Ever since she read about it, riding the Trans-Siberian Railway from Moscow to Vladivostok had been on Jennifer Fowler’s bucket list.  She was fascinated by train travel, and no other rail journey promised such a bigger-than-life experience, chugging across that vast expanse of Asia, where a single color dominated the world map.  She imagined a few days in Moscow to buy necessities for the ten-day trip, a final check of her paperwork, and then that electric moment as the train moved slowly out of the station, gaining speed through endless grey suburbs, and finally bursting free into a landscape that stretched for thousands of miles to the Sea of Japan.  In her mind’s eye each scene along the way had its own vivid color, smell, and sound.  Endless forests and snow-covered steppes punctuated by remote train stations; the curious faces of Russian farmers pausing to stare at the speeding behemoth; the lurching carriage with a samovar steaming quietly in the corner; the smell of sweat and damp wool and urine and garlicky sausages.

Excuses came and went.  At first it was money—never enough—but as her career progressed, time became the limiting resource.  Her Chicago law office was small, and if she took more than two weeks of vacation, someone else would have to attend to her clients.  Colleagues were always willing to pick up the slack for a wedding or an illness, but for anything else, they tended to be less generous.  And so the Great Railway Bazaar scenes faded gradually as the years went by.

This had been a particularly challenging winter for Jennifer.  One of the attorneys in her office had slipped on the icy sidewalk early in December and broken both wrists, leaving her unable to work.  Much of her caseload had fallen to Jennifer, who had little choice but to work fourteen-hour days, dragging herself home each evening through the grinding cold of a Chicago winter.

By the time her colleague returned to the office in mid-February, Jennifer longed for a break from the grinding routine.  That afternoon, as her client’s voice continued to drone on in the telephone receiver, she allowed her mind to drift.  This was the third phone call with this man in as many days.  He was a needy man, she thought; someone who liked the sound of his own voice and didn’t seem to care that every minute of her time came with a price.  Absentmindedly, she scrolled through her e-mails.  Pausing as one caught her eye, she double-clicked on the link that opened to a brochure for a conference in New Orleans the following month.  The topic was only tangentially related to her area of expertise, but it piqued her interest.  Her gaze drifted towards the window again.  Yesterday’s snow was already melting, merging with the gray of the sidewalks.  In the distance the L-train wound its way between buildings, looking for all the world like a model railroad.  Perhaps it was the juxtaposition of those two images in her brain, but by the end of the phone call she had made a decision.  She would go to the conference in New Orleans—by train.

* * *

The tiny sleeper compartment would have been cramped with two people, but as she was travelling alone, it felt spacious.  Two comfortable seats faced each other in front of a large picture window, beneath which hung a folding table.  The porter who showed her to her roomette had stowed her suitcase deftly in a corner of the compartment, assuring her that he would take it out later when he prepared the cabin for the night.

“My name is Joseph, Ma’am.  If there’s anything you need, just let me know.  You can press that buzzer or just walk towards the back of the train.  You’ll find me for sure.”

His broad, toothy smile left her feeling safe.

Remembering those erstwhile Trans-Siberian dreams, she had brought a bottle of wine, and as soon as Joseph closed the compartment door, she opened it and poured herself a generous glass.  The train lurched briefly, prompting her to grab both glass and bottle, but then it relapsed into a steady movement as it trundled out of Union Station into the Chicago suburbs.  A tiny spark of excitement rippled through her.  Her desk was clear for the next few days and nobody expected to hear from her.  She was free.

It was the absence of movement that woke her in the middle of the night.  Drawing aside the curtain, harsh lights illuminated a railway yard, and for a moment she wondered whether something had happened.  A derailment on the tracks ahead perhaps, or something more ominous?  The app on her smartphone showed the train in Memphis, Tennessee, close to the Mississippi River.  She listened for any sounds of alarm but the corridor was silent, so she went back to sleep, sliding down between crisp, white sheets and pulling the woolen blanket up to her chin.  The next time she woke it was daylight and the view outside had changed dramatically.  This was the hidden America—hamlets where trains no longer stopped, settlements that shouted poverty and abandonment.  The train moved slowly through this blighted landscape, allowing her to imagine how her life might have been had she grown up here.  A dilapidated shack, its wide porch cluttered with sagging chairs, a washing machine, and a stack of empty beer crates was a chastening reminder that not everyone had a chance to live the American Dream.

