by Mike Coony
I’m shocked…and I thought I’d become unshockable. Still, when I asked Anna if she’d explained the real reason we need to take the woman’s granddaughter away, she shook her head.
“How could I? How could I shatter this poor woman’s illusions about her daughter? What mother wants to learn that her daughter stays alive only so long as she gives herself to strange men for money?”
Anna has a point, but Mrs. Maksimovna might be in danger once the Russian thugs come looking for Nakita Sylvina. If Uncle Sui makes a direct approach to his friends in Moscow they might be able to help…at least I hope they’ll be able to.
I used Brother Leader Gaddafi’s satellite phone to ring Gerry’s house but there was no answer. I have to get a message to Uncle Sui to ask for protection for Mrs. Maksimovna once we’ve left with her granddaughter – and preferably without her knowing.
I rang Mac and, using our amadán code, filled him in on the situation in Moscow. We went through the travel options, and we discounted taking a train to Vladivostok and a ferry to Japan; it would be too difficult to get out of Japan without the help of the Yakuza. So it has to be the train through Russia and China to Kowloon. “Contact your secretary why don’t you, and ask her to get hold of Gerry,” suggested Mac, before he hung up.
Maybe Moscow’s freezing air isn’t letting enough oxygen through to my brain; I should’ve thought of phoning Sui-Lin meself. She answered the office phone after two rings – first in Cantonese, and then in English – and she told me Gerry and Nataliya are staying at the Island Shangri La. “Good luck Mister Finn, good luck,” she said, before I cut the call.
It sounds like Gerry’s told Sui-Lin what we’re up to in Moscow…and he’s not staying in his own home. I can understand the decision to tell Sui-Lin, almost, but the switch from home to hotel sets alarm bells ringing.
Do the Russians in Macau know what we’re doing in Moscow? Jaysus! This could put Anna in danger.
———
It’s lonely in my room at Theatre Apartments; I want to spend the night with Finn. I’ll give the letters and photograph from Nataliya Yelena to Galina Maksimovna before I go to the hotel. At least she’ll have something to show Nakita Sylvina when she talks to her about leaving Moscow with me and Finn.
Galina Maksimovna has a job on her hands to convince a young girl to give up her home, her school, her friends – even her language – to move to who knows where. Hong Kong? Lantau Island? Lamma? Macau? America? Canada? All the places Finn’s mentioned! Who knows where…?
I took a tram to Ulitsa Varvarka, then a taxi to Hotel Katarina on Shlyuzovaya Embankment.
When I opened the door to Finn’s room he was speaking on his satellite telephone; he waved me over. “It’s Gerry on the line…there may be a problem,” he whispered in my ear.
I grabbed a piece of hotel notepaper from the bedside locker, tore off the top that had ‘Hotel Katarina’ printed across it, and wrote in big letters ‘IS NATALIYA THERE?’. Finn nodded his head. ‘CAN I SPEAK TO GERRY?’ I wrote.
Finn handed me the phone. I told Gerry everything that’s happened, and that I’m going to ask Finn to loan me his satellite telephone – it’s more secure than the American satellite phone Mac gave me – so that I can call Nataliya when I’m with her mother and daughter. Then I asked to speak with Nataliya.
“Thanks for everything Anna. And listen, about last time…I’m real sorry for yelling at you. Anyway, just a minute, I’ll get Nataliya.”
Nataliya came on the phone and spoke to me in Russian. “One of the horrible men who used to tie me up and rape me in Macau recognised me in Hong Kong, and then he spoke to Gerry.”
Hearing that made me feel sad for Nataliya Yelena. “I’m so sorry Nataliya…but don’t forget that Gerry already knows what you were forced to do, and he still asked you to be his wife,” I said in Russian.
That seemed to help, and she definitely cheered up when I told her about the telephone call I want to arrange. She thanked me from the bottom of her heart.
———
I’d been talking to Gerry for ten minutes when I heard someone opening the door. I thought it was the maid coming to tidy up, but I’m pleased to see it’s Anna. She sat next to me on the bed and started writing notes. I feel so proud seeing her tear off the letter heading. Anna’s a fast learner…I always knew she’s a smart girl.
Gerry told me he needs the girls’ birth certificates, and he said he’ll ask Uncle Sui about the help in Moscow. He didn’t say why they’re staying at a hotel.
