huge railroad workers’ resort were boring. Worst of all, she could not sleep in stationary beds and she always returned to her little compartment with the joy of a homecoming. For Tania, life began as the great wheels rolled and bounced over the square joints of the rails.
She had never married. How could one in such transient circumstances? Not that sex was unavailable to the train attendants. When she had started her career on the railroad at the age of twenty-one, the older women had warned her.
“It’s the vibrations,” she had been told. “It makes them sexy. And the drinking and boredom unhinges them. But be careful. You never know who might be an inspector.”
There were, of course, all sorts of horror stories about attendants who had been caught with men, or raped by drunks, or mauled by peasant soldiers, who copulated like pigs in a barnyard. But she prided herself on her ability to fend those types off. There were times, though, when a man’s advances somehow coincided with her own desires. She remembered Colonel Patushkin vividly, a tall, spare man, wearing an immaculate uniform with shiny insignia and red epaulets. He had walked toward her on the platform, his lips fixed in a confident half-smile. She was surprised at her own interest, since she was used to seeing Russian military officers on their way to some base in Siberia. There was a special aura about him, she decided, feeling a kind of electricity as she shook his hand.
“I am Colonel Patushkin,” he said, his warm deep-blue eyes looking into hers. She looked up at him dumbfounded, suddenly losing track of time and place and the demands of her other passengers. It occurred to her after he had been shown to his compartment, that he might have mistaken her attitude for rudeness. Determined to correct that impression, she found herself giving the colonel special attention. When he and his fellow officer left their compartment for the restaurant carriage, she rushed in with a mind to tidying up, dusting the curtains, rubbing the brass fittings to a pretty shine, fluffing up the bedclothes, cleaning the ashtrays and vacuuming the rug. Instead, she found herself fingering the colonel’s pressed and brushed uniform, putting the material to her nose and smelling deeply, wondering at the uncommonly clean masculine smell.
During the first two days of the journey she could barely get the colonel out of her mind. One night she burst in as he emerged from the adjoining washroom, a towel in a perfect arc around his neck and his curly black hair still damp from combing. Once, toward evening, she had come in quietly with a glass of tea and had seen him in his underwear, white neatly starched shorts and soft ribbed undershirt. He was alone in the compartment, standing with his back toward her, and she let her eyes wash over him, taking in his tall smooth body, and across the center of him the neat white underwear.
Later she realized that it had been reckless of her, especially since she was sure he had seen her reflection in the darkened window. When he had finally turned, taking the tea glass from her, she imagined that his eyes had lingered over her face longer than usual.
“Thank you, Tania,” he said, and she imagined that he returned her admiration. Later, lying in her upper bunk, her mind was assailed by a jumble of uncommon thoughts and images, involving the colonel and his deliciously white body. She imagined that her hands were his and performed acts upon herself that made her breath come in short gasps and filled her body with wonderfully exquisite feelings.
During most of the next day, she used every possible subterfuge to enter his compartment, providing him and his companion with an excess of service. She was certain, too, that he was being extra attentive to her actions, watching her coolly as he sat in the one easy chair, his long legs crossed, a book open on his lap, his shirt collar open at his white throat. She was taking particular care
She had never married. How could one in such transient circumstances? Not that sex was unavailable to the train attendants. When she had started her career on the railroad at the age of twenty-one, the older women had warned her.
“It’s the vibrations,” she had been told. “It makes them sexy. And the drinking and boredom unhinges them. But be careful. You never know who might be an inspector.”
There were, of course, all sorts of horror stories about attendants who had been caught with men, or raped by drunks, or mauled by peasant soldiers, who copulated like pigs in a barnyard. But she prided herself on her ability to fend those types off. There were times, though, when a man’s advances somehow coincided with her own desires. She remembered Colonel Patushkin vividly, a tall, spare man, wearing an immaculate uniform with shiny insignia and red epaulets. He had walked toward her on the platform, his lips fixed in a confident half-smile. She was surprised at her own interest, since she was used to seeing Russian military officers on their way to some base in Siberia. There was a special aura about him, she decided, feeling a kind of electricity as she shook his hand.
“I am Colonel Patushkin,” he said, his warm deep-blue eyes looking into hers. She looked up at him dumbfounded, suddenly losing track of time and place and the demands of her other passengers. It occurred to her after he had been shown to his compartment, that he might have mistaken her attitude for rudeness. Determined to correct that impression, she found herself giving the colonel special attention. When he and his fellow officer left their compartment for the restaurant carriage, she rushed in with a mind to tidying up, dusting the curtains, rubbing the brass fittings to a pretty shine, fluffing up the bedclothes, cleaning the ashtrays and vacuuming the rug. Instead, she found herself fingering the colonel’s pressed and brushed uniform, putting the material to her nose and smelling deeply, wondering at the uncommonly clean masculine smell.
During the first two days of the journey she could barely get the colonel out of her mind. One night she burst in as he emerged from the adjoining washroom, a towel in a perfect arc around his neck and his curly black hair still damp from combing. Once, toward evening, she had come in quietly with a glass of tea and had seen him in his underwear, white neatly starched shorts and soft ribbed undershirt. He was alone in the compartment, standing with his back toward her, and she let her eyes wash over him, taking in his tall smooth body, and across the center of him the neat white underwear.
Later she realized that it had been reckless of her, especially since she was sure he had seen her reflection in the darkened window. When he had finally turned, taking the tea glass from her, she imagined that his eyes had lingered over her face longer than usual.
“Thank you, Tania,” he said, and she imagined that he returned her admiration. Later, lying in her upper bunk, her mind was assailed by a jumble of uncommon thoughts and images, involving the colonel and his deliciously white body. She imagined that her hands were his and performed acts upon herself that made her breath come in short gasps and filled her body with wonderfully exquisite feelings.
During most of the next day, she used every possible subterfuge to enter his compartment, providing him and his companion with an excess of service. She was certain, too, that he was being extra attentive to her actions, watching her coolly as he sat in the one easy chair, his long legs crossed, a book open on his lap, his shirt collar open at his white throat. She was taking particular care
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