Joseph helped her with her suitcase as she alighted from the train at the Union Passenger Terminal in New Orleans.  She thanked him sincerely, feeling a momentary pang of apprehension at the prospect of leaving his care.  She reminded herself that she wasn’t stepping off into a remote Russian city but, rather, a familiar American one.  She was a successful lawyer in her mid-thirties, about to attend a conference where she would be respected, if not admired.  She straightened her shoulders and walked out of the station into the mid-afternoon sunshine.  The unaccustomed feeling of warm air on her skin made her smile.  She decided to walk the eight blocks to the boutique hotel in the Warehouse District where she had made a reservation.  Signs of post-Katrina recovery were everywhere, although little seemed to have been achieved in the three years since the hurricane.  By comparison with Chicago the city felt hostile, and she walked briskly, her roller bag rattling on the uneven pavement.

That evening she had an early meal at one of the more exclusive restaurants in the city.  It was the sort of place that normally required a reservation, but by going early she hoped they would seat her.  She dressed carefully for the occasion, and as she expected, the maître d’hôtel scrutinized her before seating her in a quiet corner of his dining room.  Leaving a little over an hour later, she paused at a street corner to watch a scene playing out that could easily have been in a Hollywood movie.  Two police cruisers had pulled up behind a battered-looking sedan, their lights flashing.  The occupants of the car—two young black men—got out slowly and stood beside their car, waiting.  Four white police officers emerged from the cruisers, their bulky gear making the process slow and awkward.  One of them approached the two men; the other three stood slightly at a distance, their hands on their guns.  The tension was palpable.  Jennifer watched in fascination, waiting for someone to make a move—a wrong move.  She didn’t notice the woman behind her and was startled when a voice spoke quietly.

“Perhaps we should watch from a little farther away.  It might be safer.  I think we’re in the line of fire here.”

Jennifer turned to see a tall, elegantly-dressed woman around her own age with vivid blue eyes and short blond hair parted to the side and slicked down, giving her a vaguely masculine appearance.  She was very beautiful.

“Maybe you’re right,” Jennifer responded, giving the woman a warm smile.

It was true.  A stray bullet could easily hit either of them or any of the bystanders who had also stopped.  The woman touched her arm gently and led her across the street to a safer vantage point.  For the next fifteen minutes they watched the scene play out, exchanging comments as to what might be going on and speculating as to how it might resolve.

Suddenly, as if on cue, all six men got into their cars and drove away, the cruisers turning left and the sedan continuing on straight past the two women.  The crowd of onlookers began to disperse, but the two women lingered and continued their conversation, which by now had progressed to the rehabilitation efforts that were being undertaken in the Warehouse District. 

Jennifer was about to say goodbye when the woman said, “I have an apartment just around the corner.  Would you like to come up for a glass of wine?  We have a lovely rooftop garden; you can see the boats on the river.”

She tilted her head to one side and looked inquiringly at Jennifer, the side of her mouth turning up slightly with the hint of a smile.  There was an awkward pause.

“I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself earlier. Veva Kiuru.”

She extended her hand and Jennifer shook it, offering her own name in exchange.  The name sounds vaguely Polish, Jennifer thought, yet this woman didn’t remind her of any of the Poles she knew in Chicago.  Normally she would have refused an invitation like this, claiming an early morning meeting or some such excuse.  But to her surprise, she found herself agreeing.  Something about Veva intrigued her, and the prospect of doing something totally out of character was exciting.  Besides, she reasoned, it was still relatively early in the evening and while her hotel room was charming, it offered little besides a large TV.

Five minutes later they arrived at a four-story red brick building that, from its outward appearance, had once been a warehouse.

“My husband bought the apartment soon after Katrina,” Veva said as she punched in a code on the panel beside a pair of heavy, wooden doors.

“Nobody wanted to come downtown in those days, so it was a bargain.  We live across the lake—Lake Pontchartrain—but this place is convenient when we go to concerts.”

Any sense that the building had once been a factory disappeared as the doors swung open and automatically closed behind them.  After the busy street noise, the silence was striking.  A faint perfume of some sweet-smelling flower, the name of which escaped Jennifer, hung in the air.  The spacious, dimly-lit foyer ended at a marble staircase that angled upwards into shadow.

“You don’t mind if we take the stairs, do you?” Veva asked.  “There’s an elevator but I prefer the exercise.”