“Do you mind that I’ve told Sui-Lin what you’re up to? She’ll help…if you want her to,” he said.
“I might be able to use Sui-Lin’s help…depending how things go,” I replied…but I’m surprised that he’s told anyone who isn’t directly involved.
———
Anna was asleep when I went out this morning. I left a note taped to her pillow saying I’ll be back before midday.
I used the local mobile to ring our private taxi driver. He collected me outside the hotel within ten minutes and drove me to the Yaroslavsky Rail Terminal. The driver waited outside while I joined a long queue of travellers looking for information about the TSR trains.
When it was my turn to be helped the girl behind the counter asked if I’m English. “No, I’m Irish…from the Republic of Ireland,” I told her. She gave me a beaming freckle-faced smile, and vouchers for complimentary full breakfasts on the Moscow to Perm sector part of the journey. “Go raibh maith agat…that’s thanks in Irish,” I said, which sent her into a fit of girly giggles.
In France, Sweden, Germany and Holland people always warmed to me once they found out I’m Irish, not English. I don’t know what the Brits did to irritate so many people. I suppose demanding tea ‘like Mum makes’, baked beans on toast, Coronation Street or EastEnders, and vomiting in the street after a few pints of strong beer probably doesn’t ingratiate them with the locals. Happily, with a few exceptions, the Irish traveller hasn't gained the British reputation…not yet anyway.
I left the TSR office with a handful of brochures in English; my head is buzzing with times, dates, alternative times, stop durations and en route sectors. But thanks to a fan of the Irish, I have the information I need – plus free breakfasts.
Now I need to change more money, so I asked the taxi driver to take me to a foreign exchange bank. I showed them my Finnish passport and changed US dollars into small denominations of Russian roubles and Chinese renminbi. Parting with US dollars, or any big notes, is a sure way to draw attention – and that’s the last thing we need on our journey back to Hong Kong.
———
When Finn left the room I was pretending to be asleep. His note says he’ll be back by midday, so I have just three hours to get my hair done, my nails manicured, and, hopefully, a body massage. The hotel has a beauty parlour, but I decided to take a taxi to GUM; I saw a Swedish beauty salon there during my compulsory shopping spree….
I just made it back from my beauty treatments, and I was checking my hair in the bathroom mirror when Finn opened the door and entered the room very quietly. He’s tip-toeing around – he must think the pillows under the covers are me still in bed.
I’m watching his reflection in the mirror; he’s packing up his things and counting out currency notes into neat piles. I’ve never thought of Finn as a neat man. In my eyes he’s considerate, spontaneous, brave, loving, maybe even violent…but not neat.
I walked out of the bathroom as silently as possible and approached him from behind. I thought I’d take him by surprise – until he reached over his shoulder and up-ended me on to the carpet.
“You got your hair done, I see. And what else?” he asked, as he bent down to lift me up.
“Let me show you….”
———
Finn gave me ‘Brother Leader Gaddafi’s complimentary satellite phone’ before I left to collect Nakita Sylvina at Theatre Apartments. He showed me the button that will dial the direct line in Gerry’s s
uite at the Island Shangri-La in Hong Kong.
I asked Galina Maksimovna for the birth certificates, and I gave her the scarf I bought for her, and the doll I got for Nakita Sylvina, at GUM. Then I placed the call to Hong Kong. I took Nakita Sylvina to my room and left Galina Maksimovna alone to talk with her daughter in a far away hotel. Nakita waited with me until her grandmother called her in for a big surprise.
Five minutes later there was a slight tap on my door. Nakita Sylvina is bundled up in her warm coat, with a woolly hat on her head and a scarf around her neck. She has a small suitcase in one hand, the satellite phone in her other hand, and tears in her eyes.
“Baba Maksimovna told me to say goodbye for her, to thank you, and to be a good girl…because you’re taking me to my mama. Oh…and she told me to give you this,” she said, holding out the satellite phone. The little darling said everything in one breath, trying to say it all before she forgets.
I packed the satellite phone in my suitcase, put on my furs, and took Nakita’s free hand. We walked out to Ulitsa Bol’shaya Dmitrovka and hailed a taxi. I told the driver to take us to a café by the Hotel Katarina, where we waited for Finn to arrive in the special taxi.
