is going on. A certain hierarchy, an order, is developing in First, and the LaFontaines are at the top. They wear their glamour so lightly they affect to be unaware of it, but their table is the loudest and liveliest at dinner, and in the saloon car in the evenings the other passengers turn toward them like flowers seeking the sun. Although it is Guillaume whose laughter you can hear, who leans back in his chair to tell another story, while Sophie LaFontaine dips her head over her needlework. Guillaume and the little court of First Class do not seem to notice or mind. She looks sad, thinks Marya, although she is rich and beautiful and loved. She shines, in her fine dresses and golden hair, but it is a brittle, fragile shine, as if she has no confidence in it herself.

Just beneath the LaFontaines is the Countess, on account of her age and wealth and her lively conversational style which, although Vera rolls her eyes, is generally agreed to be charming. Then the silk merchant, Wu Jinlu, who spins tall tales and flirts outrageously and has even been seen to make Vera smile, and Oresto Daud, a trader from Zanzibar who has made his fortune in the spice trade. He is seen as interestingly exotic by the denizens of the train, all of whom—in First Class, at least—are from Asia or Europe, and therefore his position is elevated, though he is a quiet, unassuming man.

In the middle tier in the hierarchy are the Leskovs, a couple from Moscow returning from a diplomatic posting. Galina Ivanovna speaks a great deal and her husband speaks very little and they seem, to Marya, to have in this way found a happy existence together, although they are made nervous by the slightest commotion from outside the window. And then there are those passengers Marya has come to think of as the scholarly bearded gentlemen: Henry Grey and Herr Schenk, who the Countess found so tedious, and a serious Chinese man. They are gentlemen respected for their positions and their learning, but who are not encouraged to share this too much.

Her own status is unstable. She has been taken under the Countess's wing, which grants her a certain elevation. But her widowhood separates her. She sometimes notices a space being left around her, as though there is something infectious about her grief. This suits her well.

Yuri Petrovich, the cleric, is at the bottom. He is not invited to sit in the little circles that build up in the saloon car in the evenings, and at mealtimes he eats alone at a table for two. The Countess finds it amusing, and is working on cultivating Yuri Petrovich, although so far her efforts have yielded only a number of sermons on female immorality and the decay of the aristocracy.

"He tells me that it is not too late to repent of my decadent ways, though I fear that he is underestimating my advanced years," the Countess confides to Marya, over a pot of tea. But Marya can't help but find his presence unsettling. Perhaps, she thinks, it is because, unlike the rest of the passengers in First, he makes no effort to pretend to be unconcerned by the landscape outside, but glowers at the dead trees rising from the marshes, as if he could hold back the changes with the sheer force of his disapproval.

By now a routine has developed to order the days in First. Mornings are spent in the observation car or the library, playing cards or conversing idly. There is a preference for the crowd, sees Marya, a reluctance to find oneself alone. After lunch there may be a recital by the dour musician, hunched over his violin or the piano in the saloon car; or a talk by one of the crew members about the history of the train. Today it is the turn of the Second Engineer, a Mr. Gao, to talk about early railway architects. This, she has decided, could be her chance. She will plead a headache and take the opportunity to slip away into Third Class, where she might have the opportunity to seek out members of the Society. Here, her imaginary husband will finally be put to use—a young widow looking for an acquaintance of her late husband would surely be forgiven for her disregard of social mores.

But when the doors open it is not the engineer but Suzuki who enters, carrying a bulky projector.

"Mr. Suzuki! We didn't know it would be you improving our minds today," says the Countess.

The Cartographer puts down the projector and bows to her. "Mr. Gao has been called away on another matter. I hope my presence in his place will not be too much of a disappointment."

"Certainly not," says the Countess, turning a meaningful smile on Marya, which she studiously ignores. But perhaps she will stay after all, to hear about the Cartographer's work and take the opportunity to observe him more closely.

Suzuki has set up his projector and a screen at opposite ends of the carriage, and the armchairs have been arranged facing him. He is to speak on the topic of "Mapping Impossible Landscapes." He has closed the curtains and dimmed the lamps and now images whirr and click into place on the screen, showing in sepia the same landscape they are travelling through, each with a handwritten date in the bottom corner. When he began his talk there had been questions and light-hearted chatter, as if shutting away the outside had lifted the general mood, but now the carriage is silent as they watch the images click past, year by year, crossing by crossing. Marya finds that she is gripping the arms of her chair. Here is a weeping willow, its branches trailing in the water, the picture taken three years ago. And here again, but the branches have twisted into skeletal shapes. And again, but it is half missing, as if swallowed up by the air around it. And again, months later, but its branches are raised, splayed apart, as if it caught in the moment of an explosion.

At the sound of a door opening she looks around to see that the Company men have entered the carriage. She expects them to draw up seats, but they remain standing up near the door, their lips drawn into thin lines.