The apartment was on the top floor of the building and consisted of a spacious, high-ceilinged loft with a row of tall windows that spanned the whole length of one wall.  Facing the windows was a galley kitchen, separated from the room by an island at which stood two high stools.  A hallway led off the room, presumably to the bedroom and bathroom, Jennifer thought.  Decorated in a minimalist style, the floors were of recycled lumber sanded to reveal the dark wood grain.  An L-shaped sofa dominated the center of the room, strewn with cushions in muted colors.  In the angle of the sofa stood a large glass coffee table, empty except for a pair of silver and bronze stirrups with an intricate Arabic design carved into their sides.  Beside them lay a shield and sword, both equally stunning.  An image of Genghis Khan flashed into Jennifer’s mind, seated astride his horse and looking fierce and magnificent.

As she followed Veva towards the kitchen, she ran her fingers delicately over a slab of cream-colored wood supported by a complex arrangement of stainless-steel cables and posts that looked to be a writing desk of sorts.  It felt like silk, the surface hardly registering on her fingertips.  Pausing, she stared at the object on the desk, which she recognized as a Japanese suzuri, the ink stone nestled into an intricately carved dragon whose eyes were fixed upon a golden egg.  Beside the suzuri lay a calligraphy brush.  She looked over at Veva, who was watching her.

“It’s very beautiful,” Jennifer said, gesturing towards the room.

“I like beautiful things,” came the response.

Jennifer watched as Veva reached upward to slide two wine glasses from the rack hanging above the island.  The movement was fluid and practiced and despite her own petite frame, she felt awkward by comparison.

“Your name is very unusual. Is it Polish?” Jennifer asked.

“Finnish.”

“What do you do…for work I mean?”

“I work for the government,” came the reply, but something in Veva’s tone seemed to discourage further inquiry.

“And you?”

“I’m a lawyer.  We do mostly health care stuff…representing hospitals and clinics.  The laws around health care are changing all the time.”

Veva nodded. “You drink white?” she asked, opening the refrigerator.  “I have red if you prefer.”

“White would be lovely.”

She took out a bottle of wine, glanced at it, and uncorked it with practiced efficiency.

“It’s a New Zealand wine and a good one. I promise.”  Her blue eyes lingered on Jennifer for an extra few seconds.  Then, with glasses and bottle in hand, she walked towards the hall.

“Follow me,” she said without looking back and disappeared into a small passageway from which a spiral staircase led upward.

The rooftop garden was a surprise.  Each of the apartments in the building had its own private space, separated from neighbors by tall, wicker partitions.  On opposite sides of Veva’s garden, a steel and glass wall allowed for an uninterrupted view of the New Orleans skyline.  A trellis festooned with lush greenery covered much of the tiny space, shading a table and two chairs.  Veva poured a generous measure into the glasses and offered one to Jennifer.

She raised her own glass.  “To safety,” she said, the corner of her mouth turning up slightly.

For the next two hours they talked.  Veva was a good listener, prompting the conversation with thoughtful questions, but offering little information about herself.  Something about the rooftop—a sense of removal from the world—allowed Jennifer to open up in ways she never had before.  Neither confessional nor therapy session, it felt more like a conversation with her inner self.  She could hear the disappointment in her own voice as she talked about her divorce seven years earlier and the few men she had dated since.  All the while Veva’s intense blue eyes held her attention, and for some reason she couldn’t explain, she found herself yearning to elicit that unique smile.

The temperature had dropped slightly and the wine bottle was empty.  Veva stood up, stretched her arms above her head, and arched her back.  She walked to the rail and looked towards the river.  Silhouetted against the darkening skyline, Jennifer thought she looked magnificent, like a character out of an Avengers movie—feline, predatory, powerful.

“Come join me,” Veva said, turning around to look at Jennifer.  Although it was said softly, it was a command not a request.

Standing side by side at the railing they stared into the distance, neither speaking.  Then Veva turned towards her and gently stroked her face.  The caress carried a question and at the same time an expectation.  Jennifer held her breath, not certain whether she wanted the scene to progress.  But her body had already decided.  A warm ache made its way through her, bringing a flush to her face.