Nakita Sylvina sat beside Finn in the back of the limousine. He’s staring straight ahead, pretending that Nakita Sylvina isn’t there, and she’s doing the same. I’m watching as Finn Flynn shows me a side of him I’ve never seen before. He’s managed to cheer up a small, frightened child without speaking a word.
38
TRANS-MONGOLIAN TRAIN: USSR
I was expecting Nakita Sylvina to take my hand when we got out of the limousine at Yaroslavsky Rail Terminal in Komsomolskaya Square. Instead, she gave me her small suitcase and reached up to hold Finn’s hand. He swept her off her feet and swung her up on to his shoulders. She seems to enjoy seeing the world from nine feet off the ground.
We found a café in the train station and bought tea and cakes. Finn left us for a short while and went to purchase our tickets on the Trans-Mongolian train – one of the Trans-Siberian railway lines.
Nakita Sylvina switched seats when Finn came back, so she could sit next to him on the banquette. By the time we were ready to board the train she was asleep with her head resting against his arm. They shared massor of giggles before she nodded off…but they still haven’t uttered ett enda ord to each other.
At precisely eight twenty-one p.m. we pulled out of the terminal, amidst waving flags and orders being yelled along the platform. We have a first class, four-berth compartment all the way from Moscow to Kowloon Station, in the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong. Our journey will cover almost eight thousand kilometres; we’ll travel via Omsk, Krasnoyarsk, Irkutsk, Ulan Ude, Ulan Bator and Beijing.
We’re building up speed as we pass through the outskirts of Moscow, and the movement of the train has woken Nakita Sylvina. She’s looking around, bewildered, and clinging to Finn. Her young eyes are exploring our compartment with darting glances at the four bunk beds, the elaborate hand washbasin, the old fashioned brass light fittings, and the window blinds – which are pulled almost all the way down.
We’ll be on this train for seven days and six nights; this journey will make my childhood train excursions seem like short little jaunts. My parents and I would travel from our home in Helsingborg to Jokkmokk in the north of Sweden, but we never made the trip in winter. It always felt to me like I was going on a long, exciting adventure. I was just a little older than Nakita Sylvina when my parents divorced. They sent me by train to live with Nanny and Grand Pappy Lindbergh in Göteborg, or Gothenburg as English speakers say. That journey lasted only a few hours.
Lifting the blinds, I looked out the carriage window; everywhere is covered in snow. It’s Nakita Sylvina’s vast, snow-covered country we’ll pass through…and she’s unlikely ever to see it again. I would’ve liked to be taking this journey in spring or summer, when the fields are full of colour. I could’ve pointed out the flowers – bellflower, day lily, iris, peony, ladybells, edelweiss, tulips and violets – the changing landscapes, trees and rivers to Nakita Sylvina.
She seems content enough just to play with her dolls, or to gaze at her photographs of Nataliya Yelena and Galina Maksimovna. Nakita keeps the photos in her pocket when she isn’t looking at them, but she’s been looking at them most of the time.
I can’t imagine what thoughts are going through her little head. Whatever they are, I hope the thought of being with her mamma sustains her…and stops her from dwelling on all she’s leaving behind.
———
Finn has vouchers for free breakfasts – for himself. We went to the dining car for the less crowded second breakfast seating and ordered a banana milk shake for Nakita, tea for Finn, and coffee for me. With his free breakfast vouchers, Finn ordered fresh orange juice and an enormous cooked breakfast, a ‘full Irish breakfast’ he calls it. Nakita Sylvina and I settled for cereal and fruit juice.
Arriving at stations in daylight is a pleasant relief. I take Nakita Sylvina off the train to give her a little break, and to get some fresh air. Now, when we know we’re approaching a station, Nakita presses her nose to the ice-cold window and watches for the black signal box standing out against the white snow. ‘Look, look, we’re nearly there, we’re nearly there,’ she says excitedly, as soon as she spots a black signal box. Then we dress quickly in our warm clothes and snow boots and rush to the end of the carriage. It’s our little game to try to be the first ones to leave the train and explore the station – and then we buy snacks, sweets, chocolate and fresh fruit.
Finn usually disappears with the satellite phone from Brother Leader Gaddafi during stopovers. He often just manages to jump back into the carriage as the train is pulling out of the station. Never mind missing the train, if he’s left behind with no papers he’ll be questioned by the authorities.