"As you can see," says the Cartographer, looking over briefly to where the Crows are standing, "by taking photographic evidence at set points along the journey, a visual mapping is taking place that will provide valuable insight into the speed of the changes." There is a new deliberateness to his voice, thinks Marya, as if he is reading from a carefully written script. As if he is saying two different things, to two different audiences. "Since their beginnings the changes have been unpredictable. Growth and decay and rebirth and mutation—a cycle that is much faster than any we should see in the natural world. I hope that these photographs, taken over the past three years, will make up part of the Company's exhibit at the Moscow Exhibition, showing the contribution the Company makes to the scientific understanding of the Wastelands."

She risks another glance at the Crows. They are staring at Suzuki with an intensity that makes Marya's skin prickle, but when she looks back at the Cartographer he is perfectly composed. They do not want these photographs to be seen, she realizes. Not by the crowds who will surely come to the Exhibition and not even, she thinks, by the passengers in this carriage. They start clapping, though Suzuki has not finished speaking, and the passengers look around, puzzled, then begin to clap too. Mr. Li opens the curtains while Mr. Petrov thanks the Cartographer for his fascinating talk. Suzuki bows, but Marya can't read his expression. She would like to speak with him, to find out if her suspicions are well-founded, but the Crows are already guiding him away.

Afterward, most of the passengers turn their chairs inward, to talk or read or play cards. The Crows did not need to worry, thinks Marya—these passengers don't want to see the landscape that Suzuki spoke of, they don't want to think about the changes. Only Sophie LaFontaine glances outside, then down at the sketchpad on her lap, though when Marya looks over at what she is drawing, she tilts the paper away.

The change from First to Third is palpable in the cheap wood paneling on the walls, the floorboards underfoot, the smell of boiled vegetables from the kitchen permeating the air. The tables in the dining car are packed full of passengers but none of them pay her any attention—they are looking outside or shouting at the flustered stewards. She hesitates at the door to the sleeping carriages. She has passed through here before, on her way to the Captain's quarters, but she had been accompanied by other passengers from First, and by stewards. What will people think of her now, running unchaperoned into Third Class? Ridiculous, that such things might still matter, here where the landscape itself should make a mockery of human order. And there are no rules to say that passengers from First cannot go where they wish. She straightens her back and pushes open the door. But she is at once uncomfortably aware, amidst the mass of humanity in the carriage, of the fineness of her mourning silk, the careful tailoring of the bodice; aware that it will be taken as obscene, to care for the latest fashions as much as for the representation of grief. Heads turn toward her. Obscene, to care for any luxuries at all, here.

"Where are you off to so quickly, my darling?" calls a voice from an upper bunk. "Climb up here and I'll give you reason to forget your sorrows."

"You'll give her sorrows anew, you scoundrel," cackles someone else.

"Don't mind them," an older woman calls to her. "They have as few manners as they have brains."

Marya keeps her head down and walks on, her cheeks burning. She had thought herself stronger, after everything she has done these past months; after finding the man in the tiny, tucked-away workshop in the mean little alley, who would provide—for a price—the documents needed to become someone else. She had felt like an imposter, a character from a story. She had felt as though she had fallen out of one world and into another, where there were men who worked in the shadows, people whose names were not their true names, places where rats scuttled across a floor where children were playing, oblivious to the darkness and dirt. It had been there all the time, it was just that she had never looked, and she had thought herself better for knowing it, for seeing beyond the boundaries of her own privileged life. But now, she feels foolish and exposed. And what for? Most of the windows have their curtains closed. There is no one looking out, no sign of a likely Society member.

But she can't face walking straight back the way she came, under those amused gazes, those eyes weighing her up like goods to be bought and sold. She forces herself on through the second of the sleeping carriages and lets out a sigh of relief when she is through the door into the vestibule on the other side.

A voice says, "Are you looking for some peace and quiet too?"

She gives a start. The vestibule is dimly lit, and seems to consist mostly of cupboards and boxes, creating a space beside one of the windows where a person could sit almost unobserved. A tall, elderly man with unruly gray hair unfolds himself from where he had been sitting on a low bench. "I didn't mean to alarm you," he says.

"Oh no, you didn't, I mean, I just didn't expect anyone to be here." She hopes she doesn't look as flustered as she feels, but the man doesn't seem to think there is anything strange about her sudden appearance.

"It is my hideaway," he says, conspiratorially. "The other passengers don't come here, and the crew leave me alone. Of course, I am more than happy to share," he adds.

"I don't want to disturb you," she begins, then notices the pair of field glasses in his hands.

"Ah. Goes against all the advice, I know," says the man. "But I always look." He nods at the window then looks down at the field glasses, turning them over and over. "I always look," he says, again, and she thinks she sees his eyes becoming misty.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" she asks, turning to look out of the window, but before the words are out of her mouth she realizes what he is looking for. She can't believe she hadn't noticed where they are, when she has read Rostov's description of this landscape so many times. "Oh," she breathes.