Then Veva kissed her.  Her tongue explored Jennifer’s mouth, withdrawing to linger over her lips, then plunging greedily again and again.  Jennifer could taste the wine on Veva’s breath.  She closed her eyes, and in her mind saw the scene unfolding in slow motion, like a drop of water creating gently expanding waves.  She gasped as every cell in her body ached for this sublime feeling to go on forever.  Veva’s mouth was still on hers, her arm around her neck, holding her in a tight embrace.  Then she pulled away, took Jennifer’s hand in hers, and led her towards the stairs.  At the bottom of the spiral staircase, Veva turned to her.  She was smiling. 

“Let me blindfold you.”

Her eyes were bright, her mouth slightly open as if expecting Jennifer to refuse.  But there was no protest.  She slid the silk scarf from around her neck and held it out in her two hands, like an offering.  Jennifer took a deep breath and accepted, raising the scarf towards her face.  Veva helped her tie the knot and whispered in her ear, “Trust me.”

Jennifer could feel the warm breath followed by the tip of a tongue deftly probing her ear.  A thrill of pleasure erupted in her core.  There was a gentle pressure on her back pushing her forward, and instinctively she held her hands out in front of her.  A finger caressed her outstretched palm, threading its way to her wrist and closing around it like a manacle.  She felt a slight pull and allowed herself to be drawn into the bedroom.  Like Alice falling down a rabbit hole she had no sense of what might happen next, but she was willing to give herself up entirely to whatever might unfold.

* * *

She knew Veva was gone as soon as she woke the following morning.  It wasn’t just the absence of sound; it was as if someone had sucked all the life out of the apartment.  For a few minutes Jennifer lay there thinking about the previous evening.  Her hand went to her crotch, which was still wet and slightly bruised.  She rolled over on her belly, inhaling Veva’s scent from the smooth sheet.  Every fiber of her body craved the exquisite pleasure she had experienced.  This is what jonesing for drugs must be like, she thought—a gnawing pain that begged to be satisfied.  But there would be no antidote to ease her back into her previous life.  She pushed the thought aside and got out of bed.  In the living room, propped up against a tall glass of water, was a card-sized piece of cream-colored paper.  The letter ‘V’ had been inscribed on it with a perfect brush stroke of black ink.  She turned the card over but it was blank.

Jennifer made a final tour of the apartment, trying to sear every detail of the space into her mind.  She reached out to touch the suzuri, tracing the dragon from tail to head, her fingers lingering on the golden egg.  The calligraphy brush lay beside it, still slightly damp.  She took the card and slid it carefully into her purse.  Then, with a feeling of immense loss, she left, closing the door decisively behind her.

The next day was filled with people and presentations, welcome distractions that served to keep a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts at bay.  Up to now, all of her sexual encounters had been heterosexual, and as Jennifer searched through scenes from her past, nowhere had she ever felt attracted to a woman.  The evening with Veva had been more pleasurable than anything she had ever experienced.  Although sex with her husband was satisfying, it had been unimaginative.  None of the men she had slept with since her divorce had made her feel the way she had with Veva, and she wondered if it would change her life in any way.  But this was something she didn’t want to dwell on, at least not yet.

On the second evening of the conference, Jennifer arranged to have dinner with a friend from her law school days who was also attending the meeting.  They hadn’t seen each other since before her divorce and spent an enjoyable couple of hours catching up.  After dinner, he offered to walk her back to her hotel and she agreed, steering him on a circuitous route through the Warehouse District with the excuse of showing him the architecture.  As they walked past Veva’s apartment building, Jennifer stole a glance upward, but the windows were unlit.

On the final evening there was a cocktail party for the two hundred attendees in the ballroom of the conference hotel.  Waiters carrying trays of canapés and glasses of wine wove their way expertly among the crowd.  Jennifer stood at a tall bar table with a group of colleagues, not quite engaged with their conversation.  Looking around the room at some of the now-familiar faces, her heart missed a beat.  Staring at her from across the ballroom was Veva, a tiny smile lurking in the corner of her mouth.  Their eyes locked for several seconds until the crowd closed in and Jennifer lost sight of her.  She abruptly excused herself and rushed to the spot where she had last seen Veva, but she had disappeared.

The following morning Jennifer took an early flight back to Chicago and by mid-afternoon was seated at her desk.  Looking out her office window later that afternoon as the light was beginning to fade, she watched as the L-train threaded its way through the commercial buildings.  Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to remember, and as the scenes unfurled like flowers, a world of possibilities began to emerge.