———
Earlier today, at Yekaterinburg Station, Finn left the train with his precious satellite phone; he only just managed not to be left behind. I want to say something to him about taking such risks, but I understand that he wouldn’t behave so foolishly unless there is good reason.
Nakita Sylvina is fast asleep in her bunk, and I’m sipping delicious hot chocolate that was delivered to our compartment by a handsome steward. He’s already tried twice to engage me in conversation; he believes I’m from Murmansk – like Galina Maksimovna on the first night I met her. I can handle a little harmless flirtation if it means hot chocolate delivered at bedtime. Anyway, this steward has been subjected to one of Finn’s terrifying glares, so I’m sure he knows he isn’t going to get anywhere with me…at least not while Finn Flynn is around.
———
Nakita Sylvina and I bumped into the amorous steward at Vokzal-Glavny Station in Novosibirsk. He introduced himself to us as Vikoff, then he stooped down and asked Nakita Sylvina if I’m her mother! My heart almost stopped beating…until I heard her reply.
“Anna can’t be my mummy, silly. And she isn’t even married to Finn yet.”
We walked on quickly before Vikoff could ask any more awkward questions. I hope Nakita Sylvina won’t let on to Finn that we met Vikoff. Either way, I presume I’ll be getting no more late night mugs of hot chocolate.
At Ilanskaya Station we were only able to stretch our legs for a few minutes. I hurried Nakita Sylvina back on board the train when I noticed a great commotion on the platform. A crowd of peasants wanted to get on the train with baskets of chickens and twelve goats.
I had leaves of salad I’d kept back from my tea – wrapped in a serviette in my pocket – and I gave them to Nakita Sylvina. We leaned out from the carriage, and she fed the leaves to the goats while I bought a pail of fresh yoghurt from a woman in a traditional Mongolian costume.
One of the goats boarded the train and tried to follow Nakita Sylvina back to our compartment. Laughing at this, the previously furious conductor formally informed the peasants that ‘goats do not travel in first class.’ His funny remark seemed to have
defused an uncomfortable situation.
———
I’m lying in my bunk across from Finn. Nakita Sylvina’s fast asleep after all the excitement at Ilanskaya Station – and the fresh yoghurt, which she loves.
It's dawned on me that I’ve known Finn for more than a few years, but I know almost nothing about him. All I know is what I’ve seen with my own eyes…and that he’s a member of the Provisional Irish Republican Army. I don’t even know why he has such a curious name. Even among the Irish, Finn Flynn is a pretty rare name…I think.
“Finn, tell me about your name.”
“Which one…Flynn or Finn?”
“Both.”
“Finn comes from the old Irish word fin for fair or blond. I suppose I must’ve been born with a mop of fair hair. You must know about Nils Dacke?”
“Yes, of course. Everyone in Sweden knows he’s a folk hero.”
“Well, did you ever hear tell of Robin Hood, the fellah who lived in Sherwood Forest outside Nottingham, England at the time of the Crusades? See, there was a fellah in Ireland, so legend tells us, about nine hundred years before Nils Dacke and Robin Hood…by the name of Fionn mac Cumhaill. He also robbed the rich and gave to the poor…when he wasn’t busy bedding Nordic wenches. Your great, great, great…well, however many times great grandmother probably…if she was half as beautiful as you. My mother might have liked the idea that I’d do the same – not the bedding bit mind you, but robbing the rich and giving to the poor. Flynn’s just Flynn…there’s really nothing legendary there. The name comes from the Irish word laoch, meaning warrior.”
“And your childhood, Finn? Tell me about growing up in Ireland.”
“I didn’t, and that’s the problem. I’ve a love-hate thing going on with the Brits. My dad was killed with two other volunteers during a raid on a military barracks during the Republican campaign in the 1950s. My mother was pregnant with me at the time, and she had to leave our home on Monastery Road in Tipperary Town. The women there didn’t believe she’d married my father in France when he was on the run from the Brits. So they called her a harlot and ran her out of town for getting pregnant with no husband to show for it. She took the cattle boat to Fishguard Harbour in Wales, and hitched a lift in a Boots Chemist’s lorry going to Nottingham, in the Midlands of England. That’s where I was born.”