"You will think me a foolish old man," he says, smiling.

"No, not at all."

It is one of the most famous passages from his guide: A waterfall cuts through the rock… It was here that I saw a figure emerging from the pool below the falls, her eyes dark, her hair falling like weeds around her face. A child, though she observed me in a manner quite unchildlike. A girl, but as unformed and as wild as the water around her. A not-quite-girl. His words had been studied and argued over ever since. Marya had seen illustrations in magazines—some depicting an innocent-looking child, some a savage; some, most disturbingly, an alluring woman. But no one had ever seen anything like it since, and it was generally agreed to have been a trick of the light, or a sign of the growing disorder in Rostov's mind.

"I know what is said," says the man, "but still, I have always hoped… And I thought, perhaps this final time." His smile grows sadder.

"You have been on many crossings?" Marya asks, feeling a stir of excitement.

"Oh yes. Many crossings. But it is time to give these old bones a rest."

"The last crossing—were you on board when…?"

He turns the field glasses over again. "I was."

It is clear that he doesn't want to speak of it, any more than the crew do, but Marya pushes anyway, even though she knows the words hurt them both. "The Company say that it was the glass, that it was faulty, but I have heard that there are those who don't agree." She tries to sound like nothing more than a gossip, like the old ladies in black in their parlors, exchanging news of recent deaths. "I have heard that the Wastelands Society believe that there is more to it. If only Artemis were still writing…"

Alarm flickers across the man's face, before being replaced by a polite blankness. "Ah, my dear, I am too old a traveller for all that. Is it not quite ordinary for the Society and the Company to contradict one another?"

He knows something,thinks Marya. She hadn't mistaken that look of alarm. "Yes, of course, that's right. I'm sure it is just a malicious rumor." She gives what she hopes is an empty-headed smile, but the man's attention has been caught by something outside. His brow furrows, and when she follows his gaze she sees a ripple in the reeds, as if a great wave were pushing through them, then another, and another, and it can't be the wind, because there is a lone tree on the horizon, and its leaves and branches are utterly still.

"What is it?" she says, frustrated at the interruption but unable to tear her eyes away from the waves.

"The tides." And then, almost to himself, "But surely it is too early." He pats his jacket pockets until he finds a well-worn notebook, and flicks through the pages.

A shudder rocks the train, and she feels her stomach clench. Her father had spoken, once, of the tides, how they seem to taunt the train, how they follow no pattern, no rule. "We will have no ungodly talk at this dinner table," her mother had declared.

She holds on to the handrail to steady herself. They began in the last few years, her father said. No one knows why. The train must outwit them, slowly, carefully. He said they were getting stronger. Another shudder, stronger this time, and she grasps the old man's arm. His wrists are so thin the bones seem to protrude from the skin like the gnarled knots on a tree.

"We should go back into the carriage," she says, guiding him through the door.

She sees Weiwei approaching from the opposite direction. "There's no need to worry," the train girl shouts, but the train jolts and panic skitters through the carriage as objects roll off bunks, falling in a succession of thuds to the floor.

"Can I have your name?" Marya asks the man, but as he opens his mouth to reply, a wave hits them.

It is hard to describe, after it has happened. It is as if the air folds in on itself, like a fan; as if the side of the train has been shoved by hands that are impossibly strong, and Marya has enough time—in that way in which a moment stretches out, suspended—to imagine the train's huge wheels lifting from the rail, the train toppling to land helplessly on its side. All the fittings and the lights and the walls shake and rattle. Several wall panels fall to the floor with a crash and blankets and parcels pour out from within as though the train's innards are made of cloth and brown paper. Smuggled goods, thinks Marya, distantly. This will be annoying, for the smugglers.

Then it's over, and the train is still on the rails and the passengers are sobbing, and the man is crumpling, sliding to the floor like a puppet whose guiding hands have fallen still.

She stumbles from Third as the doctor is arriving, clearing a space around the stricken man. Back in her cabin, she tries to slow her breathing, but her usual tricks are not working, she can't find the deep, slow river to calm her mind, and she feels as if her lungs are being squeezed, as if her heart can't find the steady rhythm it needs to beat.

Her father's body, slumped over his desk. The doctor, his hat in his hands. "A heart attack. Nothing that you could do."

But there were things the doctor hadn't seen. Had she really seen them herself? Overwrought, the doctor had said, prescribing a sleeping draft. Understandable, in the circumstances. And when she had woken, and the body had been taken away, and the bureaucratic rituals of death had begun—could she really be certain of her own memories? Water pooling beneath her father's face, grains of sand on his cheek. Where were they from? Cleaning it all away, before alerting the rest of the household, before letting herself think about what she was doing. Closing her father's eyes so that no one would see the patterns within them, like cut glass, washed of color, as empty as the windows he had made.