Ivan Belov · Conversa

January. Anna Karenina Station. Minus thirty-three degrees. The steam on the platform rose like the white breath of a giant. The locomotive screeched at the end of the tracks, its iron wheels crunching over the accumulated snow with a squeaking sound. The crowd surged like a grayish-black tide—soldiers wrapped in tattered military overcoats, merchants clutching leather suitcases, peasant women holding children—everyone was in a hurry, and no one stopped. Ivan Belov stood beside a cast-iron pillar on Platform No. 3. His miner's cap was pulled down low, but his white hair leaked out from beneath the brim, blown into a mist by the wind. Patches were sewn onto the elbows of his padded coat, and its collar was frayed; he looked no different from any poor miner around him. Yet his hands were tucked in his pockets, his palm tightly clutching a small slip of paper containing the contact information given by the organization: A female Chinese foreign student. A Chinese-language revolutionary book. Deliver safely. He had already been standing in the freezing wind for forty minutes. His legs were stiff with cold, and frost clung to his eyelashes, flaking off with every blink. He didn't dare stomp his feet for fear of attracting the gendarmes' attention. On the other end of the platform, Krutov was patrolling with two soldiers, their leather boots thudding against the concrete ground, beat after beat, like a hammer striking his chest. Then— The train arrived at the station. The doors opened. The crowd surged out. Ivan narrowed his eyes, scanning every face one by one. Russian. Russian. Russian. A soldier. A merchant. A woman holding an infant— And then he saw. Her. She was wearing a faded blue padded coat, a scarf wrapped up to the tip of her nose, and clutching a book to her chest—a green cover with gilt title lettering. It was in Chinese, which he couldn't read, but he recognized the shape. The contact message had said: "A Chinese book, green cover." She stood at the edge of the crowd, looking left and right, her eyes filled with complete unfamiliarity and bewilderment—a light that didn't belong to this city, so bright it made his chest ache. Ivan took a deep breath. Cold air flooded his lungs like a mouthful of crushed glass. He stepped forward. Standing at 189 cm tall, he cut a swath through the crowd, his white hair glinting briefly under the streetlight. He walked up to her, stopped, and looked down at her. She raised her face. Above the scarf, a pair of eyes was revealed—dark, clear, reflecting his own flush-frozen face. "..." He opened his mouth. His throat felt clogged with coal dust. She spoke first. In Russian, stumbling through every syllable as if forcing them straight out of a dictionary: "Excuse me... is the train to Moscow... on this platform?" Ivan blinked. A small patch of frost on his eyelashes shattered. He remembered the organization's instructions: "Do not expose your identity. Confirm the code phrase before taking action." He stared at the book in her arms, his voice coarse like sandpaper scraping across sheet metal: "...The book. May I see it?" She froze for a moment. Then she looked down and handed the book over. Ivan took it. Opening the cover, there was a line of Chinese written on the title page—which he couldn't read. But he saw a folded slip of paper tucked between the pages, a tiny corner peeking out. He pulled out the slip of paper and unfolded it. Written on it was a line of Russian in crooked handwriting, penned by Hammer: "Comrade, bring her home." Ivan clutched the note tightly in his palm. When he looked up again, something shattered and ignited in those blue eyes—like a sudden flame bursting beneath ice that had been frozen for seventeen years. He returned the book to her. His voice dropped low, but every word was steady: "You're at the wrong platform. Moscow isn't here." He turned, took a step toward the platform exit, and then looked back at her. White hair swept past his cheekbones, and beneath his M-shaped bangs, those blue eyes—this time without flinching, without looking down—stared straight at her. "I'll take you." She hesitated for a second. In that second, the train whistle blew again, and Krutov's whistle echoed from the far end of the platform, sharp as a blade scraping glass. Then she followed. Ivan Belov walked ahead, his white hair concealed beneath the miner's cap, the hem of his military coat billowing in the wind. Behind him followed a Chinese girl in a blue padded coat, cradling a green book in her arms. They pushed through the crowd, through the steam, through the blind spots of the gendarme patrols, entering the underground passage of Anna Karenina Station. At the end of the passage lay the snowfields, the coniferous forests, and the Siberian Railway, stretching on so far the end was nowhere in sight. And also spring.