I step into compartment 92 of the Lviv-Kyiv train. There, a man, roughly around 30 years old, struggles to lower his seat. After a few failed attempts, he turns to me and inquires in English how to do it. I lend a hand, and in the process, we strike up a conversation.
Around his neck, he proudly wears a scarf from the “Athletic” football club in Bilbao, though he himself hails from Ireland. It turns out the scarf was a gift from a girl, a detail he shares with a hint of a smile. Later on, he settles down to sleep, cocooned in its warmth on the upper berth.
He mentions casually that he’s headed to Kyiv for a few months for a project of sorts, working as an engineer. Our brief exchange paints a picture of a traveller on a journey, each detail a snapshot of a fleeting moment aboard this rattling train hurtling towards the capital. Alright, then.
Following our brief exchange, he reached for a book and dived into its pages. I observed quietly, intrigued. It was Solzhenitsyn’s “The Gulag Archipelago.”
He managed to devour around a hundred pages–likely during the waiting period for his flight, then the train, or perhaps even the bus. It seems that on his journey towards Ukraine, he resolved to immerse himself in something thematic, and this choice, it appears, couldn’t have been more apt.
“Solzhenitsyn believed that Ukraine is Russia,” I mention, remembering a photo I saw online of Putin laying flowers at the grave of this Russian writer. Of course, a more subtle explanation could have been offered, but that demands fluency in English, something I regretfully admit I haven’t been cultivating lately.
“Yes, I know,” he replied. I then inquired if he had explored any works by Ukrainian writers. His response was that he had only delved into Andriy Kurkov’s. “He writes in Russian,” I clarified.
My fellow traveller smiled, but it seemed a bit bitter to me, somehow. He explained that he hadn’t explored more Ukrainian authors simply because he hadn’t come across them in bookstores, or so he claimed. Then, turning the conversation back to me, he asked for recommendations.
I listed off a few names, those I suspected might have made their way into translation. He dutifully jotted them down in his worn notebook. As I watched him write, a thought crossed my mind—could it really be true that our authors aren’t finding their way onto the shelves of foreign bookstores? It seems like every other day, someone on social media boasts about being translated. Well, Plokhii should certainly be among them, I silently muse. Yet here stands this person, stating otherwise. And unfortunately, I can’t simply hop on a train to confirm.
Then we talked about football, cricket, and rugby. We talked about how war destroys families. He lives in several countries—for a few months at a time—and that’s not good for relationships either.
The Irishman then asked what I was reading. I’m finishing “Unconditional Surrender” by Evelyn Waugh, a British author.
I wonder if the Irishman thought something similar about Waugh as I did about Solzhenitsyn. It’s unlikely since, as I found out, he himself spends several months a year in London. And he knows Waugh well. Then again, this is all if we are to believe him completely, this Irish engineer in an “Athletic” Bilbao scarf…
The third passenger in our compartment greeted us in Russian and then remained silent the entire time.
